Andy's Glasses

What do you do in your spare time? Do you have any spare time?

Because there’s a lovely picture in the paper of Arsenal player, Jack Wilshere, doing visits at Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital. Ahhhh. But Jack has lots of spare time. Nothing but spare time. He’s almost retired from football now, having not played since… well, long time. And I don’t know what the going rate is, pay-wise, for a chain-smoking, tattooed, night-club loving, permanently-injured midfielder, currently, but I reckon its gotta be 50 to 80 grand a week. So well done Jack.

Whereas West Ham star striker Diafra Sakho prefers going out in his spare time, driving round in his £200,000 Lamborghini Hurrican, and visiting fans. Rather unconventionally maybe, but the wall he smashed through in his supercar (apparently writing it off) belonged to a family of West Ham fans, who were (almost) thrilled that of all the garden walls, and cars in driveways (that got rather damaged too) in the country, Sakho chose to destroy theirs. What an honour.

Who said ‘there’s too much money in football’? Come on. Own up, who said it???

The second music star to die in 7 days. The third serious ‘celeb’ to engage in bucket kickage occurred when Glen Frey died yesterday. The man (co-)wrote ‘Hotel California’. You can’t be more brilliant than that. And he invented The Eagles himself. Created them, kept them together through the drink, drugs and women years, brought them back again after the inevitable ego/power/artistic difference/royalty wrangle break ups and was, by all accounts (that’d be Don Henley then) was the driving force behind the band. Great singer, wonderful guitarist, brilliant songwriter, what a fucking loss that is. And only 67. He didn’t even wait the extra 2 years to be the third in the ’69 Club’ with Bowie and Alan Rickman.

There again; he was always his own man.

Gambling corruption in tennis? Whatever next? Cricket??? Oh, done that already. Football? Been there. Athletics? Rife with it. Snooker? Pretty much every tournament.

I’ll come clean. In 2003 I played a tennis match against me mate Gersh and I threw the first set. Just like that. Threw it. A far eastern syndicate (Mr Chan from the take-away down the road) had bet a fiver with his mum on me to lose it and he gave me £1.24 to do so. Well, an extra portion of special fried rice. Which was never really that special anyway. Such is the constant pressure on us sports stars.

RIP Don Henley. You can check out any time you like; but you can never leave.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Every time I go on holiday I return with a suntan, peeling skin on my legs, a bottle of some ‘local’ variety of rum/vodka/whisky, a sombrero (not after the Scotland trip, granted, bought a sporran, kept falling off me head) fifteen boxes of the locally grown tea/coffee/herbal shit/whatever that will never be consumed in the UK and will be summarily dumped, unopened 15 months later… and a beard.

I don’t understand it either. I do nothing and it just grows. As if by magic.

Maybe it has something to do with not shaving. You do da maff.

But shaving is a chore. Therefore, in holiday mode, I try and avoid the normal, certainly the mundane, the trivial, the unnecessary. So I don’t shave. Neither does Mel. Who never notices that I’ve grown a beard. Today’s ‘shadow’ is tomorrow’s stubble is the week hence’s beard. It sneaks up on her. Or maybe, familiarity just does breed contempt. And if nothing else, I have always been worthy of contempt.

Then back home, the first visit from the daughters, or ‘the beard police’ as they’re collectively known, brings a hail of ‘eeeuuwww, get rid of that beard. Its horrible. Its yeuchy. Makes you look old!!!’ They know precisely which buttons to push, my gels, bless ’em.

So I thought, oh well, I’ll shave it off. Then I opened the paper today. And realised that my beard could save my life!!!

Ok, overstating a touch, as ya do, but really it was there in black, white and wishful thinking. An article by a doctor, no less. And apparently they were examining beards in a lab, pretty much so they could slag them off as ‘dirty, unhygienic things’ like the guy in Roald Dahl’s ‘The Twits’. Full of rubbish, old food, snot, pollution, coke cans, old car tyres, broken fridges, all the usual. But what they found was that in among the multitude of bacteria contained in the beard (same as on an unbearded face, so don’t get smug, Ladies) there were indeed other, more beardy bacteria too. But they were good. They were healthy. They were even natural anti-biotics. Could fight infection. Save my life.

So the beard is staying. Even though its more ‘old rabbi’ than young hipster, I don’t care. If God had intended man to shave, he wouldn’t have set the price of razor blades so ridiculously high.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There are very few teams that Arsenal can’t beat on their day. But one of them is Stoke. On pretty much any day. So for that reason alone, I like Stoke. Not the place; I’ve been there, its horrible. But the football team. Mark Hughes’ boys. Stoke City FC.

They’ve always been seen as a sluggish team of thugs, louts and overly physical leg-breakers. And quite often this view has been pretty much spot on. Its what they were. Particularly under Pulis. When, one sunny afternoon, Ryan Shawcross did in fact break Aaron Ramsey’s leg. It was a fair tackle. For Stoke. Anywhere else it was common assault.

The defining Stoke players, for me, other than Shawcross, were (both have left now) Robert Huth and Charlie Adam. Both good, solid players, both born without the filter that helps with certain decisions of a physical nature. Both prepared to do anything to get to the ball first, or ensure that if they don’t, the person who does ain’t goin’ nowhere with it. Both great exponents of the backarm smash. Like the old forearm smash in wrestling, but done with the leading arm going backwards; away from the referee. Into the head, chest, groin of the man they’re marking.

And Arsenal, who always favour fast, light, agile players, could never answer Stoke’s brutal physicality. So instead they moaned (well; Wenger moaned) that ‘this is not football; its more like rugby’ on one instance.

But Under Sparky Stoke have not so much changed as evolved. A little. Though still closer to Neanderthals than Homo Sapiens on many levels, the manager has introduced players who are actually footballers rather than cage fighters. Just a few. A scattering.

But its enough. They now play football. And they play it well. With Bojan, the ex-Barcelona player running midfield and the threatening Arnautovich up front, Stoke now play a faster game, more of a passing game, more of… an Arsenal game.

So yesterday’s meeting of the two was not the usual man versus beast struggle, the pretty little Luke Skywalkers against the might of the Stormtroopers; no this was two teams with converging styles. With Stoke inevitably a bit stronger, a bit slower, a bit more violent. And for a nil-nil draw, it was good to watch. Best of all was the feeling that Arsenal remained throughout the entire match, rather uncomfortable.

Shame Man United beat Liverpool and closed the gap on Spurs, but that’s life.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

My mate Nathan knows more about movies than anyone else I know. I’m not talking about naming the third Tarantino (Jackie Brown) or who played a one-line walk-on part in The Graduate (Richard Dreyfuss), cos everyone knows dat shit. Nathan knows EVERYTHING. Who the first grip’s second assistant in Gone with the Wind was married to before the sex change. Where the plane at the end of Casablanca was bought, and from whom. Where the Marx Brothers had their barmitzvahs, and who catered. Everything.

And he hates the Everyman Cinemas. Hates them. “Coffee shops with a movie screen” he scathingly accuses. And he’s a judge, so he knows about accusations. So he won’t go to the Everyman. He is the ultimate movie-snob, refusing even to go to where most movie snobs (that’d be me, then) find sanctuary and comfort from the multiplex masses of popcorn munchers.

So I wonder what he’d make of the Picturehouse, Crouch End?

I went there last night and it is fantastic. Saw ‘Joy’ which was pretty good, but the whole experience was just fab.

It only opened in November so that explained why I’d never heard of it before. They’ve kind’a kept it quiet. Not the cleverest marketing tool. Yet it was busy. And its got 5 screens. The one we sat in had 21 seats. Really comfortable, individually reclining seats with lots of room. And the clearest screen I’ve ever peered at for 2 hours.

But there’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. Oh dear. And if that won’t have Nathan scampering off to the NFT on the South Bank, then the restaurant on the first floor probably would.

The place is minimalist heaven, bare brick walls, open scaffolding in orange, like a giant Meccano set, and it is just fab. Two full bars, you can eat, drink and slurp to your heart’s content, BEFORE the movie.

And its cheaper than the Everyman. Go there now.

Though how can you when Liverpool kick off against Man United in just a couple hours? And then Stoke, my team for the day, play the Arse at 4. And all after Spurs fairly wonderful-ish win yesterday????

Joy is a joy. But Jennifer Lawrence is something way beyond that. In most of the movie she’s scruffy, unpolished, almost ‘au natural’ but with clothes on. Primark clothes. And yet she simply mesmerises. Her presence, and her wonderful voice, simply possess you. Ok, they possess me. Whatever ‘star quality’ may be, J-Law simply has it in vast abundance.

Happy snowy sunday (my tennis courts at 10 this morning, when I went to check them out).

A xxxx

You kind of accept the world as it is. Things change and generally, you just go with the flow. You don’t shout that someone’s of a certain race or creed in public, you rarely call someone a ‘poof’, and never if he is a ‘poof’, and you don’t call women bitches. Even if they are or can be at times. Never. Not on my watch. Not in 2016.

Because we’re into the ‘post-feminist’ era. Meaning its already happened, equality is rife (like influenza and terrorism) and within about 200 to 300 years there may even be equal pay in the City. Well, not everyone can move at the same pace.

But we accept feminism as a good thing. Equal rights for all. Even (however reluctantly) women.

So I thought.

Then on Monday night I watched a really cool guy on the BBC going round finding anti-feminists. Not just people (like the vast majority) who go with the flow, who don’t care one way or another, who maintain their chauvinism but keep it quiet; down the pub; between the boys. No, these are outspoken anti-feminists. They hate feminism. They think its gone to far. The feel that men are now downtrodden and given less rights. Or they are just rapists (according to the true feminist line).

But he found anti-feminists. People who not only hate feminism but stand at Hyde Park Corner to announce that to the world. And also, obviously, hook up on anonymous web sites using anonymous names which really shows their level of commitment. Feeling that feminism has ‘gone too far’. Interesting things like: there is in every European community ministers responsible for women’s rights. There are laws protecting women’s rights. Yet no equivalents for men.

Then the other day, Emma Watson, who retired as Hermoine the witch (not ‘bitch’ but the jury’s out on that one) to become the UN ambassador for women, tweeted after the death of her mate and former Hogwarts teacher, Alan Rickman, her sorrow at his death. And posted Rickman’s quote about men being feminists.

And anti-fems immediately attacked her for ‘pushing her own agenda’ and ‘using his death’ and such tosh.

I really think anti-feminism is the way forward, but behaviour like that against a good looking woman could really set their cause back decades.

Happy knuckle-dragging

A xxxx

Now this is funny. In a rather ‘odd’, even macabre way. But we all look for patterns in life. Particularly in tragedy. I don’t know why, they’re not particularly comforting, but we do. Its the human condition. One of them, anyway.

So Amy Winehouse died at 27. As did; Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Kobaine, Janis Joplin, Bryan Jones and a host of others. We look for ‘reasons’. What happens at 27 that doesn’t at 26 or 28 or 32? No idea. Just a coincidence? Or a pattern. None of them died of old age, nor illness in the normal sense of a terminal illness.

Then this very week, the ultimate Hero, David Bowie dies at 69. And yesterday the wonderful (didn’t know him at all, never met him, but the ‘wonderful’ really describes his stage personae and the image conveyed therein) Alan Rickman also died. Aged… 69!!! Snape is no more.

Maybe God has culls. Of famous people (no-one counts the millions of other deaths that inevitably occur every year, however tragic each and every one may be in his/her own household). Kind’a ‘thinning out the herd’ of rock musicians, artists, actors, due to over-supply which may cause problems in the food chain. And that’s different from when politicians die because of problems on the gravy-train.

Alan Rickman. One of our favourite actors. So suave. So smooth. So definitively British in every way. Even when playing an American villain, or a French courtier, he did it in English. Plummy English. Unapologetically so. And funny. So deliciously, wryly funny.

And so back to Bowie. Another fabulously English man. Born in Brixton. He never really left. Other than in every real sense of the word ‘left’. Yet he too was a definitive Brit. He always sang in ‘English’. Which may sound like, er, obvious. But its not. Most British singers sing in American. From Robert Plant to Mary Hopkin. American is the language of rock, almost the language of song. But not Bowie. He stuck with his proper pronunciation throughout his career. Ground Control to Major Tom. In English.

Even the wonderful Adele sings in English. Most of the time. But for her that is an accent of choice. And different from her natural tongue, which is cor-blimey, strike-a-light, Cockney scumstress. And if you doubt that, please check out this fantastic link to the goddess of the modern ballad singing and chatting in the car with James Cordon. It is not only brilliant but is in such ‘proper’ English that it required subtitles so Americans could follow it.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/scottybryan/james-corden-adele#.qdmzZ04B84

Happy Friday

A xxxx

What day was it yesterday? Must have been a Saturday because there was a full fixture list playing. But if it was Saturday why was I working? And because of that, Spurs lost. Because I didn’t have the time to agonise, analyse and consider all the possible implications and ramifications and potential consequences of the matches. Things that are very important for my team’s success. I failed them.

And they failed me.

HOW CAN YA FUCKING LOSE TO LEICESTER CITY????? It was all set up. We softened them up on Sunday in the Cup and had them just where we needed them (??) We just had to have lots of possession; we did that; we needed loads of strikes on goal; we did that; and we needed to score loads of goals. Hmmmmm. Didn’t happen. Couldn’t score even one.

We went round to friends for dinner. Left home at 8.15 and the Spurs match was 0-0. Whereas over at Anfield, Liverpool were 1-0 up against the Arse. So far so good. Chelsea were 1-0 up against West Brom.

We had drinks, nibbled some nibbles, and I fretted. We sat down and had some soup. Very nice soup, in fact, but that wasn’t the point and it didn’t stop me fretting. Mark’s phone was on the table. I kept staring at it. Trying to act normal. Trying to ignore it and the secrets it held. Trying to act cool.

FOR GOD’S SAKE GET THE SCORES UP!!!! I said in mid-soup-spoonage, thrusting his phone in his face. And Liverpool were 2-2 with Arsenal and Spurs still 0-0.

I was enjoying some other food some minutes later but couldn’t concentrate on my eating. Was trying to keep cool, “oh, so Florence was in Australia, how lovely for her, blah, blah, blah”, “terrible thing about the Cuban missile crisis…” (Cuban Missile Crisis??? what the f-? try to concentrate!), “have you seen the new Pochettino… sorry, Tarantino movie yet?”

Grabbed the phone, Leicester had just scored. Arsenal were 3-2 up, the fucking world was ending right there on that stupid little screen. Man City were 0-0 which would have been good except we were 0-1 which was not good. Not good at all. Very bad.

At least Liverpool pulled one back at the end. As did West Brom at Chelsea. But not us. Not Spurs. Not my team.

The fruit salad was fab, but tasted like wood in my mouth. The world went dark. The rains started. Even God was pissed off.

I love football.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I love a good strike. No, really, its one of my favourite things. Dummett’s last minute strike last night against Manchester United was a thing of beauty, a thing of glory, a thing of wonder. Especially as it kept United well below Spurs in the table. And added yet more misery to the Old Trafforders already horrible season. Though at least they managed 2 first half goals. Which is 2 more than in the first halves of their last 10 games combined.

But this isn’t about striking. Its about striking. Workers’ rights. Trade unions. Militants and protests. More money, less hours, more rights and the new one: ‘work/life balance’. Ooooh, that’s very post-milenial. Very Zen. Very zeitgeist.

We have two strikes currently on display. I can offer you the junior doctors, or I can throw in the Tube workers. Buy one get one free. January sale on withdrawing labour.

And whilst I have absolutely no sympathy for the tube workers, or rather, for their obnoxious and toxic leaders and think they should sack every single tube worker who carries a union card and just start again, I’m fully in favour of the action by the hospital Docs.

This is not just because I’m an every day tube commuter but not normally a hospital patient, but that may have something to do with it. Nor is it because doctors are good people and tube workers aren’t. Its not even because I agree with the reasons for the hospital strikes (which I really do) and completely disagree with those for the tube strike (which I do).

Its because the Doctors, as well as having a very good point to make, striked (struck? stricked??) for the first time in 40 years yesterday. Oddly, ‘to save the NHS’. Oddly because Jeremy Hunt, the health tosser, sorry, health minister, has refused the demands from the doctors ‘to save the NHS’.

The fact the doctors are having this rarest of strikes outlines the severity of their problems. They don’t ‘lay down tools’ for no good reason.

Whereas we have a tube strike about once a month. During ‘strike season’, which runs from January 1st to December 31st every year. They strike for more pay. They strike for less hours. They strike because Boris announced a 24-hour tube service. They strike because a driver was sacked; for being drunk three times whilst driving a train. They strike when a worker was dismissed for being ‘on sick leave’ for 3 months whilst being filmed on the golf course and at the gym every day. They earn shit-loads of money, work about 6 hours a week so now its all about ‘work/life balance’. Which for them is tipped rather heavily in the ‘life’ side.

However… I can’t understand why reasonable people can’t resolve their differences without resorting to a withdrawal of labour. The Tube union leaders simply are not reasonable people. They’re barely people at all, in fact. But the doctors are reasonable. And not money-motivated. Not as juniors anyway. Therefore Jeremy Hunt must be unreasonable. Its just logic.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m really not a technophobe. I hate most of it, granted, won’t use Facebook, never had a twitter, resist downloading apps until I’m physically forced to at gunpoint and generally view ‘change’ as a bad thing. Not ‘changes’; that was a great song by Bowie… ahhhhhhh. But change; bad thing.

So why do I need a car that drives itself? And can I still ask that question whilst really appreciating the incredible significance of what such a creation represents?

Because a car that drives itself is really the pinnacle of artificial intelligence. Not like my own version in which I pretend to know lots of shit about everything but really learned most of it from a Cornflakes packet or Wikipedia. No, proper AI.

They have ‘robots’. Mainly in China and Japan. They’re obsessed with them. And they sweep the floor and walk up stairs, which is all well and good but its not exactly R2D2, is it? High tech, lots of programmed responses, its not AI. That starts when independent interaction takes place and the ability to respond independently to changing environments. Learning as it goes along. The wonderful gap between an ipad and the Terminator scenario when the computers take over the whole world and blow it up. AI is the ‘happy medium’. Computers that can act independently but don’t control weapons or have ideas above themselves.

Tesla have made a car that drives itself. Better than Google’s. Better than everyone’s. Because that what Elon Musk does. He invents amazing things that work not just better than everyone else’s but are 20 years ahead of what anyone else has even thought of.

You ‘summon’ the car with a remote. And it comes out of the garage and finds you. Bit of a problem if you don’t have an electric door on the garage, but these are technical details. You will, in time, be able to summon the car across great distances. Like from New York to San Francisco. The car will leave, charge itself up along the way at various points and arrive in California with no speeding tickets, no hitch-hikers, just the car. Maybe wash itself, I don’t know.

Ok, it might be easier, certainly quicker, to just, rent a car. But this is about potential.

Apparently on you-tube there are loads of videos of the test drives of this new car. And they’re funny. Changing lanes for no reason. Bit of a swerve here and there, probably because the guy in the next car was getting an email and it upset the Tesla’s electronic wizardry. I’m not saying the car’s perfect. Apparently its ‘not very good with small obstructions’. I need more information about that, lots more information. Like, what is a ‘small obstruction’? A cat? A lamppost?? A child???

But its early days.

One last question. What do I do whilst the car is driving itself? What is my purpose in life? Why am I here if I’m no longer needed? Would I sit in the back and pretend I have an invisible chauffeur? Or let the car drive but sit there panicking in the driver’s seat in case something goes wrong?

Is having a car that drives itself like having a dog that shits for itself? Deep philosophical questions.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

David Bowie is dead. And this is not like ‘Ziggy Stardust is dead’ or ‘Aladdin Sane is dead’, this is for real and permanent and forever.

Yet when celebrities die, its different from when, like, Uncle Morty dies. You don’t know them. You don’t speak to them. You’ve never met them, other than perhaps some fleeting glimpse over a million heads at the Hammersmith Odeon. So you ‘know’ these people through their work, be they singers, artists or actors. And their work lives on. Forever. Uncle Morty had a factory making knock-off Burberry handbags, so his work lives on for a little while, generally about 3 months til the strap breaks because the leather’s not real.

Yet I was really shocked this morning when I heard about Bowie. Because although I never met him, he was part of my life. Perhaps an even bigger part than Uncle Morty because he provided the soundtrack for my youth. A big part of it. Something he shares with Ozzie Osbourne, John Lennon, David Byrne and Shawaddywaddy.

I saw Bowie in 1972 at Romford Odeon. He was Ziggy Stardust. I went in plain clothes. In disguise. But I came out as Ziggy Stardust having been truly blown away as no concert since ever blew me quite that far away.

It was almost RIP for Spurs’ FA cup aspirations yesterday, with a last minute penalty by the one and only Harry Kane saving our blushes. Was it really a penalty? Ball, hand, that’s penalty to me. No point overthinking it.

But what about Oxford United? 2nd division rubbish beating premiership (strugglers) Swansea. Me mate Welsh Judith won’t be happy, that’s for sure, but that’s the magic of the FA cup.

And its not just magic. Its survival. Clubs like Oxford will have an annual turnover less than Wayne Rooney’s wages. They dream of just simply reaching the 3rd round of the cup and they pray that they meet a ‘big team’ because then the money they receive will keep them afloat for another year. To reach the 4th round will ensure their survival for a decade. I hope they get Man United. And beat them.

Happy Monday. Gotta go to work some time, I s’pose.

A xxxx