Andy's Glasses

You can’t buy class. Ask any football manager. But in Britain its actually a fact. ‘Class’ is what posh aristocrats have, what they’re born with, what they’ve inherited from their prestigious forebears and for everyone else, no amount of Ferraris, tattoos or semi-naked selfies can buy it.

An impoverished, unemployed scrounger is thus ‘better’ than Bill Gates if said scrounger had a great, great, great, great grandparent who went to war with George the Second who bestowed upon this ancestor a meaningless title and some land. Gates is just ‘nouveau riche’ and thus an upstart.

Yet they say that the class system is antiquated, anachronistic, meaningless. And very British.

Most people have heard of The Queen. She’s class. In fact she’s really number 1 in the class Class. All her immediate family are thus ‘class by association’. But as you move down to the 3rd cousins twice removed and the rest of the titled upper class of this fine land, that class manifests itself in somewhat less classy ways, as the ‘entitled’ ones feel just that, that they are entitled by their title. Lord this, the Duke of that, the Earl of whatever, they were all born with that metaphorical ‘silver spoon’ lodged between their teeth-less gums and for many they looked no further than sheer good fortune for their lifelong fortunes.

Some people of humble origins (‘scum’, as they’re known) rise above their birthrights and become titled. Lord Sugar is one. Total scum, nasty little self-made trillionaire who we forgive to some extent because he was involved in Spurs for a while, though a very moaning, complaining ‘while’ it was. But generally these ‘life peers’ (they don’t hand their Lordships to subsequent generations like ‘real’ peers) are just regarded as mutton dressed as a donner kebab.

Sir Richard Glyn is the real deal. A man so aristocratic and upper class that no-one’s ever heard of him. Even his parents apparently used to say ‘Richard who??’ But he’s from a long line of Glyns and Gaunts, dating back to Henry IV. And of course he has a stately home. Gaunts House. Just 2000 acres of Bournemouth countryside and its a small abode, just 60 bedrooms. Hardly ‘stately’ at all really.

And we can only assume (which may be doing Ricky-baby a big disservice but that’s really what I’m here for) that ‘being a rich bastard’ has been Richard’s career. Unburdened by the demands of paying rent, money for clothes, the buddy-can-ya-spare-a-dime-ism that plagues normal lives, he turned Gaunts House into a centre for the advancement of consciousness, for meditation, for all kinds of tree-huggery which occurred when he opened the doors in 1972. And it worked well. There was lots of successful… errr… consciousness, going on there, with almost everybody, to one degree or another. And for 40 years that’s what they did.

Then, last year, they changed. They adjusted their primary ethos to make it just a bit more ‘zeitgeist’. It became a survivalist centre for the post-apocalypse. ‘Preppers’ they’re called. Preparing for life after… something bad. Possibly just excessive carbon monoxide, possibly political and economic melt-down, but the modus is the same. Surviving. On road-kill. Berries. Eating weak or old people. Building a home out of twigs and leaves that can survive a nuclear blast. That kind’a thing.

And you need real ‘class’ to make that quantum leap from ‘advanced consciousness’ to ‘ninja survivalist warrior’ in one swoop. Mere commoners just couldn’t do that.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m closely following the American election… stuff. Closely. Every day a new state votes for… something, and then Trump and Hilary both win and the confetti flows and the champagne fizzes and we all hug and celebrate. Then we do it again tomorrow. In a different state.

I can’t claim to understand how it works. Not sure the Yanks can either. But once they’ve actually ended this season of ‘pure theatre produced to sell tv advertising’ (well why else would it drag on for-everrrrrrr?) I’m sure they’ll let us know who’ll be fighting out for the actual presidency.

Politics is all about numbers. And the system used to produce the eventual presidential candidates has more numbers than a physics degree from Harvard. There are so many contests, so many delegates, so many percentages, its bewildering. Especially as I don’t really care. Its not my problem anyway, I’m British. But it must give the pundits over there hours and hours of analysis, projections, flow charts, holograms and all the shit that you get come any election time anywhere. And its probably a great opportunity for sales of haemorrhoid creams during the commercial breaks. Chevrolet trucks. M&Ms. Supersize sugar-laden drinks that over here get taxed ‘prohibitively’.

Yesterday it was Ohio that got to vote. And Trump didn’t win. No, the Republican vote was won by the governor of that state, John Kasich. Who I didn’t know existed, such has been his massive influence in the process thus far, until I opened today’s paper. Well done John. He didn’t shout about sending Mexicans back to Mexico. And Muslims back to, errr, Muslim-land. He didn’t threaten to punch people in the face. He doesn’t want to reduce women to either silence or rape-victim status. He doesn’t want to rid ‘merica of the rest of the Soux nation; just in case. He’s no Donald Trump.

But John Kasich is now my hero. He may even become the Republican presidential candidate yet. Though for that to happen Trump would actually have to die. Or get deported to Syria.

I have another hero too today. His name is Arsene Wenger. Yes, you read that correctly. Because in all the French bastard’s 28 years and 47,000 post-match interviews, I have never before heard him gracious in defeat. He’s either gracious in victory (we call that ‘gloating’ round here, Arsene) or he’s horrible and the worst loser in the world, moaning about how his team were cheated. But last night, after the Barcelona somewhat inevitable defeat, he was positively glowing about the match. His team performed well, which they did, but were beaten by, let’s face it, the best team in the world. Who could argue with that? Only Bayern Munich, I reckon, only Bayern.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Oh dear. The Top Gear team took a wonderful, pimped up, drag-racery Mustang out in Westminster to burn rubber and make a bit of a noise and nuisance. Because its Top Gear, albeit Top Gear Nouveau, and that’s what Top Gear does, riiiiiight!!!! Its LOUD, its lairy, its irreverent, mean, nasty and don’t give a shiiiiiiiiit. RIIIIIGHGHGHTTTT????

But they did all this loud and lairy irreverence in front of the Cenotaph. The empty tomb of lost soldiers. And Commander Frobisher-Wright (5th batallion, 3rd army needlework corps) and Brigadier Ponsonby-Smythe (9th Naval Drag-Queens) both complained in their most proper and clipped English about how irresponsible and disrespectful this awful act of almost vandalism, certainly hooliganism, was, in front of such a sombre monument to dead heroes.

So Chris Evans, the new, ginger, Mr Top Gear elect (well, it hasn’t been on yet, has it? and I’m still not convinced it won’t self-destruct anyway), apologised unreservedly for the stunt and promised it wouldn’t be shown, blah, blah, grovel and whimper, suck-up, pander and crawl.

Jeremy Clarkson wouldn’t have apologised, like a sissy, wussy little girl. No. Clarkson would have told them all (the living ones, at least) to just fuck off, grow a pair and leave it to him to judge what’s in good taste or not. Whilst drowning a refugee with his foot and polluting the atmosphere any way he could.

Firstly, who is to say that all those dead soldiers wouldn’t appreciate a bit of fun and frolics? Rather than spending their days watching George Osborne walk past with his little red briefcase. (Though I stress; its empty; that’s the point of a Cenotaph; symbolic, innit?) Secondly, its an aesthetic. The rough, ragged Mustang juxtaposed against the gorgeous City of Westminster architecture, including the Cenotaph.

I’m a sensitive soul. I cried when Miley Cirus sang Jolene. I know, a lot of people cry when Miley sings anything but in that instance it was pure emotion. Feelings. Man-tears. Yet I cannot for the life of me find anything even vaguely offensive about a few wheelies in front of a symbolic obelisk.

And Chris Evans should have taken the opportunity to man up and make a statement that this new Top Gear is THE REAL DEAL. And you don’t do that by being a wimp. “Cenotaph???” he should have shouted, “BOLLOCKS!!!!” “WE’RE TOP GEAR; WE’LL SPIN WHERE WE WANT!!!”

Should be a great game at the Nou Camp tonight as Arsenal try to get something out of the season. Their last chance to do so, in fact. So they have, quite literally, nothing to lose. Whilst also, confusingly, standing to lose everything. Basically they have to go there and let rip. Lots of teams have won by 2 goals in Barcelona. Well, 3 teams in 289 matches actually. So it can be done. Come on Arsenal, be real men. Not like Chris farkin’ Evans.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

We’ve all been there. (Some of us far more often than we’d like). You get to your tube station and head for the escalators to take you upwards, skywards, streetwards. And there’s fifteen hundred people in the way (always) queuing to take the right hand side of the escalator, the ‘standing still’ side, and four people (me, Mel and 2 unknown hyperactives called Ron and Joan) barging through to get to the left-hand side, the ‘walking up’ one. And I’ve never understood why that is the case.

Do these people just ‘stand’ on their stairs at home? Do they just stand on ladders? What’s the point, you don’t get anywhere. Ahhh, but these stairs move for you. Yes, but if you move as well, its a very simple relativity equation required to show you that you will get there quicker. And its good for you.

There are signs. FAT LAZY BASTARDS ON THE RIGHT!!! Aimed mainly at tourists who require gentle nudging to get them off the walking side so they can enjoy the wonders of London from the stationary, fat bastard and foreigner side. And fit, healthy people, or even people who wish to become that way, head to the right.

Women in heels don’t count. Many can’t count. But all can possibly get stuck in the steps due to ridiculously impractical footwear. They can stand still as they like. They’re generally nice to look at as you walk past.

But the situation is such a problem at the ‘big, interchange’ stations that they’re trying something new at Holborn. No walking up allowed. How does that work?? Both sides standing. Hmmmmmm.

Because so few actually bother to walk up, they can’t load sufficient fat lazy bastards onto just one side quickly enough. So bugger the walkers, we can heap twice as many porkers onto the escalator as we could down just one half. Thus by stopping the one in twenty who actually appear to have somewhere they want to be, it actually increases the speed of passenger movement and prevents the big congestions.

Its just a n’experiment for a month. To see if anyone dies as a consequence. Which would only be someone like me who might explode due to frustration of being forced to keep still for 22 seconds.

But its so wrong. Why not just educate people (do they really not know this already???) that its good to MOVE YOUR LARDY ASS. That its quicker, better, nicer. And then ban people from standing still. Shoot them. Tip them off. Walk up both sides or take the bus. Disabled? Pregnant? Get a taxi.

Alternatively, whilst you have so many people milling around at the bottom of the escalators, a captive audience, sell them stuff. Food. Croissants. Bacon rolls. Cream buns. Bottles of coke (original, not lite).

I blame my mate, The Legend. He changed those lovely advertising posters that hadn’t changed since 1975 for flat screen digital moving advertising on the escalator walls, and as the general ‘nob on the street’ lives for staring at screens, they increase screen-time by standing rather than walking when you might be missing all that… er… something really riveting.

Won’t Leicester EVER lose????

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I don’t think I’m a bad person. I love my family. I give to charity. I help old ladies across the street. Then mug them. I give people the benefit of the doubt. Then hit them anyway. And I try to do the right thing at all times.

So why does it make me so happy when Arsenal lose a game of football? It was a cup match. It didn’t have any effect on me, my life, my team, my wife, nothing. Yet I was happy for them to lose. Maybe (he says trying to justify the indefensible) because it will affect their confidence which in turn will indeed help Spurs in the league.

Yet even if it had no effect there either; I’d be happy. Deliriously, deliciously happy. You’re right, I must be a very bad person.

And I take my punishment for it. If not exactly like a real man, then at least like a snivelling little 7 year old girl.

I’m punished by my car. Which, like me and many other things that are very old and very beautiful, is a little idiosyncratic. To say the least.

The problem stems from water. Everywhere, but ne’er a drop to drink. I don’t wanna fucking drink it, I wanna dry car. Water leaks into the boot. From where we do not know. And in the boot, buried, is a special pump. A vacuum pump. Oooohhhhh. And when it gets damp it blows a little fuse. Which affects the central locking system, the roof won’t come down and other little things don’t happen that should. But that’s ok. I keep a box of those fuses in the car specifically for the purpose, and the fuse box is located just behind the driver’s seat and the process takes (now, after doing it 235 times) about 30 seconds.

Then last week something really odd occurred. The central locking didn’t work. Fine; change the fuse. But the fuse box wouldn’t open. Nor the glove box, the central console or the boot. All centrally locked. Seemingly on a now permanent basis by the wonderful little pump in the boot. And the petrol filler cap; locked. On a car that does about 7 miles per gallon. Ahh, but there’s a manual petrol cap release. Its inside the boot. Which is also locked.

I found a mechanic who knows the car. Its not an uncommon problem. He was old. Like the car. “Need to change the fuse, mate”. I can’t open the fuse box. “Oh”. “Never mind, there’s another way in”. Ahhhhh, this is what we wanted to hear. As long as it wasn’t followed by ‘just take out the seats, remove the exhaust, lift the camshaft…’ Or worse still: ‘just costs £4,073.27’.

There’s a panel. Looks like trim on the side of the fuse box. Pulls out. Eureka. We changed the fuse and the world was sunny once more. And to prove it, I could even take the top down. And THEN, better still, Spurs won at Villa Park and went within 2 points of Leicester, 6 above Arsenal. I know, they have a game in hand. But that’s really only relevant if they win it.

Happy unlocked Monday, or ‘Mel’s birthday’ as its known round here.

A xxxx

Yeah-haah. This weekend every time I turn on the tv (other than the rugby; oh the wonderful rugby), its been country music. “But I don’t like Country music”, I think. Who does? A few inbred, cowboy-hatted truck driver rapists and their peroxided sisters/lovers/wives/rape-victims, (as if there’s a difference in Kentucky.) All in lines doing silly dancing whilst some good ole boys are shootin’ pool, a few others dressed in white robes are burning crosses and some limp, lame bearded has-been moans on about his dog dying so tragically, to the accompaniment of a teeth-jarring slide guitar played by a one-legged Vietnam vet draped in a confederate flag.

I don’t think that picture invokes any prejudice or preconceptions whatsoever.

And then they showed Dolly and Kenny singing ‘Islands in the Stream’, the most sickly, slimy saccharine of any song ever written, this one by, of all terrors, the Bee Gees, making it, quite frankly, the total Donald Trump of songs.

But I love that song!!!! Really love it. How the fuck did that ever happen? It represents everything bad, sad and tragic about the entire music industry, the poppiest, the loveliest, the singalong-est of all the trite, banal and useless songs ever. And I sing it loud and clear. Its a triplet: Dolly, Kenny and Me.

I’m ashamed to even admit such a thing. Not just that I like some Country songs, but that I like THAT song.

It was on a program about ‘duets’. Most of which are country. Though they also had a great film of Wayne Rooney and Ashley Young singing ‘still missing you’ and the classic of Ethel Merman and Kanye West singing ‘who the fuck are YOU???’

Never mind, when its over, there’s a programme with Bob (sharp intake of breath through the teeth) Harris. The man who inspired my entire youth. The man who gave us The Old Grey Whistle Test, where they played real music. Not pop rubbish. No singles. Nothing sweet. Proper ‘LP music’ for the rock devotees, for those who wouldn’t ever be so uncool as to watch Top of The Pops. And where’s Bob now? Today? For this programme? He’s in fucking Nashville. Sorting out Country Music. Would you adam’n’eve it? I watched it because it was on BBC4 and on the grounds that ‘I’ve already paid for it’, I might as well. Brilliant. Totally brilliant look at the Nashville scene.

But on principle, ‘thank God its over’, so I can revert to my ‘don’t like country music’ persona. Except on the other channel there’s Shania. Is she still alive? Is she still the one?

She looks fab. Gorgeous. Not quite as gorgeous as she once was (only George Clooney and Me get away with that) but acceptably ‘ok’. BUT, and its a big ‘but’, its a recent concert she gave at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas. Oh dear. The place where reality is suspended along with your bank balance and ‘old stars’ get the opportunity for one last gig before they die. Elvis did it. Tom Jones is still doing it. David Copperfiled’s been doing it so long he’s now a reincarnation. So Shania did it too.

And she came on stage on a horse. A fucking horse. To which (to whom??) she in fact sang ‘still the one’. She still loves her horse. That’s good to know. And in the old days Shania would pitch up on stage; just her, a stool and her Guiiiii-taaaaah. They don’t do that at Vegas. They had ‘SHANIA’ in fifty foot illuminated letters, dancers, a few orchestras, lazar lights, spotlights, fireworks, the full: ‘I may not be able to sing as well as I used to but LOOK AT ALL THIS SHIIIIIIT!!!’

I’m going to buy a stetson.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

In the ‘old days’ when Spurs played in grey, Arsenal in grey, Chelsea in a slightly different grey and Newcastle in black’n’white, football managers bossed the clubs. They also wore long, grey overcoats and grey hats. Underneath were suits and ties. All grey. Always. We watched them on tv. They were called ‘the Boss’ or ‘the Guv’nor’.

But they had power. And more importantly they had respect. Of the players, of the owners, of the fans. In fact the owners were generally families who’d owned the clubs for generations. They install a manager and it was a job with tenure. Bill Nicholson, Bob Paisley, Matt Busby, Bertie Mee, Don Revie, Brian Clough (though he moved clubs) were given clubs to manage and that’s what they did. Win or lose. Survive or get relegated. It was their sole responsibility.

Then came The Premiership. Then came money. Then came Sky. The devil’s (that’d be Rupert Murdoch, then) own quest for national, if not world, dominance.

It was a seed change. It was a revolution. The cash just flooded into the game. Players went from earning merely ridiculous wages to entering the film-star region of the super-rich. Football clubs became trinkets for the insanely wealthy to buy as a new hobby. You’re an oil sheikh with untold billions and not much to do with your life? Buy Manchester City. You’re a Russian Oligarch looking to launder some money and raise your profile high enough that Russian hit-squads can’t hit it? Buy Chelsea. You’re an American Sports Franchise serial addict; by Manchester United. Its easy.

Thus the manager, once esteemed, untouchable, revered, now faced a growing dilemma. The players, buoyed by their new wealth, became more difficult to deal with. They didn’t just do what the manager said; they questioned. Even though they were, in the most part, inexperienced and educationally sub-normal. The owners were not just there to perpetuate an institution and keep it an essential part of a local community. Now they wanted ‘success’ because that was where the riches lie. Even though they were seriously fucking rich to start with. But not content with owning a football club!!! they now wanted to ‘win the Champions League’ as the latest measure in the penis measuring world in which they live. And if YOU, Alfie Englishman, can’t win it for me, with your black’n’white flat cap, then I’ll go and find Johnny Foreigner who wears shell suits in bright colours and won with Athletico Dubrovnik!!!

And now managers who fit the bill, who have a Euro ‘pedigree’ have themselves become stars. Their salaries now match those of the players. But there’s far less of them to go around. There’s only one Jose Morinho. Thank God. And there’s only one Mauricio Pochettino. AND HE’S FUCKING OURS, SO PISS OFF CHELSEA, YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM (even after last night). There’s also only one Rafael Benitez. Sacked by the world’s most unforgiving club, Real Madrid, two months ago for failing to win anything for 3 weeks, he is in line to start work at Newcastle by the weekend, so tis reckoned.

And that is a whole other proposition from ‘how do I maximise Ronaldo and Bale in the same squad for effectiveness? This is more ‘what the fuck can we possibly do with this band of misfiring misfits?’ Rafa will be a very brave man to take that on, I feel. It could affect his own future worth.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As a liberal, left-leaning pseudo-Tory capitalist-socialist (I think that covers most of it), I struggle to see how the proper ‘left’, those more Marx than Blair, more Livingstone than Lenin, how they view the world. I get some of it. But where I struggle is why they’re always so keen on terrorism.

Jeremy Corbyn is known to be ‘anti-democracy’, itself a rather strange position for any democratically elected, UK leader of a mainstream party. So perhaps he sees anarchy as the most expedient way to achieve ending democracy. Thus he aligns with any group anywhere, regardless of their tactics, who are seen as having ‘ a cause’.

Why else would he have a personal history of fraternising with the (then) IRA? Why the excessive sympathy for ISIS? Hamas are his mates. Hezbollah. Its beyond me.

The other day Labour reinstated party membership to Gerry Downing. He was kicked out of the party last year because he stated that the 9/11 bombers must never be condemned. Nice. But he also shared an article online entitled: “Why Marxists must address the Jewish Question concretely today”.

Well what is the ‘jewish question’? I always thought it to be: ‘why is this night different from all others?’ (Jewish joke) Or, “can I buy that wholesale?” But apparently not.

Apparently there’s a question and it needs not only answering but doing so in a concrete manner. This is from the article: “the Jewish-Zionist bourgeoisie, from Milton Friedman to Henry Kissinger to the pro-Israel ideologues of the War on Terror, have played a vanguard role for the capitalist offensive against the workers.”

And you can’t argue with that. Nor would you want or need to. Its neo-left-wing-bollox-speak which says precisely nothing but does so in really elegant sounding phrases. The mere tone of which is very accusatory.

But the shift has occurred in the hard-left narrative. From: ‘anyone with an anti-establishment cause’ being worthy of support, to now, ‘anyone who blows things up, murders, maims, kills innocents, destroys half of New York, MUST have a cause worthy of our support’. Don’t they? Must do, surely? Well, let’s support them anyway; we can always find something downtrodden, something anti-establishment, something worthy somewhere between their petrol bombs and suicide vests.

Gerry Downing has now been kicked once more from the Labour Party. Twice in one year. He should be my hero for that alone. But he’s not. He’s a rabid motherfucker who makes you almost hope that he gets killed in a terrorist atrocity. Just for the sheer irony.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Gwyneth Paltrow is launching something else. Something new. Something other than the 72,000 things she already produces in the diet, nutrition, fashion and book publishing lines. She’s getting into ‘skincare’. Never one to not maximise her Oscar for Shakespeare in Love in about 1975, she keeps that rollercoaster rolling, consciously coupling with new ideas all the time. Can’t criticise her for her industry.

And an industry it is. This time, her skincare products, marketed under the name ‘GOOP’ (Gwyneth Orlando Oxelaide Paltrow?) will start, for a cleanser, at $90. She’s obviously after the low-end punters. Primark. Tesco. Walmart. And her products are made ‘entirely from natural ingredients’. Wow. That’s impressive. No refined diesel then. No radioactive isotopes. Just ‘natural’.

Well, dead babies are ‘natural’. As is cow-shit. Moss, slime, algae, the smallpox virus, cancer cells, snot, bile and snakes. So I think we need a bit more than ‘natural ingredients’ Gwynnie, to convince us to buy your vile potions and lotions.

The other blonde-of-the-moment is poor Maria Sharapova. As more ‘facts’ emerge. Not like the ones I spoke of yesterday, I made most of those up on the grounds that its easier than waiting for the real ones to emerge.

But whilst we’re waiting for such a time, Maria has lost her contracts with Nike, Tag-Heuer and various others, collectively worth about 200 million quid over 5 years. They’ve abandoned her in her hour of need. And that’s doubly cruel since she has some previously unheard of heart condition that required her to take ‘meds’ designed as a 6-week course, for 10 years continuously. Oh, and one ‘side effect’ of that drug is to give you the stamina of superman, the strength of 10 grunting bimbos and make you play tennis, as the manufacturers claim; ‘like a motherfucker on speed’. They may not have phrased it precisely that way.

One sponsor, rather than abandon the Russian Babe in her hour of need (she’s down to her last 197 million), are just putting things on hold. That’s Porsche. Which is owned by Volkswagen. Itself no stranger to failing tests.

Porsche should actually increase its sponsorship of La Sharapova as together they are the perfect fit. Sleek, fast, high-performance. And cheats.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I haven’t mentioned this before, because its rather shameful, but I have to admit that last December at my tennis club I tested positive for caffeine. We don’t so much have ‘random drug testing’ like they do at Wimbledon, more that in a club with an average age for members of about 79, incontinence is a bit of a problem, so they just test all the discarded shorts. Eeeeuuuuuuwww.

They found traces of numerous banned substances; statins, blood pressure meds, heart pills, memory meds, viagra. And caffeine. Which is a stimulant, increases metabolism, hence can be considered a ‘performance enhancing drug’.

I was immediately ‘stripped’ of my title of ‘winner of the alternate saturday afternoon round-robin doubles tournament’ and asked to return the prize. A bottle of Waitrose slimline Prosecco.

“But I’ve ALWAYS drunk coffee before playing tennis!” I cried in appeal. “The coffee shop is on the way here, and they only banned caffeine last year!!” Then the kicker: “I DIDN’T KNOW!!”

Poor Maria Sharapova. She’s been on ‘meds’ for 10 years, prescribed by her doctor, and they banned it in January. About a week before the Aussie Open, at which she tested positive for the drug, Meldonium. Which sounds like a Roman Empire World Heritage site on Hadrian’s Wall, but its not. Its a drug. For heart stuff. Apparently. That’s why Maria takes it. For her heart. Though she doesn’t really appear to have a heart problem. She takes it because of a ‘magnesium problem’ and a ‘family history of diabetes’. Well if Meldonium was a cure or preventative for diabetes, we’d all be taking it.

She was very sweet and open and teary and honest at the press conference she called yesterday to announce this to the world. Herself and alone for her ‘mea culpa’ moment. And she’s a gorgeous blond thing, which doesn’t hurt when you’re appealing for being a fucking cheat.

Maria is a 20 million dollar a year industry. She’s a phenomenon in sponsorship deals. She has lawyers, advisers, managers, advisers, dieticians, stylists and doctors. She may not have ‘realised’ that they’d banned her drug of choice, but they did.

And she took Meldonium because she’s Russian and that’s what they do. Ten years ago, when she started taking it, she was already a winning professional. She was ‘prescribed’ a then-legal drug because it enhanced performance. the only odd thing is why she’s still taking it now, after they’ve banned it.

If only it had stopped her grunting.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx