Andy's Glasses

How awful it must be to feel that your life is so worthless, meaningless and disastrous that it just can’t go on. There’s only one way out. Kill yourself. Terrible. Tragic.

And never more so than when you do it by jumping in front of a train. Worse still if its a tube train. And totally unforgivably stupid, selfish and damnable-to-eternal-fucking-hell if its a Northern Line train in the morning rush hour.

For the second time this week someone jumped under a train at Kennington station yesterday morning. So I had plenty of time to consider the problem of suicide as I waited for half a fucking hour for a train so packed you couldn’t squeeze one single ear in there, then waited longer as there were, even by Transport for London’s normally fantasy assessment, ‘severe delays’.

Ahhhhh, you think, how heartless. Its such a shame that someone is driven to kill themselves. How tragic for the family.

But suicide is always selfish. If your problems are so bad, suicide simply dumps them onto that loving family. I’ve ‘ad enough. Let them sort out my mess. Yet obviously these people are not thinking in any rational way, it all just gets too much for them. So they create tragedy and aggro for the family and worse still, what does it do for the tube driver? Who’s been used as an unwilling ‘weapon’ in all this? He has to live with that image forever. Poor sod.

So if you feel at all suicidal, and you live somewhere between Morden and High Barnet on the north/south axis, just call me and I’ll send you a pill. Or a bottle of my new hedge spray which comes with more warnings than a trip to South Korea. JUST DON’T JUMP UNDER MY FUCKING TRAIN!!!!

Because before I learned of the disruptions, I was involved in serious contemplation of gender issues. Specifically, the ‘big questions’. What do you call a ‘man’ who really feels like a woman, trapped in a man’s body? And I don’t mean, ‘an Arsenal midfielder’, in this context. No. Here you’d call him Bruce Jenner. Trapped for 60 years in the ‘useless’ guise of a man. Fathering dozens of supermodels, winning gold medals, shagging various Kardashians (female ones, just to be clear). Poor man.

So what do you call someone who then sheds the lie and says emphatically: “I AM NOW A WOMEN, AS I’VE ALWAYS REALLY FELT AND NEEDED TO BE”. You call them Caitlin Jenner. He was honest, sorry, she was honest, and faced the ridicule and the world as the ‘woman he always felt he/she was’.

So what do you THEN call a man who’s become a woman who then decides he was a man all along and never got his head round the whole woman thing really? You call him an attention-seeking, media-whoring, imbecilic tosser. Or, Bruce Jenner. Again.

Happy Saturday, Bruce

A xxxx

I wonder what other nations think of the British? Because of late, we’re really learning what ‘we’ think of them. First the Queen calls the Chinese ‘rude’ and then Cameron tells that very same Queen (we only have one) that Nigeria and Afghanistan are ‘the most corrupt nations on Earth’.

The thing is, they can’t get upset because all those allegations are true. The Chinese are fucking rude. All 1.6 billion of them. Not a manner in sight. Pushing and shoving, though not necessarily Her Majesty, spitting all over the place, making demands on state visits, not appreciating the irony of being a communist leader obsessing that the bottled water provided is the wrong brand. And worst of all, they speak Chinese all the time.

I can’t speak about Afghans, I only know one. He makes my coffee every morning and he’s lovely. So I’ve never actually witnessed much ‘corruption’. He doesn’t put skimmed milk instead of semi and pocket the fat difference.

But I do have some experience of Nigerians. Having worked next door to their High Commission for 30 years. Yet its the emails wot dunnit. From my ‘lost cousin’ Obafemi, who wants to launder $35million in my bank account that he’s managed to steal from his government. And I’ll get 5 mil!!!! Honest!!!! Just for being… a schmuck. But we’re not calling some conman chancer ‘corrupt’, there’s no debate. Cameron was calling the country corrupt. Different thing altogether. And their president, rightly, took issue with the comment. As he stepped out of his diamond encrusted private jet (one of 3) and climbed into a solid gold Rolls Royce, probably with Arsenal decals on the red leather seats. And as his country starves, he builds another presidential palace, his 9th.

I wonder what these foreign dignitaries think of the girl, a temp receptionist sent to work at accountants PwC for the day, who was turned away because she was wearing flat shoes and not the ‘regulation’ 2-4 inch heels? Such a thing is not an issue in the wild jungles of provincial Nigeria because PwC don’t have an office there. And with the population there surviving on just over one dollar a day, heels, as such, are not the main issue. Where the ‘rich’ have one shoe.

“ITS SEXISM!!!!” yelled the girl, who went home after refusing to go and buy new shoes. Yeah, it kind’a is. No man has ever been told to wear high heels at work. There again very few women have ever been told in workplaces, restaurants, clubs, that they ‘must wear a tie’.

Dress codes are indeed fairly silly things. But they’re not ‘rape’. They’re not misogynistic, they’re just silly. For both sexes. Women working for me can wear any shoes they like. But must wear a skirt no lower than 9 inches above the knee.

Sunderland survive, Newcastle take the walk to hell along with Norwich. Its almost all over.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

The latest ‘victim’ of the Panama Papers is Emma Watson. Hermione from ‘arry Potter, as she was known. She bought a little house for £3mil, as ya do, but it was actually acquired by a company in the British Virgin Islands. OFFSHORE!!!! The most lethal word/2 words in the world of shame. Of course, she is no longer Hermione, she long ago hung up her magic wand and witches cape to become ‘Ballbreaker in Chief of the Whole World’. Or, ‘UN ambassador for women’s rights’ as it is alternatively known. Yet by buying the house from ‘over there’, the stamp duty liability of about 400k magically disappeared! So she hasn’t completely lost her touch. Though her main motivation for using such a devious tool was to protect her anonymity. If her name’s not on the land registry, as it would be if it had been purchased here, then stalkers, pervs and sickos can’t find where she lives. Well, until today when its in all the papers, of course. Now its open season on retired magicians. I might pay her a visit myself.

But the football… it keeps coming back to haunt me. West Ham beat Manchester United last night, and beat up Manchester United last night; well, beat up their coach at least, to make the battle of Manchester very interesting and right ‘down to the wire’. Because now, if Manchester City win their last match on Sunday, they go to the Champions League next year and United will suffer the Europa League, doubtless under a new manager. But if United beat Bournemouth on Sunday and City lose away at resurgent Swansea, then those places are reversed. Ooooohhhhhh.

There is a bizarre set of circumstances in which West Ham could finish 4th and knock both Mancs out, but its complicated, involves scoring 17 goals in a match and I can’t be bothered to work out such a silly long shot.

Tonight is a truly massive game as Sunderland play Everton. And if Sunderland win they stay up. Its THAT simple. Sadly, for teams down that end of the league, winning is not ‘simple’ or they’d have been doing it all season and be up at the top. But its ‘in their hands’. However Norwich also play tonight and if they beat Watford, surely an easier task, and Sunderland don’t win, then it all comes down to Sunday, yet again. Newcastle have but one game left. Against Spurs. And, depending on what happens tonight, that could be their chance of salvation.

Spurs are in the Champions League, whatever happens. But I’m still in semi-disappointed mode because we’ve taken 2 points from our last possible 9. And so need a draw at least on Sunday to guarantee second place. Otherwise…

Let’s not go there.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Well, its good to know that our esteemed government learn from their mistakes. Having totally cocked up Zac Goldsmith’s mayoral campaign by using an endless stream of negativity, doomsday fiction and speculative association to try and impugn the main opposition, that opposition triumphed royally. And still the government maintained that the campaign was a righteous one. Taking cheap shots at ‘the Muslim’ because its so easy to do. Sadiq Khan is a Muslim, let’s invoke images of ISIS, of 9/11 and make him guilty by association. Great idea.

But more than just not learning from this horrendous mistake, they’ve decided to adopt a similar strategy in the in/out Euro debate. Invoking the doomsday scenario.

Cameron has moved from tales of economic woes should we leave Europe, going so far as to have puppet chancellor calculate precisely how much each and every household will have to cough up upon departure, even though no-one has a fucking clue, onto really serious matters.

War.

Europe is the only thing preventing the French going to war with Italy, the Greeks attacking the Dutch, Germany invading everywhere. So, our PM maintains, the risk of war would be greatly increased by our departure. Britain’s security depends upon our continued membership to the EU. If we leave we will be attacked. Nukes will come. Destroying Burnley for the next 50 years (not altogether a bad thing), Milton Keynes levelled, YOUR GRANDCHILDREN WILL BE BORN WITH 3 HEADS AND JUST ONE LEG, WHICH WILL BE ON TOP OF THE MIDDLE HEAD!!!!!

The worst thing about all this is that it is terribly, awfully, horrendously patronising. It says that the government don’t actually trust us with any real, subtle or concrete information, so instead they play to our fears and worries. Just as they did in the mayoral race. “Just put the frighteners on”, they appear to say, “that’ll get them onside in no time”.

Then up steps Boris, the ex-mayor and still current clown-in-chief, to turn the tables and blame the EU for the Russian invasion (call it ‘annexation’, call it ‘intervention’ but its an invasion and nothing less) of the Ukraine. But to show how much he ‘loves Europe’ he sang a song. He sang a fucking German song, in German. Beethoven. Tosser. That’s like me saying that I love Korean food therefore I must be a big fan of Kim Jong Un.

But worst of all is that we DIDN’T WANT A SODDING REFERENDUM. We’re unqualified to make such a decision. And if we were ill informed at the beginning of this mess, we’re way worse off now.

And I’m still undecided.

Happy Tuesday from, currently, inside the EU

A xxxx

What are the best things in the world? Many answers are acceptable, as long as Arsenal isn’t one, nor anything to do with snakes, financial products, anything unnatural involving animals, olives (I hate olives) or Jeremy Corbyn.

But right near the top of my list must be football and food. And, other than alliterative links, they can often be found together.

So we went, did Rachie & I, to Spurs yesterday to ‘enjoy’ (fuck me, it was horrible) the last home match of the season. In fact the last home match at my beloved White Hart Lane, as next season half of the East Stand won’t be there as stage one of the rebuild for the new stadium. And we went to be corporately entertained in a box. Ooooohhhh, that’s posh.

And oddly, it is posh. I’ve been to boxes at the Lane before but never quite appreciated how ‘different’ the whole experience is from ‘real football’. The main one being that at normal football you are treated with contempt, as a potential criminal, a hooligan, a troublemaker, just one bottle of medium strength lager from being thrown out. You are shepherded through dingy tunnels and dirty concrete-floored corridors to your ‘pen’. Where you sit and try your hardest to act like a normal member of society. If you need a toilet, without being too graphic, its not a particularly lovely experience.

In corporate world, things are different. You enter the ‘executive’ doorway to be greeted by seemingly hundreds of smartly dressed ladies and gents, with a courteous ‘good morning, Sir, hope you enjoy the game’. There are carpets everywhere, artwork… well, great big posters of Gary Linneker, Paul Gascoine, Jurgen the German, Stevie Perryman and many other superstars of Tottenham-land. You are escorted to the box, where you have your own servant. He stayed with us to bring us food and drink and to encourage us to gamble on match stats. That’s his job. So you eat. And drink. And be (very very) merry. When the match started I was happy to just sit there and eat more. It was good. And abundant. The toilets on ‘executive level’ are either nicer or executives can piss straighter than normal fans. But out I went (itself a great thing as my previous experiences in a ‘box’ there were of the sealed and unopening variety which is horrid) and watched the game.

Which started brilliantly and, as per our recent matches, petered out rather rapidly. So our early lead had turned to a 1-1 scoreline at half time. Never mind; go back inside, there more food!!!! Deserts, coffee, ice creams, buscuits, wine, beer…

Comfort eating, they call it. When you’re feeling depressed, just throw a few thousand calories down your gullet and all feels well again. For a little while at least. Then Southampton scored what was to be the winning goal. I ran back inside, needing to eat. Only fruit left, cheese and biscuits, ice-creams, ok, quite a lot really. But not enough to overcome the reality that we’d fucking lost a fucking game again and second-place is hanging on by a mere two points. So requiring a draw at very lowly and possibly totally desperate Newcastle next weekend in the Grand Finale.

The post match ‘parade of stars’ summed it up perfectly. The players came out, with their gorgeous little kids, did a lap of the pitch and they tried to invoke a ‘party atmosphere’. It was like a wedding party when the bride’s already done a runner but they have the party anyway; its paid for.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Helen Wood is a prostitute. A ‘good one’. Though I don’t speak from personal experience. I’d never heard of her (honest!) until Tuesday when it was revealed that she’d had sex with an actor. Wow. That’s big news (yawn, yawn). Well, it would have been big news except the actor, ‘PJS’, as he’s known, or as he’s unknown, more appropriately, took out a superinjunction, in 2010, when the alleged sexage occurred, to keep it out of the papers. Where it would doubtless have appeared in the ‘who gives a shit?’ column, except in the Mail Online where it would have been on the front page.

Helen’s a ‘good’ hooker because she charges £195 (not sure if there’s vat on that) as opposed to 25 quid from a King’s Cross crack-whore as favoured by MPs. So she must be good. But in fact she’s a good person too. Yup, it can happen. Because she has unreservedly apologised for having sex with this married actor. She had no idea. Would never want to hurt the family of PJS.

She’s a hooker. She doesn’t insist on a questionnaire of appropriateness before ‘doing her job’. She’s not there to make moral judgments on the acceptability of her client. You pay her, you have sex, you go home. End of.

She also apologised, almost with the same words, after being ‘engaged’ by Wayne Rooney. So sorry, he was a married man, blah, blah, wouldn’t want to hurt the family, feel terrible for Colleen, blah, blah.

Did she not know who Wayne was then? The man who’s spent half his life on the front and back pages of the papers? Always on the news, on tv, on everything. Unfortunately.

But why apologise? Its really not part of her job description. Its like the barman apologising to the family of a man who staggered home drunk. He’s just doing his job. The blame lies with the drunk.

Or with the person cavorting with prostitutes. The pro is not to blame. And apologising just make it all stupid. All her clients are married.

I’m over the elections. Sadiq Kahn is our mayor. Yippee. A Labour mayor, which is inherently wrong for London, but there ya go. Serves the conservatives right for firstly selecting the dullest man in the world as mayoral candidate, and then using the worst possible ‘strategy’ of trying to discredit the opposition. A tosser tragically mismanaged by a bunch of other tossers.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This is a nice photo. For you information, the proper ‘wet fish’ is on the left. The other is Zac Goldsmith. A lot of people couldn’t work that out, so its just for clarification. I’m not sure which one I’d rather see as mayor of London, once the votes are counted.

But before they’re counted they have to be cast.

Mel & I went to vote yesterday morning at about 8. There was a queue. And a woman wearing a lanyard looking flustered calling out whether those there had their polling cards. Fortunately we did. If I’d been on my own I wouldn’t have, but that’s why we keep little curly people around. They’re great organisers.

‘There’s been a bit of a problem’, lanyard said. ‘They’ve sent the wrong polling lists’. Oh. So if you haven’t got your polling card and you’re not on the list, you ain’t gonna vote. We weren’t on the list. So the guy scribbled our names on and the numbers from our polling cards and we voted.

But taking polling cards to vote is not a requirement. Loads of people don’t bother. Why would they? Giving people their right to vote is a requirement. Not only that, its the fundamental right in a democracy. If you live in Saudi Arabia you don’t get to vote. No point. The Sheikh won about 19 generations ago. Live in Egypt and they give you a vote, then shoot the guy who won and put their own guy back in charge. The guy with the biggest gun. In America they let you vote but they let orange-faced, combed-over tossers into the fray.

Emily Pankhurst died to give me the vote. I’m gonna bloody vote.

Yet I live in the borough of Barnet. And that’s where the problem was. Barnet. People who have but one job, to send out ‘voting lists’ fucking failed. They have had 4 years to get the lists right for this election, and then ‘ooops’, shit, I sent the wrong list. Never mind. We’ll sort it out on the day. Fortunately the polling cards (which lots of people don’t bring) were sent from the right list. Database malfunction. Tosser malfunction, more like.

They did sort the problem but not for about 4 hours. By which time lots of people hadn’t been given their opportunity to vote and couldn’t do it later.

And I’m not generally a conspiracy theorist but Barnet happens to be the borough with the highest Jewish population in London. Its our ghetto. Ok, its quite a pretty ghetto, but its safe to say that a high proportion would not be voting for anyone remotely Labour, following recent events. So if you are a Labour person, cocking up Barnet, of all the boroughs, could be seen as something of an advantage.

What a fucking mess.

They’re still counting. Will it be the ‘closet jihadi’ or the wet fish? Watch this space.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

On the first day God created the Heaven and the Earth. On the second day He (or she?) created crawling things; slugs, worms, Arsenal fans, lizards. On the third day… And on the fifth day He stopped to vote. Ok there was a sixth day for something else, and a seventh day was declared the sabbath; the day of rest, tennis, tai chi and football. Amen. Genesis Ch. 1.

Why do we always vote on thursdays? Where’s it written? But we do. We dutifully trudge down to the polling station at our local primary school and get our voting forms and we vote.

Today it was for the London Assembly, (like we give a shit), the local council (all worthless) and the London Mayor. The new Boris. Who is going to replace the most famous blond since Debbie Harry? The gobbiest, out-of-Europist, brash, funny and most intensely annoying mayor we’ve ever had. Ken Livingstone was brash and annoying but never funny or in any way endearing.

Ok, its not like I didn’t know until this morning that there was going to be an election and had no clue who was standing. They’ve been banging on about it for a year. Or more. But I’ve been waiting for inspiration. Not my own, but something in any of the candidates to show me they have some worth, maybe some integrity, perhaps some virtue that they could bring to this most fabulous of all cities, to enhance it. To bring something special to the game.

I waited in vain. They’re all fucking worthless. And the two main (if not ‘two only’) candidates have wasted the entire campaign insulting and abusing each other and thus managing to ignore anything that may be considered ‘an issue’. Yeah, they bang on about housing, “I’m going to build 50,000 new homes every year!!” shrieks Sadiq Kahn, labour puppet and, in case you missed it the first 9,783 times he said it: ‘the son of a bus driver’. “Well I’m going to build 51,000 new homes each year!!!!!” moans Zak Goldsmith, Tory pretty-boy squillionaire, who could probably pay for such a thing out of his own ‘loose change’ in his pockets.

They have to say that. London has a housing crisis. Build houses. That’s easy. Less easy is the ‘where you put them’ question, but you don’t win elections by creating problems. You win elections by bringing the opposing candidates into disrepute. Apparently.

And then I did have inspiration. I realised how lucky I am to be in Britain. Because if I was American I’d be a part of the Donald Trump machine. Even as a reluctant detractor, he’d have some effect on my life. Awful. I saw this picture on the front page of today’s paper and thought at first it was just an advert for a new cosmetic surgery clinic. Then I realised it was the Orange One making it to the Grand Final of American politics.

Back in London, Zak-baby pushes his ‘green’ issues. Always has. Unusual for a Tory, they’re normally only into ‘green’ if its on the back of non-sequential dollar bills. Zac wants to clean up the City and ‘punish gas guzzlers’. That did it for me. We don’t have a constitutional right to bear arms here. But we do have a right to pollute the atmosphere with inappropriate motorised vehicles.

God bless… yeah, whatever

Happy voting day

A xxxx

The City of Leicester is in a state of ‘bonkers’. The whole place. There’s nothing much else to do there so you might as well do that bonkers thing. And ‘bonkers’ is good. Its the nice side of mob rule, the happy bit. Blue and white wigs, blue-and-white face paint, pretty much anything blue and white will enhance the whole bonkers thing greatly. So while your league-winning team are having a team lunch in a local Italian, you stand round outside, probably getting really hungry and… errr… and wait for them to finish. That’s what you do. “They’re all in there” goes the thought, “so we’re out here! And its brilliant. Its as if… errr… well, they’re all in there. Eating! Brilliant!!” Said Doris Maythorpe, 74, a ‘lifelong Leicester fan’. Since March’.

But you know what: if it was Spurs, I’d do it. Je suis Doris Maythorpe. I’d wait outside the kebab shop where the team were having their celebration lunch and just wait. And wait. And wait. How long does it take to eat a kebab, for fuck’s sake?

Leicester were promoted to the Premiership in 2014, having won the Championship. They had an indifferent first season and by February of 2015 were sunk at the bottom of the table, loads of points adrift from the pack. Hopeless. Gone. But…

But they started to put a few wins together. Which itself was a far greater achievement than winning those same games this year from the top of the table. Losing is a mind-set and becomes a habit. Winning is too. But when you’re bottom of the pile, its very hard to pull free. Yet they did.

Basically they haven’t stopped winning since. Under Claudio Ranieri they found a new belief. And the same team that languished at the bottom were invigorated by the Italian’s something or other. Jamie Vardy was just an ordinary zombie, eating the flesh of humans, working in a dirty place when he was spotted by Leicester. Riyadh Mahrez was home in Marakesh training to be a snake-charmer when Leicester scooped him up and made him player of the year. So the legends will grow. The whole team cost less than a pizza.

I personally ‘blame’ the owner. The club was bought in 2010 by a Thai billionaire for just under 40 million quid. What can now be termed ‘a bargain’. Somewhat. Next years income will start at £150mil. Curiously though, the team’s fortune really turned when the owner changed his name. Something Thais apparently do, with royal blessing. So he became Mr Srivaddhanaprabha. He wanted something catchy that just slipped off the tongue. If you put that on a football shirt, at 85p a letter, you’d go bankrupt. But he did that in 2012 and the rest is (in the process of becoming) history.

Bookies will no longer be offering very long odds. 5000 to 1 on Leicester? Those days are done, said a man from Corals. So if you fancy a punt on Burnley to win the league next year, better place your bet early otherwise you’ll only get 5 to 1. Bookies don’t like losing. They like YOU losing.

Happy Leicester day (one of many to come)

A xxxx

Iss’a funny ole game…

So we’re not going to win the league this year. I’ve not really been under any illusions that we would. Since the first home game of the season when we threw away a 2 goal lead to allow Stoke back in the game. Since we lost at home to Newcastle. And since we failed to see out the win last week against West Brom. And I’m always a little pessimistic where football’s concerned. Don’t know why, I’m not generally a pessimistic person, but football, Spurs, winning things… its hard.

But the season has been more than brilliant. Its been magnificent. We have a quite amazing team filled with unsung heroes. Though the songs are being sung a little louder lately than they previously were. We’ve played with assurance, with confidence, with amazing style and grace all year. Its been a joy to watch. And results. We’ve had fantastic results from games we’d previously have had no chance. We’re resilient, strong and have a team spirit matched only by that of Leicester.

And we’ve been good boys. Strong but clean. We’ve kept tempers in check, been physically assertive but never dirty.

Until last night. As if all the violence missed out on in the previous 35 games had all been saved up, put into storage. And allowed to grow. Last night it just exploded.

Personally, I can think of no team more worthy of having the shit (literally) kicked out of them than Chelsea. But there’s a price to pay. 8 yellow cards for Spurs players. How all 11 were still on the pitch at the end of the game is as much miracle as mystery. At half time, when we were winning and relatively happy, I wrote a text to send to assorted Spurs fans which read: “if this finishes with all 22 on the pitch, I’m an anti-semite”. But the message wouldn’t send. So I’ll not be forced to join the Labour Party after all. However, all 22 players needed to be there so the fighting which continued down the tunnel and into the dressing rooms could be evenly matched.

Chelsea were aggressively niggly, Diego Costa, pantomime-Dame extraordinaire in particular, no surprise there. But early on Danny Rose and Kyle Walker were guilty of tackles/GBH that would normally have been carded by the ref. But heh, its a London derby, let’s try and control it before waving cards around like the guys at Heathrow who guide the pilots into dock. All credit to Mark Clattenberg for trying to keep the match going.

As the FA examine the footage today, particularly the stuff the ref missed (he’s only got one pair of eyes and there were flare-ups all over the place), I don’t expect to see Eric Lamela or Mousa Dembele on the pitch for my team again this season. How Eric Dier wasn’t sent off for his second offence (in about 60 seconds) is also a modern-day miracle. Pochettino himself could face action for coming onto the pitch, but as it was only to separate Danny Rose and Willian, he may be forgiven. If he’d come on to kill someone he’d get a sideline ban.

The good (two fantastic goals by Spurs), the bad (two goals for Chelsea) and the ugly (the last 10 minutes of Tarantino-football).

Let’s not let the upset and insanity of last night mar a truly wonderful season. We need to get it together for the last 2 games. There are other teams in the league besides Spurs and Leicester.

And sincere congratulations to Leicester and in particular to the wonderful and lovable Claudio Ranieri. What an amazing achievement. Money is not yet everything in football. Not quite.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx