Andy's Glasses

We have three shows currently ongoing in the world.

We have Wimbledon, which is not only the best tennis tournament of the year by simply miles and miles, but also the only one I ever watch. I can’t get my head round blue tennis courts on the tv. And even though I play my own tennis on rather drab grey courts, green is my choice for viewing others upon.

Then we have the continuing European football saga, down to the last four now. Or, ‘Wales and three others’ as they say in Swansea. Wales play Portugal on Wednesday. Bale plays Ronaldo. The Welsh Wonder vs the Preening Portuguese Ponce. Teammates at Real Madrid, ‘good friends’ and yet you know Ronaldo resents every single goal or act of wonder by Gareth. You just know. He’s not one to happily share the limelight in any situation. Then on Thursday its France against Germany. The host nation against the team with the most winning culture in football.

Then we have the government show. Over here. The Americans are staging their own one, probably calling it the ‘World Presidential Battle’ but that’s only because that’s how they view the world. A bit like Christiano Ronaldo views his world.

Our government fell apart when Brexit happened. The battle for conservative leadership, which conveniently and rather effortlessly makes you the Prime Minister as well, gets nastier and nastier with each passing moment. Today its the alleged ‘plot by UKIP to instal Leadsom’. Because Angela Leadsom is the only candidate who says we should get out of Europe ASAP, and I suppose UKIP are worried that others may dither or worse still, find a way to avoid our departure. Though interestingly, if we do leave, UKIP are immediately redundant. They had but one purpose, one aim, one message. GET OUT OF EUROPE. So if we’re out, what’s the point of them hanging around?

The Labour leadership is even more daft. Everyone wants Corbyn out. Except Corbyn. Who steadfastly refuses to fall on his sword. And if they just have another leadership contest, he WILL stand again. Which will inevitably result, win or lose, in a split in the Labour party. Which in terms of policy is actually common sense. But in terms of dividing itself in parliament would be a catastrophe.

Yet the Labour party remains two parties. The hard left Comrade Corbyn inspired socialist collective who will never get elected, and the New Labour Blairites who moderate their left-leanings to appeal to middle England and retain electability. Ideology against pragmatism. Having the purest views that no-one will ever vote for or compromising for the sake of actually become some future government.

Personally I don’t give a shit one way or the other. Fun to watch though. Maybe the Liberals would become the opposition. With 9 seats in the House.

Happy days

A xxxx

I have a tendency to channel flick. I am man therefore I flick. Rene Descartes said that before they even had Sky. And what I’m really looking for is ‘comfort tv’. Just 10 minutes of something I know and love. And my defaults are Kill Bill (yes, very comforting, in a very bloody way), A Knight’s Tale and the most comforting of all, Terminator 2. Perhaps its because I know them so well that it really is of no consequence which ‘bit’ happens to be on. Its irrelevant. I can pick them up wherever they may be. And leave them just as easily when I get shouted at.

Last night was Terminator 2. James Cameron’s finest movie. Certainly a zillion times better than Titanic which, even without that god-awful song, would never make my comfort zone. And it was the ‘best bit’. When the cops surround Cyberdine’s office and Arnie blows them all up. All of the them. Nice. Comforting.

Young John Connor is talking to Arnie about his ‘dad’. Who, as we know from Terminator 1, was a time-traveller who came back, impregnated the mum and fuckin’ died. Typical man. So John says to Arn: “yeah, wierd that my dad won’t be born for about 30 years”. And for some reason I’d never picked up on that line before. Even after 833 viewings.

Yet its profound. And the classic ‘time paradox’. In that ‘chicken and egg’ kind’a way. Because if John’s dad only came back from the future to protect that future John Connor, how could that older John Connor have even existed? The father came back from the future to save a man (his best friend, in fact) who couldn’t conceivably (sorry, sometimes it just happens) have been born until his visit back. Confused? Don’t be. Its just a chronological impossibility. But when such things enter the realms of ‘serious mind-fuck’, we call them time paradoxes.

Though there is a possible explanation. But as it involves worm-holes in space, 17-dimension maths and the square root of minus-1, I’ll spare both of us the aggro.

Germany go through on the worst penalty shoot-out of all time. Tonight its Iceland. Come on Iceland.

Happy sunny Sunday

A xxxx

Let me just get this straight: we’re out of Europe but we’re still in Great Britain. Aren’t we? Scotland want to leave GB now we’re out of EU. Wales likes GB but hates both EU and needless acronyms. The Northern Irish simply don’t count. Not in the big debates.

So when Andy Murray wins at Wimbledon, which he may well do this year now that The Miserable Serb has finally lost a grand slam game, I can claim just a little ‘British glory’ from the very small part of the English-hating Scotsman that is proper-English British. Even though I can’t stand him. And he makes The Miserable Serb seem like Coco the clown by comparison.

Its like when Rory McIlroy wins the golf. I’m suddenly forced to cross 2 ‘red lines’. I have to pretend I’m interested in golf, and imagine, for the purposes of polite conversation, that it is an actual ‘sport’. And I have to claim allegiance that other bit of Great Britain. The bit that was pretty much unmentionable for most of my early life.

And now its the Welsh. But this time I’m going to embrace my inner leek totally. Last night’s match against Belgium was a triumph for everything good about football. A triumph for small nations against big ones. A triumph for a ‘team’ over a group of highly talented individuals. And a triumph for my Welshness against my last remaining Englishness, shattered not once within the last week but twice.

Wales in the semi-finals of the European championships is almost as remarkable as Iceland making it to the quarter-finals. Wales is a small country renowned for singing, rugby and excessive drinking. The national team has one superstar, in the ever-wondrous Gareth Bale. It has two pretty decent players in midfield, Joe Allan and Aaron Ramsey, even though the latter is both a very recent blond and worse still, a Gunner. They have a superhero captain in the ever-awesome Ashley Williams. And the rest are the usual Welsh mish-mash of third division rejects, wife-beaters, drunk-drivers and Hal Robson-Kanu. Who scored last night. The best goal of the tournament by a country mile. Whichever country. And he doesn’t even have a club. Unwanted. Well, until last night, that is.

The goal was such a thing of beauty that grown men cried. Trees straightened. The moon… ok, nuf hyperbole.

Gareth Bale plays a 40 yard pass of total perfection into the path of Ramsey who’d made only the second such run of his career without an ensuing injury, and controls beautifully. Crosses to Robson-Kanu, the un-signed player, 12 yards out, back to the goal, 3 defenders in the way. He did a ‘Cruyff’. Johann himself lifted from his grave to smile and give a thumbs-up, then went back to dead as the striker took out all 3 defenders with his turn and slotted the ball sweetly past the keeper.

So happy to be Welsh.

Happy Saturday, boyo

A xxxx

At what level does doing something bad become doing something good?

A little philosophical conundrum for a Friday. We all like that (??)

Do we torture terrorists to get information that could prevent hundreds of innocent people being murdered? Do we engage in wars in which the ‘good guys’ bomb entire fucking cities to the ground along with all the poor unfortunates who once lived there? Do we run Arsenal fans over at a crossing to prevent them from ever being smug again?

Deep questions. There is no right, there is no wrong, there just is. Its all relative. I may gain personally by an act, but someone else will lose. Like using your credit card number to book my flights on. Sorry about that.

Thus it becomes about a ‘greater good’. We bombed the shit out of Dresden in the war to save the world from Hitler. Ok, some did it just for fun, others because they have a thing about Germans, then and now, but generally these acts are seen as for a greater good, or as a lesser evil. Its all relative to your viewpoint.

And so Boris. And Michael Gove. Neither of whom can really be described as a lesser evil to virtually anyone, other than perhaps Jeremy Corbyn. So they act in ways of ‘dubious morality’ to say the least. That they would argue is for some long-term greater good.

If Boris supports Brexit, even though he’s a lifelong Europhile, then tells a whole heap of lies in order to win the referendum, is that not for ‘the greater good’ if it means he’ll end up as Prime Minister and is undoubtedly (in his mind) the absolute best person for that job in the entire world? I thought that to be the case until yesterday morning. Not that Boris was the best man for any job, but that HE thought so. Vain, arrogant opportunist that he is.

And Michael Gove. Michael “I have no intention whatsoever of becoming PM” (2 days before), fucking Gove! Then he declares Boris unfit to lead a troupe of girl guides, let alone a nation, and decides to stand himself. For the role he didn’t want 2 days previously. He’d had a revelation. A ‘eureka moment’. God spoke to him directly. In Aramaic. Who knows. One minute he’s Boris’s ‘campaign manager’ then next he’s walked over Boris after knifing him in the back.

The only odd thing in the total moral vacuum that is what’s left of the government, is that Boris just accepted it. Didn’t fight, didn’t protest, didn’t shout ‘Judas!’, nothing. Just said, ‘ok, I won’t stand’.

They have dirt on Boris. Its the only explanation. There is a skeleton in Boris’s closet so big, so Greville Janner, so serially shaggish, so joined the Hitler Youth aged 7, so crucifyingly, career-shatteringly massive, that he had no choice but just roll over.

The question that remains is: SO HOW THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO PLACE OUR COLLECTIVE TRUST IN THESE MURDEROUS, CONNIVING, DEVIOUS, BACK-STABBING, HYPOCRITICAL BASTARDS????

Theresa May must be laughing her whiter-than-white head off. She stays well under the parapet.

Happy devious Friday

A xxxx

So there we all were, revering the Icelandics, loving those Icelanders, admiring those Icelandishers for being such a sweet, itty-bitty ickle nation, ahhhhhhhh. And that they’re all great and underdogs and blond and eat rotten herrings that have laid (dead) in the sun for about 4 months, and all good thoughts like that. Icelanders? Love ’em. Beat us fair and square, we woz shite, they was grite, (cross between ‘gritty’ and ‘great’, just trying it out for the quarter-finals).

And now we learn a little more about the volcanic rock dwelling, undergroundly thermal Scands from up there where the Northern Lights don’t shine. Well they bloody didn’t when we went there.

They’re fascists. Bastard, nazi, nanny-stating fascists. Because…

When you have a baby in Iceland, its a great thing. Only 330,000 babies have ever been born there before! (I don’t count dead people.) So you think, as all new parents do, what you’d like to call your baby. Don’t fancy ‘another’ Eidur, or Gylfi or Kolbeinn, cos EVERYone is called that on your block, never mind, call him Nigel. After the saviour of all Europe.

Ah; sorry. You can’t name him that. Its not on the approved list. WHATTTTTTT!!!!!! What fucking approved list? Its my baby, I can call him what I sodding want. In fact I can call him ‘Sodding’ if I want.

Actually, you can’t. Iceland has a list of about 1700 ‘approved names’ for Icelandic children and you have to use one of those. We are Iceland, which is why our supermarket wasn’t called ‘Tesco’. It was deemed un-Icelandic. True that they never referred to the TOTAL FAILURE OF THE BANK OF SOMEWHERE ELSE, did they? No, it was ‘the bank of Iceland’ that failed miserably. And proudly. Icelandic-ly.

Similarly, to ensure our cultural heritage, all children should have Icelandic names. From the list. How do you feel about Eidur?

A couple of Anglo-Icelanders (must have been hell for them on Monday night) named their daughter Harriet. Nice name. Sadly, Harriet was never the name of a Viking slayer of three-headed bison, nor a godess of cold things, nor anything vaguely Icelandic. So on her passport it just referred to her as ‘Girl’ followed by her surname.

Twelve years later, they have finally been given approval to use the name Harriet. And, fair enough, the government there are in the process of removing this very silly law.

SO DON’T TELL ME HOW BLOODY WONDERFUL ICELAND IS!!!! WHEN THEY DO THAT!!!!! AND BEAT ENGLAND!!!!!

I bear no grudges.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Twice in a week. How is it possible? Leaving Europe, that is. Once is short-sighted, shameful and stupid, but twice?? The first time was about politics, the economy, our prosperity and the future of our entire nation. But last night it was really important. It was football. And we’re out. Coming home. Disgraced.

Its not a disgrace to lose to Spain, Germany, Belgium. But it is to lose to Iceland. Because, and I’m sure they won’t be offended by this; they are not a footballing powerhouse. They’re barely a rechargeable battery.

I’ve been to Iceland. There’s nothing there. Its empty. We left there 3 days before that volcano exploded. Otherwise we’d still be there, waiting for the world’s biggest shit-cloud to disperse and the planes to start taking off again. But its a rather super place really. Or it was, until last night.

How dare they? How dare a nation with a population of 330,000 (what we here call ‘a small town’) defeat the most (expensively) footballing nation in the world with a population 200 times greater? Its statistically impossible (though, as always, depends who’s paying for the statistics), and makes no sense whatsoever. Iceland have one player from the top flight of football. If you consider Swansea to be the top flight of football. He’s a super player, he was at Spurs and he is brilliant. The rest are simply rejects from our esteemed footballing world, and all other European (remember ‘Europe’… ahhhhh, feels like it was only last Thursday…) leagues. Half of them are amateurs. Their manager is a fucking dentist. And we all hate dentists.

And Roy Hodgson is the highest paid manager at the tournament. Not that its entirely Roy’s fault, but we are human, therefore we need a focus for our displeasure, our contempt, our misery. Hi, Roy.

The tactics for last night’s game (which was simply agony to watch, start to finish) seemed to be: ok boys, wush into the spaces, get the ball wide and wun like cwazy down the middle. Then, when you’re 4 against 3, DON’T cwoss the ball. No. That’s what they’ll expect. Instead, sit on it for a minute and let the rest of the Icelanders get secure and comfortable behind the ball. Then give it away. They won’t be expecting that either…

Don’t these people realise; WE INVENTED THE BLOODY GAME!! Would it hurt to let us win something now and again? Would it?? Fucking Euro…

Tragic Tuesday

A xxxx

I bloody missed Glastonbury. Again. That’s the 60th consecutive year I’ve bloody missed it. Damn.

Don’t actually think its been going for 60 years but its been going a while. And the guarantees from Glasto are: great bands and mud. Sadly, more of the latter than the former. Much, much more. The rule is that you can’t officially start the Glastonbury festival until its been raining for a week and promises no let up for at least another 3 days. That way it ensures not only a massive quagmire for the duration of the festivities but also a near total inability to enter the place in the first instance due to ’12 hour delays’ because the cars can’t park under water.

Even in my youth, a massive part of which was spent watching live music, the whole ‘festival’ thing never really grabbed me. You didn’t need to shlep all the way to Somerset to find loose women and drugs, when Camden Town was so tantalisingly close. And dry.

So I watched some of it on tv. Did I envy the massed thousands watching Coldplay in their cagoules, knee-deep in shit, wasting the last of their phones’ battery shining a light at Chris Martin?

No, because they couldn’t keep flicking over to the football.

In theory European finals (or World Cups) represent the ‘died and gone to heaven’ time for football fans. At a time of year when we’re usually deprived of our drug-of-choice, its on the entire day. Three matches yesterday, same Saturday. As it has been for the few weeks since the tournament started. But the reality is that you get overload. And possibly divorce so other things have to be considered. Like ‘normal life’.

And the football has been very mixed. Mainly uninspiring. Particularly from England, but many other teams too. Yet there were some sparks of, hopefully, things to come. Times when teams removed the shackles of conservatism inspired by the ‘better to not win than not lose’ ethos which is always prevalent at the start of such events, and actually start to play properly.

And surprise, surprise, out of the shadows step the Germans and the Belges, with decent wins against teams that they should beat easily but if they’d played them last week they’d have gone for the draw.

Tonight its England vs Iceland. We need to score at least one goal. Which is more than we’ve done lately. But preferably a shed-load.

Jeremy Corbyn is 93.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I hate to keep banging on about politics, but…

Its kind’a all there is. And its big. Massive. So big and so massive that even Wales beating Northern Ireland in the Euros yesterday takes the back pages to the total fucking mess that is ‘Europe: the aftermath’. The analysis, the post-mortems, the political flack. Which is actually colossal.

And here’s the problem. We’ve voted (well, YOU have) to leave Europe. On two promises. Firstly that ‘Europe costs us 350 million pounds a week!!!!! and that money can instead go to the health service’. Except that figure was shown to be wrong and a joke, randomly plucked from somewhere in the inside of Boris Johnson’s head, just before his bike experiences and below his Prime Ministerial aspirations. Then, immediately after their victory, it was stated that actually, in reality, there won’t be any money from the EU ‘savings’ for health service at all. Neither 350 million nor 173 million a week. Not even tuppence a week. Nothing.

The other issue was immigration. Though this too was a myth and a lie. Farage showing Lybians entering Slovakia my have actualised the worst fears of many, but immigration from outside Europe is nothing to do with our membership of the EU. Never was. Immigration from EU countries is the EU thing, and unlimited. Ahhhh, we’ll put a stop to that then!!!! Actually, it’ll probably be the first item on the table when we go with our begging bowl to sort out our new, outsider, trade deal. Oui, they will say, you can ‘ave ze trade deal, but you must allow Europeans into your country, as is was before. Otherwise, sell your Queen’s 90th birthday mugs somewhere else.

Cameron’s gone. And now Corbyn has lost 4 cabinet ministers in the last 24 hours. So far. They want the tosser gone for his tragic mismanagement of the Labour voters. So we’ll have no Prime Minister and no leader of the opposition. So who gets to be Moses and lead us out of the promised land?

We are in a national disaster. We are a national disaster. This referendum was the biggest mistake since Donald Trump’s midwife didn’t just flush him down the loo.

Happy Sunday. Though I don’t know what there is to be happy about.

A xxxx

at least they didn’t vote us out of the football. We’re out of Europe but not the European finals.

The City was like a morgue yesterday. Like a funeral. Awful. Everyone devastated, everyone a bit pessimistic about the future. What future? they seemed to say.

Britain is now divided into 2. We have London and Scotland, the most bizarre coupling as Scotland’s main reason for its own attempted ‘leave’ was down to its anger at being controlled by ‘Westminster’. But ‘Scotlond’ as its already been termed, are both massively ‘in’. Other than Wayne, of course, who wears his British bulldog t-shirt adorned with UKIP badges, with pride. Nothing to do with today’s ‘pride’; that’s different.

And then we have ‘the rest and the Welsh’, in no particular order. The ‘outers’. And as Wales are one of the few nations to be a ‘net earner’ from the EU, its rather a strange move on the part of our neighbours to the west.

I would further divide things (well everyone else is being and has been rabidly ‘divisive’, why not me?) into the old and the young. The former wanting out, the younger massively ‘in’.

As of last night someone came up with a new slant. That victory (if it can be so viewed) was one for ‘normal people’ over ‘globalisation and corporate culture’. Funny that in the combined 97,384 hours of endless fucking rhetoric pre-referendum, no-one thought to make mention of such a fictitious issue. Yet within 10 minutes of the result, they’re all banging on about it.

Oh well, we beat Australia at rugby. Possibly our new best mates now that Europe hates us and America has declared its intention to make life very difficult for trading purposes. So if you want to order a new chevy truck, do it now. Or… what else does America make? Oh yeah, guns. Loads and loads of guns. Anyway, as that nation is swapping lame-duck Obama for stupid-fuck Trump in the near future, they have other things to worry about.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

WE ARE OUT!!!!

We are no longer part of ‘Europe’. We are now applying to become the world’s smallest independent continent, on its own, and nothing whatsoever to do with those smelly garlic eating nations which just happen, by mere quirk of geography, to be much nearer to where I live than is Glasgow.

The obvious irony, the final blow, the coup de gras, is that to extricate ourselves from those foreign nations, we basically need to overcome 17 miles of red tape and 2 years of negotiations and essentially, we need to get permission from the EU to leave.

Then we can move on. Assuming by that point that the pound is worth more than half a Euro, or a US quarter.

And the first thing we need to do, once Article 50 of the Lisbon Convention (nothing even vaguely bureaucratic about that very title, is there?) is get rid of all the French. Well, the men at least. Turf ’em out. Send ’em back. There’s too many here and they contribute nothing more than a silly accent and a nasty attitude and we’ve got the Scots for that. Who will probably leave the UK to join the Germans anyway.

But here’s a first: this is LIVE (well, it was when I wrote it); David Cameron has announced his resignation. Holy shi-i-i-i-ttt. Had to happen. He picked the wrong side and his position became impossible. He’s out by October.

The magnitude of the result was interesting. 48% to 52%. An exact reflection of the actual feeling in most people’s minds. I was actually 52% stay and 48% leave but I’m a Londoner. We were innies. We’re good at… errr… staying in things. Hmmm.

This is a very exciting time in UK politics. Unlike the pre-referendum shit which got very boring and stupid very quickly. Oddly the most profound move in the entire campaign was Nigel Farage’s ‘faux pas’ just last weekend. When he adorned a bus with a picture of a boatload of Libyan refugees landing in Slovakia. (Don’t quote me on the exact locations there, but you know the picture). Because although it was a morally repellant thing to do, a terrible image that was irrelevant, for many people it showed their worst inner fears. Brought out their latent xenophobe.

I voted in, I can keep my moral high ground whatever the fuck happens next.

Wacky Friday

A xxxx