Andy's Glasses

At this time of the tournament (errr, that’ll be the rugby world cup then) it is customary for us pundits and analysts and those of us who understand the game fully in all its political, socio-economic and global contexts, to say whose gonna win, whose been the best teams/players so far, the chances of progressing past next weekend’s quarter finals. Just eight teams left, not one of them English, but four from Europe and four from the Southern Hemisphere. A place that barely exists in any other context than rugby. We don’t divide the world normally into convenient halves. Or inconvenient halves really as those Southerners punch well above their weight. We shall (try to) suspend normal partisan views and national stereotyping for the purposes of this impartial assessment. Right.

Argentina. A great footballing nation, but rugby? They’re ‘avin’ the proverbial larf. Their nation’s only qualification for playing the game is their desire to handle any ball in any game. Rugby was invented in South America when Maradona was playing football and decided that handling the ball could at times be beneficial. Chances for progress to semis? Less than zero. Although they are playing against…

Ireland. Or, what’s left of the Irish after Sunday’s blood-bath against the French. Jonny Sexton, gone, Paul O’Connell, gone. That leaves a big gap. Though they were amazing against the French and should get past Argentina, even though they only have 7 fit players left and 3 more who’ll play on crutches.

Scotland. Its very unusual to see the Scots in the latter stages of any competition, sporting or otherwise. But they’re through. Unfortunately for them they have to play Australia. And much as it would doubtless please Andy Murray and Nicola Sturgeon greatly to see a victory, ain’ gonna happen.

Australia are too strong. Too good. They even beat England. And although they’re probably good enough to win the tournament, you really have to hope that they don’t. They lack the decorum and constraint to win nicely. The second favourites to win. Or the favourites to be runners up. Either way.

France. They buckled under the Irish on the weekend, didn’t look good at all. But they are French, so you can’t just write them off as a bunch of mistress-shagging, garlic-eating surrender-monkeys. Not at rugby. Mistresses aren’t allowed on the pitch. We hope they lose. We always hope they lose. Plus ca change.

South Africa had the worst start imaginable to their World Cup. They lost to Japan in their first match. Can you call Japan ‘underdogs’? Is that a culinary reference? Anyway, biggest upset of the tournament which engaged several nations of non-rugby types. Sadly it actually spurred the Springboks to greater places. So Bismark du Koetze and Droos du Broos and Schalk Falk, Less Is du Plessis and Coenie Oosthuizen get to advance to the semis, in all likelihood. And Bryan Habana.

Wales. They’re predominantly Welsh, unlike the other teams who are predominantly Kiwis and South Africans but rearrange nationality to suit any occasion. And Wales beat England. In case you missed that. They ganged up with Australia and… and… its all over. But the Welsh were banged up and missing players before it started and now they’ve lost more. Do they have sufficient quality left to beat the Boks? Very doubtful. Which is a shame.

And then there’s New Zealand. The All Blacks. People say they haven’t been tested, that they’ve looked clumsy, blah, blah, blah. But when they have to they’re like no other team on the planet.

Makes me proud to be a Kiwi.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I just turned on the tv to see what rugby was playing, decided against the Argentina vs Namibia game on the grounds that I really don’t give a shit and was about to turn off when just a quick channel flick showed me that the Russian Grand Prix was about to start. And I can honestly say that other than on the news, I’ve never seen a Grand Prix start. And what happened was; a load of cars lined up and then the traffic light changed and they all went off. Which is different from street driving because when the light changes there the tosser at the front is inevitably sending a text message so needs hooting before he realises that he has an obligation to FUCKING MOVE OFF.

Nico Rosberg wasn’t sending a text. Its very hard in those gloves, so he moved off quite smartly. But they kind’a look really slow. Like they’re bluffing and don’t want to drive away too fast in case someone thinks they’re cheating. They don’t exactly burn rubber, which is what I’d do. Which, in turn, is probably why they didn’t ask me to race.

On the second corner there was a minor collision. But of course when your car is made of something like paper (ok, maybe Aluminium, but its not very strong) even a minor collision has a major consequence. Bits fall off. Tyres burst. The safety car came on, you can tell because its actually a real car, not an engine on wheels with wings attached like all the others. And by the time the safety car went off, they’d swept the track, all was well again, I was pretty much hooked on watching little red and black cars drive round and round and round and round…

Power down the tv. Its the only way. The Grand Prix is hypnotic. You actually start to care about the 2 hundreths of a second gap between the Ferrari and the Red Bull. And I really don’t need another ‘thing’ to watch on tv. I have football. I have the rugby, I have Wimbledon. I don’t need something that calls itself a sport but doesn’t really have the necessary requirement in my mind to fulfil that claim.

Where’s the ball? Sweating just because you’re encased head to toe in a fire-retardant suit is not the same as sweating because you’ve just run 25 yards with a rugby ball under your arm and three 19 stone forwards hanging off your neck. Otherwise sun-bathing could be called a sport.

Is darts a sport? Its competitive but no-one does any running. Or rowing. Swimming. Movement. In fact darts players in the most part are incapable of movement beyond an outstretched arm. Throw a dart, reel in a pint. Game over.

The rugby yesterday between Wales and Australia was definitely a sport. Of the purest kind. Mano-a-mano stuff where most of the manos ended up at best bruised and bleeding, at worst limping off to hospital. But it was incredible. Simply incredible.

So even though England are no more (beating Uruguay 60-3 really proved nothing) I’m ready for more rugby. Grand Prix? I don’t think so.

Happy Sunday, be careful what you watch.

A xxxx

Today is Wales day. Its official. Not St David’s day. Nor Welsh Independence Day, mainly because they’re not, never have been and never will be able to afford to be independent. But its just plain Wales Day.

So first there’s the rugby, Wales playing Australia. The teams who between them ruined the hopes and aspirations of my entire nation, play each other to see who qualifies higher than the other. Ok, its a bit meaningless, but sport is only ever minimally about the consequences, its always about the win. So it should be a great game. Which comes, fortunately, at my newly created afternoon nap time. Its my own bi-athlon. Rugby (watching) and sleeping. Only for the super-fit.

And if that’s not quite sufficient Welshness for one day, Wales play Bosnia at football a couple of hours later. How all those fans will make it from Twickenham to somewhere in Bosnia in 12 minutes is beyond me. But they’ll have to because there aren’t that many people in Wales, certainly insufficient to fill two stadia at the same time. There again, not my problem. I’m hardly Welsh.

A little bit, because Mel’s grandmother was Welsh and my (very) old bridge teacher was Welsh too.

But I’m sufficiently Welsh, for footballing purposes, to be thrilled if (surely its just ‘when’) they qualify for the European football championships next year. Just one point from the remaining two games will see Wales in a major international tournament for the first time since 1958. That’s over a hundred years ago. In ‘real terms’. All the Ryan Giggs years, wasted. All those Craig Bellamys and John Toshacks and Clive bleedin’ Colemans, all for nothing. Up steps Gareth Bale and drags that sorry bloody nation screaming into the finals. The debt of gratitude owed by the nation of Wales to Tottenham is quite honestly immeasurable.

England qualified too. In fact ages ago. And the fact we’ve won 9 out of 9 will only serve to heighten the inevitable upset and frustration when we lose in the quarter-finals, on penalties, to Luxembourg, or Monaco or Vatican State.

Happy Sports Day. Say that in Welsh.

A xxxx

Cocaine was introduced to Europe by Sigmund Freud. Not a lot’a people know that. But old Siggy, psychoanalyst and collector of old Vienna, on his travels was given a coca plant somewhere in South America, and told that by making ‘tea’ with its leaves, it would give him a cure for fatigue to enable him to work longer. And guess what? It worked. Freud would be buzzing round all night working on his books and theories. Which is what coke-heads did until Studio 54 was built about 80 years later.

But Freud also noted (ever the scientist and genius) that when he so imbibed, his tongue would get a bit numb. And rather than just ignoring the phenomenon, he took it to his mates at the hospital and pretty much ‘invented’ the local anaesthetic. In fact his first mate was an ophthalmologist, an eye doctor and previously, all eye surgery was carried out sans anaesthetic. Eeeeuuuwwww. Good old Freud.

Cocaine then became THE anaesthetic for dentistry too. Novacaine. Was used for years to numb teeth, where previously there was only half a bottle of Burbon or a thump on the head with a stout pole.

Like so many things, cocaine was a wonder product. It was natural, cheap and had fabulous benefits. And at the time it had no ‘baggage’. Warlords didn’t murder over it. Half of America wasn’t addicted to it. Nasal passages were still intact worldwide.

And it was the drug that put the ‘coca’ into cola. Small amounts of a wonderful product that gave you energy and vitality and the feeling of power. Mix that with half a pound of sugar and you have a win-win product. The real thing. Unfortunately it was, for reasons we know now but obviously didn’t back then, somewhat addictive in large quantities. So after several such instances, they replaced the coke with caffeine, left all the sugar and the rest is history.

Unfortunately, not a great history. Because sugar is the real killer. And if its not killing you its giving you diabetes. Or making you, and half the world, obese.

So its not really much of a surprise really that Coca-Cola sponsored ‘research’ into the benefits of fizzy drinks. Under the guise of ‘independent’ enquiries and experiments, at the European Hydration Institute and many other places. And the EHI was fully funded, as a ‘non-profit organisation’ by Coke. All these findings, from universities, from hospitals, from the EHI, all skewed to put soft, fizzy drinks in a favourable light.

Which is why I never believe statistics. Because I always want to know who’s paid for them.

Coca Cola; its the Real Killer. And I’ll still drink it. Just not as much.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Daphne Self (who???) was a model. About 70 years ago. She then came out of retirement at 70 to model some old things. Shrouds. Widow-wear. I don’t know. But she’s a lovely woman, now 87 and I think has a future, even now, playing Dracula’s grandma in the next Bram Stoker offering.

But Daphne has been fiercely critical of today’s models. That they lack ‘poise and decorum’ and, basically, that they pout around, unsmilingly, like some bunch of drug-addicted, chain-smoking anorexic sluts all too eager to fondle and lick each other in public.

Can’t argue with that.

Daphne’s memories of modelling in the 50s were of smiling, of having thighs that actually met in the middle, with barely a tattoo in sight and ne’er a contact between tongues in the obligatory faux-lesbian pose. They projected happy, demure and probably submissive. In a way that all women were pretty submissive back ‘in the day’.

And there’s where poor old Daph has it a bit wrong. She’s trying to take social and cultural context out of modelling.

Models are fantasy figures for both sexes. Women want to look like them and men just want them. Preferably all of them. Together. And that’s fine. Job done. But the role of women has changed over the 50 year hiatus of Daphne’s career. Feminism arrived. Equality flourished, ‘laddsim’ affected women in both good and bad ways. And most importantly, women became empowered to the extent that they’re allowed to have their own fun. With or without men. They no longer have to ask permission to go out. Unless they’re in Saudi Arabia. They can get drunk, and should be encouraged to do so at every opportunity. They are free.

Daphne’s memories (and the ‘old days’ are always ‘better’ because we only remember the good bits, particularly when you get to 87 and the old memory starts to… err… what was I saying?) are of a different time of society. When women stayed at home all day just so they could look beautiful when their husbands returned from work, greeting him with a whisky, pipe and slippers.

Cara wouldn’t do that. She’d either be out being hipsterish or she’d be licking his sister’s armpits. Times change. Models reflect. The young women of Daphne’s day wanted nothing more than to please their husbands. Today they want to please themselves.

So yes, keep modelling smutty.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Yet more cries from Barak Obama and at least 4 other Americans for some kind of gun control following last week’s latest shoot-em-up tragedy at a college in Oregon. The problem really is with the other 350 million people there who either work for arms companies, represent them in the gun lobby, or just want to have loads of guns at home.

We don’t have guns here. Too dangerous. Illegal. Instead we have cars.

Natalie Pyne was involved in a contretemps with a cyclist who, allegedly, she’d cut up in her immense and stupid 4×4 monster vehicle. Fair enough. Cyclist got pissed off with yet another incident and kicked out at the car. They argued, then returned to their modes of transport and went off. Well, he did. She did something different. Armed with her Audi Q7 (a fancy lorry for yummy mummies) and with four kids in the back, she mounted the pavement and drove at the cyclist. As ya do. Then, once he’d rolled over the front of her car, she ploughed on into, and through, a shop window. That showed him.

So; much as its in our constitution that everyone has the right to bear vehicles, I think stricter controls are needed. Its ok to use a vehicle in self-defense, if your home or family are threatened, but go out on an all-out psychopathic attack?

And a Range Rover is just a fashion statement. Like having a pink, bejewelled Kalashnikov. Just because it looks nice doesn’t mean you can or should be allowed to control one. Same for a Q7, but bigger.

Things are never inherently dangerous. But people are. Very much so. We need to ask more questions before allowing women to drive such vehicles. Psychological testing perhaps.

Meanwhile, at the Conservative Party Conference, they’re all making their rather early claims on the leadership, when David Cameron steps down in 2020, either in Alex Ferguson mode or in Stuart Lancaster mode; we await the final judgment.

So up stepped Theresa May; feisty and tough. “I’m a woman” her body language (and heels) proclaim, “but don’t mess with me”. A Maggie Thatcher in waiting, but without the twin-sets.

Personally (not that I give a shit who runs that rabble) Boris Johnson, our esteemed mayor, is the leader the country should have. Just because he’s funny and clever and blond. We haven’t had such a leader since Churchill. And he wasn’t even blond.

And then there’s the Conservatives’ favourite, George Osborne. The wettest, weakest, limpest man this nation has ever produced. The missing link between humanoid and plant. With all the gravitas and statesmanship of Wayne Rooney.

No, I’m afraid its Boris or burn. Where’s the matches?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

That’s the job of a striker. He shoots; he scores. Job done. Go home happy. But generally what happens is, he shoots; he misses by a mile. He shoots; he hits a player’s leg. He shoots; he falls over the ball.

How hard can it be? Ball; goal; join the dots. Sergio Aguero can do it; why can’t everyone else?

Because scoring goals is hard. Not the physical act itself, but getting into the position when its even possible to consider scoring. Mainly because there’s 11 people on the other side trying precisely to stop that from happening. One of whom is even allowed to use his hands. Or 4 of whom if you’re playing Chelsea.

And lack of goals leads to losses. And losses lead to unhappy league positions. And that in turn leads to sacking. You don’t sack your strikers when you’re failing to score and win. You sack your manager.

Two such events happened yesterday. Dick Advocaat was sacked by Sunderland, currently second from bottom only on goal difference. If Aguero had only scored 3 on Saturday instead of 5 then Sunderland would be bottom now. More importantly, they are shit. Just rubbish. Couldn’t hit a barn door from 3 yards. Even though they scored twice against the Hammers before letting them score 2 back. Sunderland don’t have another manager in line. Though I’m sure Europe’s finest are forming a long line right now outside the Stadium of Light for the honour of dragging those virtual no-hopers back from death by relegation.

So how long can Steve Mclaren last at Newcastle? The team currently right at the bottom of the heap. In every sense of the phrase. And Newcastle are in many ways unlike Sunderland. Firstly they have money. Well, their owner has money, whether he chooses to spend it or not is another matter. And Newcastle have a ‘big-club mentality’ which Sunderland lack. A bit like Spurs. They just decide that they’re a ‘big club’ and with no evidence to back this up, they think success is some kind of rite.

A bit like Liverpool. Which is why they sacked Brendan Rogers yesterday just after the draw with Everton. Liverpool are a big club. They have a massive world-wide following, which goes back to their amazing glory days in the 70s. So the new generation of Scouse reds only have their parents’ word for it and some old black’n’white footage that their team was, at one time, probably ‘the biggest’ in the world. And so expectations are high. Whether they’re realistic or not. So Rogers had to go. Even though he’s lost 5 of his best players in his 2 years who haven’t really been replaced. Though how you replace the likes of Suarez and Gerrard is beyond me.

Worst of all; there was not one born Liverpudlian in the Liverpool team yesterday. And for some reason that bothers me. Though it needn’t bother Brendan Rogers any longer.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Rugby is a tough, brutal, violent game that very occasionally degenerates into bursts of wonderful athleticism. It moves from ‘tractor’ to ‘Ferrari’ in an instant. The second Australia try last night was just such a moment. A sudden surge of speed, power, perception, ability and the combination of two players at the very apex of human sporting possibility. Unfortunately, as mentioned, they were (fuckin’) Aussies. But that try kind’a summed up the game. England were a good team. Australia were a great team. That’s it. And in rugby, unlike many sports, the best team will generally win, unless they happen to be Japan. But only because no-one’s told Japan that they’re not a great team.

So I’m still excited about all the rugby still to come. But just not quite as excited as I would have been. C’est la vie.

Meanwhile, over in football-land, there’s everything to play for (whatever the fuck that means). As if there are times when such a phrase has meaning; perhaps when Newcastle conceded the 6th goal against Man City yesterday. At which point there is very little to play for indeed. Even such concepts as ‘pride’ as ‘saving face’ are blown out the door by the feet of Sergio Aguero. Think how many he’d have scored if he’d been fit.

So as City bounce back from their Spurs (ok, and West Ham, if you must) induced malaise in rather spectacular fashion, its safe to say that Chelsea didn’t bounce anywhere from theirs. They lost again. At home, again. Conceded 3 goals. 8 points from 8 games. I could reel off statistics all day, and in fact I probably will, just for the sheer pleasure it gives me, but you might get bored. Suffice to say: Chelsea are in trouble. They could sack Morinho, who becomes more hateful with every loss, but as he says: he’s the best manager in the world, who would replace him? Vain, arrogant little shit.

Apparently it was the referee’s fault. The ref’s association are in a conspiracy against Chelsea. Its a fact. Apparently. They won’t award the blues a penalty, however spectacularly their players hurl themselves to the ground in the penalty area at every opportunity.

I hate a bad loser. And Morinho takes the concept of bad loser (as exemplified rather nicely by Arsene Wenger) and elevates it to new levels of tosserdom. The blame game. Refs. Physios. John Terry.

Chelsea are falling apart. There is a God.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We all have nuclear buttons. We have one at home, just next to the freezer. If I go for ice for my (6th) whiskey and miss, Leningrad gets fucking nuked.

And that’s the problem. Or one of them. There are two thousand six hundred and ninety-four problems that I’ve counted so far in the whole ‘nuclear thing’. And that’s just the purely practical, once we get onto moral issues… oyyyyy!!! The first problem being that once my missile has left my garden silo en route for Putinland, his satellites will pick it up within seconds. “Comrrrrade; ve haf ballistic launch in North-vest London; heading east. Vot do I do?” The answer would come within 3 seconds. “Send vun back. The button over there, big red one with NUCLEAR ARMAGEDDON!!!!!! written on it… no, that’s the microvave, the one next to it”.

So nuclear weapons are always used ‘defensively’ in a reactionary way. You fire, I fire. Two cities to be laid waste for the next 2000 years, millions dead, any survivors and all those within a thousand mile radius later giving birth to monsters forevermore. Not just Dynamo Kiev fans, but proper monsters.

The first missile, ice machines aside, is only likely to be fired in pre-emptive defense. I thought they were going to fire, so I got in first. But basically they are not ‘defensive’ in that they protect you, they are just for revenge. We’re all gonna die; let’s kill them too. Missiles can be blown up in the sky… but you can’t guarantee that. So if they’ve fired first, I’m gonna get even. Then they get even even, and we get threeven (??) Its the way it would work. Hypothetical because thank the Lord, its never been done. America nuked Hiroshima but it was like ‘the original sin’ and Japan had no reply. Except tears. For the next several generations. There’s never been an ‘exchange’.

Which is why its all a bit of a farce. Because no-one ever wants to deploy nuclear weaponry. Ever, ever. Not even the Putins, the Kim Jong-Uns, the Ayatollas. Because to use them means you’ll get one back. And hitting the button is condemning millions of your own people to die. If I was going to nuke Moscow, Washington, Pakistan, I might as well just instead bomb London. Because the effect would be the same.

The threat is everything. I won’t nuke those places because of the inevitable repercussion. Which is death to most people I know and the City I love. But I keep my hand by that button as a warning. Which says, loud and clear, that ‘if you bomb me I WILL FUCKING BOMB YOU BACK’. Even if I don’t mean it.

So you can know that you would never push that button. But you should never, ever let people know.

And this is what Jeremy Corbyn, for all his pacifism and moralistic bollox, fails to see. No-one will ever fire a nuclear weapon. Because the threat of getting one back is unthinkable. Unless, you can fire at some country where the leader has stated he would NEVER push the button. Then the bluff is off. It actually makes us a target.

Even if you’re a smug, obnoxious tosser.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This is what Fleet Street looked like on Wednesday night. Every taxi in the world was parked there. Two lanes each way, from Blackfriars to Aldwych and up Chancery Lane and anywhere else they could block. You can never find a taxi when you need one, but when you don’t, 2,000 of them land on your doorstep. I decided when I took the photo not to include a grinning, pouting, ultra-cool ME in the foreground. On the basis that ‘selfies are for TOSSERS’.

It was an(other) anti-Uber demo by the Hackney Carriages. And they’ve got a point. In fact they have loads of points, as the driver I spoke to went to great lengths to explain to me in a ‘brief’, 40-minute lecture in answer to my question: ‘this about Uber then?’

All points are valid. 600 new Uber drivers register every week. They get paid terribly because they offer cut-price fares and then lose most of it to Uber. They come down from every provincial town and city to work in London and sleep in their cars in streets where they shouldn’t be. Getting too little rest and driving under the influence of tiredness. Taxis can’t cut their prices, they’re set by Transport for London. Taxis cost 40 grand; a second hand Prius costs about 8. Half the Ubers aren’t properly insured. And so on and so on…

Unfortunately, particularly with the under-30s who have no instinctual ‘love’ of a proper, black, Hackney Carriage, price and availability conquer all. And apps. Do you spend £25 on a plain white t-shirt that’s made in ethical workshops out of recycled cotton from sustainable, replanted lands where all the workers are on first name terms and sing hymns before work? Or do you hit the Primark app and get one for £1.50 that’s made from recycled asbestos in Sri Lankan sweatshops where the workers earn a can of coke for a 60 hour week during which they’re regularly beaten with long poles? They look the same.

However, there are more important things than taxis and t-shirts. There’s rugby. There’s Australia. Tomorrow night. Biggest game in the entire history of big games. Make that BIG GAMES!!!! England need to win or they’re out. Gone. Finished. Exiled from their own World Cup. Even if they win its not certain they’ll qualify but quite likely.

Heroes or zeros. One night. Australia in the way. I love a world cup.

Happy Friday

A xxxx