Andy's Glasses

Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Who said that? Well not David Cameron. Who, even in my cynical mind, is in no way ‘corrupt’. Just a bit of a nob. An upper-class rich kid who’s never had a proper job in his life.

He didn’t need to. He had a very rich daddy. Who I’ll call ‘Mr Cameron’, to protect the innocent. Yet the recent leak of 11 million documents from a Panamanian law firm has revealed that Cameron senior may be ‘innocent’ but was far from squeaky clean. Because he chose to keep his money in an offshore tax haven. Hmmmmm.

When questioned Cameron the Dave said yesterday: ‘his family’s tax affairs were a private matter’.

Which is the namby-pamby Western, democratic version of what they’re doing in China. Which is removing all access to details from the internet and banning it in the press. Cameron obfuscates while Xi Jinping will lock you up, remove your testicles and make you ‘disappear’ for even mentioning it.

Of course tax affairs are private. Unless you’re the prime minister and implicated in the biggest tax scandal of the century (so far; I’m not writing off further revelations) and part of a government obsessed with ‘transparency’. You can’t choose selective opaqueness. Even for your dead dad.

To be honest, I couldn’t care less about Cameron’s dad. He had an ‘offshore company’ in name at least. Who fucking cares? He left a ‘fortune’ of 2.74 million quid. An amount known in the posher parts of London as ‘a small house’. Its a lot of money but a fortune it ain’t. And even if it was, I still don’t care.

I care about corruption. By state leaders. I care about money laundering, because its evil and sustains the drug trade and the criminals, allowing them an appearance of legitimacy that they shouldn’t have.

Mossack Fonseca arranged for bogus ‘offshore companies’ to protect funds from the tax systems of the world. Fine. Such things are not illegal; they’re a moral issue. Especially if you happen to be a prime minister, like Cameron. Or like Sigmundur Gunlaugsson of Iceland who, it would appear, did the modern take of Nero and fiddled funds whilst the Bank of Iceland burned. But in his wife’s name, so that’s fine. According to him.

This Panamanian law firm also allegedly handled the stolen ‘Brinks Matt’ gold bullion, with full knowledge of where it was from. They hid money for Putin, for Xi, for Assad; safe to say, they weren’t fussy.

All the ‘Red Aristocracy’ of China seem to have hidden quite vast fortunes, whilst most of China starves. I’ve never been a fan of hypocrisy. And these are times of ‘anti-corruption’ in that fine nation.

I don’t really need an offshore trust, so I have a canoe anchored just off the coast at Brighton with a 50 pound note hidden in it. Its the best I can do.

More to follow… lots and lots and lots more.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There’s two topics currently obsessing the media. The British Steel Industry and Overseas Aid.

So it was only a matter of time, and sufficiently shitty journalism, before someone put 2 and 2 together and came up with the reactionary, knee-jerk, middle-class, right wing result of 172 million.

Because that was the ‘extra’ overseas aid that we, the British people, and Me, the only British tax-payer, sent to help in foreign lands, over and above the 2 billion we promised to send. And that ‘paltry’ and apparently ‘accidental’ sum (“oh shit, I accidentally paid a hundred and seventy two million quid into the personal bank account of an African war-lord so he can build a new heli-pad to help his drug import business; sorry”) would be sufficient to keep the Port Talbot steelworks open for another 6 months. It currently loses 1 million pounds every day.

So the Mail on Sunday, that bastion of bollocks, decided that their campaign to restrict overseas aid payments should be allied to the steel industry’s woes and linked in a facile, tenuous, trivialising but hard-hitting way.

A way that is very tabloid, very wrong and does injustice to both causes.

The possible closure of the Port Talbot steelworks would be a catastrophe in socio-economic terms for the region. Port Talbot, the town, IS the steelworks. If that goes, the jobs go, the money goes, the economy goes, taking the shops and the entire town with it. Disaster. Yet do we renationalise the company and subsidise an industry destined never to break even again? Or do we close it down and spend probably more than a million pounds a day in welfare benefits and re-training and sorting out the economic mess but not the deeply wounding psychological and emotional impact on every worker and their families?

The overseas aid money, stupidly pledged by Cameron (had a good day, did Dave, in the run-up to the election: a promise of 0.7% of GDP in overseas aid PLUS the stupid, divisive and positively daft Euro referendum) is actually ok. We are a ‘rich country’ even though none of us feel particularly rich and all the news is generally bad. But where does our 2 billion go? And how is it monitored?? It is sent to ‘aid agencies’ in Europe to be distributed. The aid agencies pay their inevitable team of ‘executives’ millions each year in salaries and to keep them flying round the world looking at ’causes’. Eventually, some of the money filters through to the countries where it is desperately needed. But these countries are generally very corrupt. Which is why they need aid in the first place. And thus the money stops at their ‘governments’, providing luxuries for the priviledged few whilst the intended recipients never feel any benefit whatsoever. Once our money has left here it is completely unaccountable. I would love to know the actual percentage that eventually reaches needy causes. Cos it ain’t very high.

Don’t want to talk about football. Which makes the Port Talbot crisis seem ‘uplifting’ by comparison.

Happy Monday; if ya live in fucking Leicester

A xxxx

Its all over the media. Men, in an effort to be fit, to improve body condition, muscle tone and other such worthy desirables, are going to the gym. Fair enough. To do (fucking-) yoga???

I mean; men pump iron. They run treadmills. They even spin, with or without lycra cladding. They ride their bikes, they play sports, run miles, do boxing, anything. But yoga? What the f-????

Apparently half of all yoga participants? devotees? tantrics?? in the world (and that’d be my ‘world’ of England but mainly London; we don’t count the rest) are now men. Yoga classes are brimming over with masculinity. In what used to be the exclusive domain of the female. And for a good reason. Yoga is definitely a girly thing to do. Its as manly as flower arranging, sewing your own clothes, eating kale, moisturising your thighs or supporting Arsenal. Just not something real men do. Eating quiche for the post-Playboy world.

I’ll do pilates. At least it feels like something that hurts sufficiently that it must be good for you. But I refuse to enjoy it. That’s why I do Tai Chi. Its relaxing, spiritual, meditative, improves core strength, strengthens virtually all muscles, improves tone and flexibility, and allows you to hurt people really, really badly at the same time. Martial arts do that. Even if they have their subtle side too.

But yoga? Whether its the new ‘hot yoga’ in which you prance around like a pillock in the tropics, whilst in a dingy room in Hornsey, or any of the new inevitable forms that will always follow an arriving trend, its all bollocks. Even if now practiced by those who possess bollocks.

On thursday nights, our tai chi studio is used before us by a yoga class. And when we pitch up they’re all asleep on the floor. On their mats. Ahhhhh, sweet. No! Its not ‘sweet’, it pathetic. Sleep at home, not in MY studio which you should have vacated 10 minutes ago. Tossers. Sleeping tossers, the worst kind.

So no, I shan’t be giving up tennis to go and sit on the floor for an hour with my legs wrapped round my neck. Or swap tai chi for napping on a mat when I could be hurting people. Even bridge is better for core strength.

But I make no judgments.

Draw at Liverpool. I’m still stinging. Don’t want to think about it.

Happy Sunday (though that’s in Southampton’s hands… or feet)

A xxxx

So having been ‘totally relaxed’ last weekend as England played and Spurs didn’t, I can now return to ABSOLUTE FUCKING PANIC mode for the remainder of the season. And that starts tomorrow. At 5.30. Because tv can’t show 3 o’clock Saturday kick-offs, iss’illegal, they put matches on at other times in order to help Sky.

For the first half of my life football was only ever played at 3 on Saturday, never shown live on tv and you had to wait for Match of the Day later that evening when they’d show ‘hi-lights’ from one game and 30-second snippets from 2 others. They couldn’t afford cameras at every ground; Jesus; what were you thinking?? If you wanted to ‘watch football’ you had to go to the matches. Which was fine then, it was cheap to get in and because most people stood for the match, you could squeeze twice as many bodies into the ground as you can since compulsory seating came about. Ok, it was dangerous (Hillsborough, Heisel…) but it was wonderful. If the ground was ‘full’ the guys would let kids jump over the turnstiles and go in anyway. Without paying. No-one ever had any real idea how many people attended. And most of them would puff their way through 20 Benson&Hedges during the 90 minutes. Health & Safety wasn’t invented until 2005.

Anyway, we don’t do it like that any longer. We have TV.

And thus as Spurs visit Liverpool in what has become a truly MASSIVE game. A match that could decide not only the league but also continued life in the entire known universe. Its THAT big.

Every game is big now. We’re done with ‘small’, with ‘pointless’, with ‘who cares?’ with ‘don’t really matter’. Every game is immense. Which is why it becomes a mental rather than physical challenge. The pressure. Which is massive too. And that’s just for the fans. For the players?? Wow.

If we win (may it please the Lord) tomorrow, we still have some chance, should Leicester ever think about slipping up to any even tiny degree, of winning the league. If we drop points we’re done. As it will be for each and every game now.

I’m rooting for resurgent Southampton who are playing the Foxes tomorrow. And I’m rooting for Watford, on the grounds that I’ll always root for ‘the other team’ when Arsenal are involved. If the Gunners played the Demonic Zombie Evil Alien Vampires from Hell 11, I’d get my Rocky Horror Show costume out and howl at the moon. Can’t help it.

But this isn’t the Devil’s work. This is Tottenham. From the Lane. And I want you all to cheer on my boys tomorrow, where you may be. For Spurs. For right. For everything that is holy and good. For God.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Marks & Spencer sell burkinis. Which are anti-bikinis. Bikinis without the bits showing. To preserve the modesty of those who wish to remain modest. Or those who the rest of us are happier to see covered up. But mainly, of course, such items are aimed at the Muslim market. And apparently they sell well.

Dolce & Gabanna and Uniqlo also make ranges of veils and robes specifically for this market. And why not? Its a massive market. The whole debate about whether such clothing imprisons women, enriches their lives, liberates them or makes them a bit too ‘darth vader’ for some tastes, is irrelevant. If enough women want to veil up, the market will accommodate them and smother them with options.

Yet a geezer (using the term loosely for pretty much anyone involved in fashion) called Pierre Berge, the 85 year-old former partner of Yves St Laurent, feels that this market is in fact ‘a denial of fashion’ and is wrong. These women should be taught ‘to take their clothes off, to live like the rest of the women in the world’. Yeah, good luck with that.

But Pierre actually questions the ‘morality’ of these designers.

Morality. In an industry where they make £800 jeans. Where they’ve created the entire world of eating disorders to keep its ‘models’ whippet-thin at whatever cost to their health and that of the mimicking masses of girls who idolise and aspire to them. Yet putting stripes on a headscarf is ‘immoral’. Tosser.

You want immorality you need never look any farther than Donald Trump. What; agaiaiaiaiain??? Yes, again. This time the Republican Orange Thing has made a point about abortion. Which has always been fought by Republicans. Donald wants to make it illegal. And consequently any woman having one would in that instance be committing a crime and need to be punished. ‘So what about the fathers/partners/men involved?’ they asked him, ‘would they be punished too??’

No said Donald, that’s a different thing altogether. Yet its a similar thing to that poor woman in Iran who was a rape victim and they were going to stone her to death for being unfaithful.

Donald too is an extremist. An extreme tosser. God bless America.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Sometimes you read a little snippet in the paper and it just makes you laugh. Well, it just makes me laugh. And today it totally cracked me up.

As England lost a meaningless friendly to Holland last night, talk again centred on Wayne Rooney. Should he be an ‘automatic’ starter or do we now have better players who do the job far more consistently than the floppable Man United granny-shagger?

Fierce debate (yawn). Then I read that Rooney’s son has asked his dad for an England shirt… with Jamie Vardy’s name on it. ‘Et tu, Kia’.

And whilst we’re fiercely debating stuff, let’s get back to Europe. I know, England are in Europe (skin’a’the’teeth, but we are at the moment) and Holland are definitely Europe, which we know because they cheat. But its all about the referendum. Cameron’s Folly.

I just read an article by Danny Finkelstein in the Times. And its the first decent, proper, useful article I’ve read in all the Euro-debate rubbish that’s been a constant in the press for the last 6 months. What he said was: ‘there is no answer’. Alternatively, there may be an answer, but it lies deeply buried in libraries full of European information that would take a team of researchers 14 years (I made that up for effect, but you get the idea) to sift through. And as well as there not being an answer, most people don’t have a clue what the fucking question is.

Its all speculation. Its all open to opinion. Balance of probabilities. Because we have no idea how Europe might respond to our leaving. They obviously won’t want us to stop buying BMW cars and Miele cookers and baguettes, but will it all become more expensive? We don’t know.

Ahhhh, but we’ll have control of our laws if we leave. Will we? That assumes that we don’t now. In various speeches, politicians stated what they thought was the effect of ‘Europe’ on ‘our’ laws. Nick Clegg (an ‘inny’) said 14%, Nigel Farage (doh) reckoned 75%. I think it safe to say that those numbers differ in a statistically signifiant way. And neither are worth the wear and tear on my keyboard to state them.

So God bless Danny Finkelstein. Now I know why they made him a Lord. Because he didn’t answer even one single question. But he made me feel better about not knowing. And as we’re already in, I now feel that I need to be convinced to leave. Otherwise I’m staying put. Unless Turkey get in, then I might reconsider.

Though dinner tonight at Izghara, the fab Turkish restaurant, might make me even re-think that.

Happy Wednesday, may your kebab be flowing and your goals uncontested.

A xxxx

Big storm round here yesterday. Katie. That’s what ‘she’ was called. They gave it a girl’s name because it was really fucking vicious and nasty and bitchy. Caused havoc. Stopped planes landing at Heathrow, brought the M25 to a close, blew over… stuff, stopped me playing tennis and blew the table over in the garden. Havoc. But when did they start naming the storms? We know Katarina, we’ve had Alex, Jane, all sorts. In the old days they were all called Gail.

But that storm’s over now. We’ll await Lara, Lexie, Louise or Lumpen. Its a beautiful morning in London and probably all over peaceful, loving, safe Europe. Whereas in Donald Trump’s America they’re in panic. Lock-down. High alert.

The irony (if ONLY Americans got it) is just so exquisite and as no-one got hurt badly we can really laugh. Trump tells Americans not to come to Europe. Its dangerous. Terrorists. The very next day some fucking loony bozo starts shooting in the Capitol building in Washington.

And a few little ‘facts’ for Donald. More people have died in America from random shootings than have died in Europe from terrorism. Its true. Heard it on the radio yesterday. Can’t remember all those numbers and I don’t care. You’re bothered, go look it up. And as a Repbublican (the party funded by the gun lobby) we know all the rest of his opinion on guns that he hasn’t screamed from the hustings already. How can you shoot all the Mexicans and Muslims if you don’t arm up??

Have you ever done ‘spin’? Its an exercise activity in which you sit on a pretend bike and… errr… spin. You pedal. To music. Loud, pounding music. Which is supposed to keep your pedalling in time. I did a class last night. With Mel, a frequent spinner. I was the only lycra-free person in the room. Perhaps that’s why I found it so horrible. But as I only have one tattoo and it reads: DEATH BEFORE LYCRA!!!! I would be a hypocrite to have worn a pair of testicle-squeezing shorts that I don’t possess.

“OK!!!!” roared Hilly, our leader, our guru, our coach, our lord and mistress, who, for the purposes of her class only speaks in capitals with lots of exclamation marks. “GET READY FOR THE RACE!!!!” but I’m already pedalling my kishkes out; I need to go faster? “TURN IT UPPPPP!!!!!” (that’s the resistance, she means, to make pedalling harder) “WE’RE RACING UP A HILL; IN 3… 2… 1… PEDAL LIKE SHIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!” And everyone dutifully stands on their pedals and goes fucking mental. The sweat pours, literally pours and I feel exhilarated, I feel free, I feel… I feel sick and want to die. At least that’s quick. Unlike spin which lasts 45 agonising minutes. But feels much, much longer.

At the end I realised I hadn’t died. Even though I’d been wishing for it for 44 minutes. And everyone’s great and happy and ‘woooow!!’. Its one of those activities that you do for how you feel afterwards. I like activities that I enjoy ‘during’. Retrospective pleasure motivated by guilt can only get you so far, how ever many calories you burn. I’ll stick to bridge.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I never knew Jesus. Not personally. Even though a few years ago by Lords Cricket Ground some… errr… person came up to me and said, with no pre-amble nor introduction: ‘JESUS DIED TO SAVE YOU!!!’. Then he walked away. The odd geezer, not Jesus. He wasn’t there. Not in body anyway.

But Jesus was just another errant Jew. Some take drugs, some run off to Thailand, some eat pulled pork burgers with kale and truffle fries, a few become bhuddists, Jesus just went off and turned the other cheek. And created a bit of a stir. A lasting legacy. He’s bigger than Donald Trump. Bigger than David Bowie. I know, hard to believe, but its true.

So although me and Jesus haven’t had a great deal to do with each other, I’m loving him right now. As I do every Easter when Monday arrives and instead of leaping out of bed stressing, I can merely roll over and wait for tea to arrive. I love him at Christmas too. More holidays. Shame He didn’t have the foresight (or foreskin, truth be told) to be born or crucified or reincarnated in about August time, then we’d have better weather for these bonus holidays. Can’t have it all. Jesus taught us that. Just before he saved me.

So when the world is an Islamic State, under sharia law, will they keep Easter? I think it would be decidedly anti-semitic to cancel it. What would they do with all the Easter Eggs?

Donald Trump has declared Britain ‘unsafe’ due to the recent terrorist atrocities in Paris and Belgium. He has warned fellow Americans to ‘avoid crowded places where you have no control who might be there’. So that keeps you to your sitting-room then.

But its a fair warning. Because its a dangerous world and Europe, sadly (whether we stay in or leave the Union, its still a matter of geography) is danger-central.

And I find a curious irony that the land of the free, ‘home of the brave’, can be somewhat less than courageous when it really hits the fan. We all remember, post 9/11, post 7/7, that American tourism dropped more than that of any other nation. I’m not suggesting that anyone should endanger themselves, ever. But what I do know is that if you change your lifestyle significantly then the terrorists win. That’s what they want. A world cowered by fear. No-one going to football matches, concerts, people avoiding the Tube and shopping centres, forsaking airports, not sitting in the sun outside cafes.

So, Mr Bigmouth, Mr Big, Brave, “I’ll PUNCH HIM IN THE FACE!!!!”, Mr Meaningless Soundbyte Trump, I’m sure Jesus loves you. But I don’t. I think you’re a tosser. Who really understands nothing.

Happy Easter Monday

A xxxx

Easter is magical. Always has been. Four days off work. Free. Not missing nuffink. And its lovely. Relaxing.

Couldn’t play tennis yesterday due to rainage. Then Mel & I went for our ‘walk’, got half way up the road and it started raining again. Turned round, came home, turned on the tv. Well, I did, ‘she’ went to sleep.

And there was no sport. Worth watching. Not a thing. Rugby league from Tasmania. Darts from Kiev. Wrestling from Ethiopia. So I flicked. And I flicked. And I came across a channel showing ‘Supergirl’. Oh. I love a superhero. Even when its a gel. Batman. Superman. Iron Man. They’re all ‘men’. Or man/machine/alien hybrid type things. So Supergirl. And its a really unusual and unique story…

Her planet, Krypton, was exploding, so her parents devotedly put her in a pod thing, to save her, and sent her to planet Earth where a lovely family adopted her as ‘one’a their own’ and brought her up as a normal little middle American miss. Other than her ability to pick up an entire train, lorry, house or airplane. And she became a journalist, hiding her secret behind a pair of silly glasses.

So nothing like cousin Clark Kent then. No, nothing like that at all. Totally different from Superman, other than a slight similarity in their names. But cousins can have similar names, can’t they? Even if the name is ‘Super’.

Supergirl’s brilliant. She fights baddies. And wins. (see: super-powers, above). And she has friends, some of whom know of her ‘alter-ego’ and some who don’t. And a bitchy boss, wonderfully played by the still delicious Calista Flockhart, even though she’s had some work done and some of her face no longer functions to the full Ally McBeal extent.

And when it finished there was another. Then another. Then another…

It was Supergirl day on Sky Whatever. So I fell asleep too. There’s only so many baddies you can watch get their comeuppance. Even when the superhero is wearing a very short skirt.

Then more baddies; the Germans. Playing football against Spurs. Sorry, against England. Watched about 10 minutes of that then fell asleep again. Then woke up as we had people coming for dinner. The Germans went 2-0 up, then Spurs came back. First Harry Kane, then someone else, then the winner, in injury time, by Eric Dier. Man of the Match: Deli Alli. Danny Rose played a blinder. Made me proud.

I love international friendlies.

Happy hypocritical Sunday

A xxxx

I normally hate ‘international breaks’ in the football. Especially for friendlies. Mainly because I’ve lost heart with ‘England’ football, much as I’m madly in love with ‘England’ rugby. Odd, eh? Or not, that’s what it is.

This international break is a good one though, because I’m relaxed about the league. Spurs are second. They’re nicely poised, let them rest. Its a very unusual position for Spurs fans.

But they’re not resting. Four of my boys are starting for England tonight. Doesn’t mean they’ll finish tonight because its a friendly so players are changed with the speed of changing lanes on the motorway. Which is why friendlies are so useless and uninformative.

My ‘relaxation’ is only bothered by the injury worry. Four of our players are going out there against a bunch of bloody Germans who have a point to prove. I have no idea what that point is but its just the way they play. Maybe they’re making a statement against Angela Merkel, maybe its their stance on the migrant crisis, but they’ll be making some point or other; its what Germans do. They used to invade nations, now they make points.

And if Harry, or Deli, or Danny or Eric (the half-German) get injured, I’ll fucking hate England even more. That’s it, I’ve made MY point. Look after my boys; send them back safely.

Easter’s here. You can tell. They had a bunch of Jesus look-a-likes being crucified in Trafalgar Square yesterday. And that only happens at Easter. Also its raining. That’s a very Easter thing too. But yesterday, although it was very Easter (Good Friday, in fact; the day Jesus went to Trafalgar Square… errrr… with Lord Nelson, and… errrrr… did something very good and Christian) it didn’t feel like it. It felt like summer. Wonderful, warm, sunny, gorgeous day.

Mel & I went to Waitrose. She had a shopping list; I had a mission. We split up at the door. She in search of broccoli and sweet potatoes and milk and… whereas I got stuck at the Easter Eggs. Right by the door. To tempt the children (however old). And tempted I was.

“HOLY SHIT!!!!” I thought. Because it was a holy day and the almost last chance to buy Easter Eggs. That most unique form of chocolate that really tastes like no other. And is only available til… MONDAY!!!! “HOLY SHIT!!!!” I thought once more. For effect. And then spent so long agonising whether to buy 3 big ones (special offer, 3 f’ra tenner) or 10 little ones (a quid each), that by the time I’d made up my mind, Mel had filled her trolley with everything a family needs for a month.

But shopping is about quality, not quantity, and who enjoyed the experience more? That’s what I wanna know.

Happy Easter

A xxxx