Andy's Glasses

Coming out of the station on my bike last night on the way home I nearly had a crash. A car was pulling out of a driveway and decided not to look in my direction. Where, if he had he may have noticed lots of flashing lights and hi-viz jackets and all the shit cyclists carry just so we’re not ignored. Maybe he did look and thought I was a Christmas tree. At the last moment, whilst he was moving anyway, he did glance in my direction, but chose to ignore me and carry on his journey. What is known, in cycling terminology, as a ‘motherfucker’.

Though the car concerned, amazingly today still not horribly dented with a bike imprint in the door, was a Tesla. One of the new, bigger ones. In fact its an amazing car. Great big four door sleek saloon, like a big Maserati, but without an engine. Ok, it uses battery power, because its a Tesla, but it silently sped up the road in a puff of… nothing. It doesn’t puff, nor pant, nor even steam, vape or anything. It just goes. As if by magic.

Amazing how one’s perception changes so quickly. As I thought: “what a total c… carrrrr”.

The man behind Tesla is Elon Musk. The cartoonishly named paypal inventor and all round clever person. And he’s built a rocket. A space rocket. As you do if you’re a billionaire, very bright and into inventing things. He’s also into renewable, recyclable, save-the-planet ideology. For which we may forgive him.

When a rocket goes into space its finished. Last week the one that took Tim Peake to the space station did its job of taking the passenger bit into space against the massive force of gravity, then, job done, it breaks away and falls back to Earth to drown in the sea. The carrier bit goes on and docks and will come back again. It can do that using gravity. But the rocket bit; done, finished, wasted. Its like every time you pop round to Sainsburys you take the car seat with you and dump the rest of the vehicle. Buy a new one for the journey home.

Until yesterday. When Elon Musk’s rocket, ‘Falcon 9’, took its passenger module into space and then landed back on land, safely, upright and fully intact to be used again. I’m gonna guess that the cost of a space rocket power unit is a bit more than even the new, big Tesla. Considerably more. So to re-use it is quite brilliant. What they’re calling a game-changer for the possibility of space tourism. The EasyJet of the upper stratosphere. Or he could put it on ebay and sell it. ‘Nah, mate, them’s just scratches; polish right out with a bit’a t-cut’.

Off to Jamaica in the morning. So happy Christmas to you.

A xxxx

Yet still they sodding win.

I was riveted to the match on tv last night. Riveted. So enthralled by the first half of the first half that I went out. Had some pre-Christmas stuff to attend to. Not shopping. Never shopping. Mel had in fact gone to Brent Cross (now open til 11pm!!! oh joy) but its too near Christmas for me to consider that place. As is March, June, October or any day with a ‘y’ at the end. I hate Brent Cross.

And I hate Arsenal. Not so much the team, there’s much there to be admired there, but the fans, the smugness of whom grows exponentially with each three points gained.

Theo Walcott scored a goal. A great goal. The man on the radio told me when I was driving home. But other than that the game was dull. Boring. The ‘two best teams in the country; other than Leicester City’ and they can’t provide entertainment to the masses. Couldn’t live up to the hype of the match. Which then degenerated into a dive-fest.

Arsenal’s players are all small and fragile and delicate, so do tend to get knocked about a bit. Not as much as they should be, but the laws of the game prevent common assault, however worthy. But City have some big guys. Some muscle. Yet were even more guilty of going to ground at a puff of wind that the Arsenal divas. It appeared that in the absence of a viable game plan, Pelligrini had instead told his team to dive at every opportunity. When you get inside the box, don’t waste time taking a shot, just hit the ground. A tactic which reached epidemic proportions when Raheem Sterling came on. They should have just rolled him on along the ground, for all the time he spent down there. He’s fast becoming the new Ashley Young. Loads of talent but prefers to cheat.

The game did come to life a bit in the second half. Man City eventually realised that at 2-0 down they would have to get off the floor and play some football if they wanted any points. Even Yaya Toure woke up temporarily from his semi-permanent state of slumber. As the whole City team seemed to exude a collective: “FUCK!!! Is that really the time??” Bit late though, despite Yaya’s wonderful goal.

Pelligrini’s gone. Simply can’t survive sending out the world’s most expensive players to produce very little week after week. He’ll join Louis Van Gaal on the Euro-manager scrap-heap, headed up by Morinho. And all three teams can fight over Pep Guardiola.

And look at the league table. Its Christmas and Leicester are top. Spurs are forth, which is a glorious thing indeed that Jesus would be proud of. And then Crystal Palace? Watford?? All doing well. Chelsea still in 15th place; long may that last, and Villa are gone. I wonder if Bournemouth can qualify for Europe?

All to play for.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I love it when newspapers find something, for which there’s no conclusive evidence, and decide to let you know what’s probably going on. But in the absence of much in the way of fact (which never got in the way of any good story), they just paint it out for you, IN BIG LETTERS, and hope you get the point. F’rinstance…

Shaun Woodward, ‘the turncoat former MP’, has split from his wife of 28 years. She’s a Sainsbury’s heiress but it never bothered Shaun, selfless man that he was, slumming it in a £24million pile in the countryside. And he’s a ‘turncoat’; someone who changes sides. Let’s just leave that out there. He was a Labour MP who changed to the Conservatives.

And in a sentence that managed to avoid the Subtlety Department altogether, having established that Mr Woodward’s loyalties can shift 180 degrees, they introduce, in one swift sentence: ‘… has formed a close friendship with Luke Redgrave, the grandson of the late, bisexual theatre luminary.’

Ohhhhhh, I geddit; he changes sides easily and left his heterosexual wife to befriend a man whose grandfather was ‘bisexual’ (read: ‘POOF’), so he’s changed teams again. Ohhhhhhh…

So here’s someone we can really hate. He’s stinking rich, changed political parties, abandoned his wife for a gay lover and yet hasn’t ‘come out’ yet.

Should we arm more of our police? This is the BIG question causing ructions at the moment. We need more guns (like a fish needs more bicycles, some may say) because of the high terrorism risk. And if we ended up with a Black Friday night scenario (heaven forbid) like Paris, we’d be delayed by the keystone cops rushing round, banging into each other looking for guns. No point facing up to Jihadis carrying Kalashnikovs armed only with a truncheon, a can of mace and moral superiority. We remain just about the only country in the world who don’t routinely arm police. But we have ‘firearms units’ to be deployed in such circumstances.

Yet whenever they shoot anyone they get arrested and/or face a public inquiry. Which makes their jobs rather trickier than they already are. If you arm police you are forcing them to make split-second judgments that can (and often do) result in death. You have to just (just??) work out who can make such judgments with the highest degree of success. Which can never be 100% And if they make a mistake… its ‘welcome to America’.

And just a quick message for all those fat people in the gym, fooled by the ‘fat and fit’ motto that Nigella and Jack Black have been tattooing all over their immense bodies. Go out of the gym, you’re wasting valuable time that should instead be spent dieting. Or working out in the gym. (?) But to lose weight, NOT to get fit. Because tests have shown that overweight fit people still die 30% sooner than thinner people and at the same rate as overweight unfit people. Alternatively just say ‘fuck it’ and eat another doughnut with the money saved by cancelling the gym membership.

Happy Monday. Liverpool fans: despair… NOW.

A xxxx

What a great day’s football yesterday. Just great. Almost perfect. If Chelsea had lost (again) it would have been ‘the dream’, but it remains just merely wonderful because they didn’t. They failed to lose for only the 2nd time in 19 weeks. Or 5th time in 14 weeks, it doesn’t really matter. Because they won.

Well, they won one battle, the easy one against Sunderland. What they didn’t win was their own fans. They possibly didn’t win over all their own players. Because that club is still in disarray. The Morinho effect was horrible and obviously very divisive but now he’s gone those divisions are wounds which can’t heal immediately. If this was any other club I’d stretch the metaphor a bit wider and invoke images of nursing back to health, nurturing and caring, blah, blah, blah. But its Chelsea. So it becomes about gangrene, amputations, lots of pain and possibly mercy killing.

For many years I’ve been perplexed about what exactly is any one specific football club? Its not the ground, that’s just a focal point, which can move anyway. Its not the players or managers, as they come and go every few months. And owners change hands every time an oligarch gets bored and a corresponding oil sheikh is looking for an offshore tax loss.

Fans. That what a club is. That is all any club is on any permanent basis. Yet no owner, manager or half the players, treats us with anything but contempt when things aren’t going well. Its a peculiarly one-sided, unrequited love affair. Its all about the giving. Football fans should therefore make the best husbands, wives and lovers, by extension of that caring, loving giving. Jury’s out on that one.

And the fans at Chelsea are pissed off. They loved Morinho, even though he’d gone way off the rails. And their venom is now focussed on Hazard, Costa and Fabregas. Whom they see as the reason for all the recent instability and shit.

Fans are the club. Yet get no vote, no means to appeal or suggest, no thanks. (Unless you count a cursory, dutiful ‘clap’ at the end of each match). But they do have a voice. A massive, collective voice in which to shout and sing their displeasure. And much as I normally like Chelsea fans like I like dysentery, I’m glad they’ve made a stand and told their (horrible) club that they are acting in an unacceptable manner.

Spurs won, fourth place, its the dream; LET THE SEASON END NOOOOOWWWWWW!!!!!!

Bournemouth win again, which is brilliant.

Leicester win and stay top. Remarkably, unbelievably, wonderfully.

And Manchester United lost at home to Norwich. Pinch me.

We just need Arsenal and Man City to draw tomorrow (or get swallowed up in a vast hole that opens up in the Emirates that drops to the core of the planet) and it will be a very happy Christmas all round.

Happy Days

A xxxx

What do you call a Britton going up in a space rocket? You call him Tim Peake, and today he’s going up to the International Space Station for a 6-month sentence onboard. The first Brit to visit that station in its 15 year tenure ‘up there’ whizzing round the Earth at the impossible speed of 175,000 miles an hour. Fortunately there’s no speed cameras up there. In fact there’s no nothing up there, other than the space station and the view. A few microwaves (the particles, not the ovens; they could be seriously dangerous). Otherwise a total void of emptiness and nothingness. Like Croydon on a Sunday night.Or the Emirates during a match.

And Tim is going up there to experience zero gravity. Though there is gravity, just not as much as at home. And thank the lord for that, cos if there wasn’t gravity then the spaceship wouldn’t be orbiting the planet, but just heading off to Jupiter. Or the sun. But its sufficiently low up there that everything kind’a floats around. You throw something in the bin, cos its rubbish, and 3 minutes later its sailing past your dinner. Which is also floating round, as is the plate it came on. I suppose you have to nail it all down and strap yourself in just for breakfast. How does one ‘nail down’ Cornflakes, I’d like to know. Let alone milk.

But that’s not my problem. Nor is it their problem either really as everything they eat is either frozen or dried. Ocado would deliver up there (postcode is SP∞ 7QE-F-G-H-J-K… cos you are travelling at 175,000 miles per hour) but the timeslot can be a problem. In case you’re out.

And I don’t even want to think about the toilet facility. It cost 1.3 million quid, apparently. So it must be smart.

Tim’s going up there to do science. Experiments that can only be done in a near gravity-less environment. And good luck to him. Apparently all potential astronauts are vetted to make sure they’re kind’a nice people. Can you imagine being stuck in space for 6 months with Jeremy Corbyn? Jose Morinho? Aunt Maud?

And his participation in this wonderfully international experience is great for Britain. And apparently an inspiration for kids. Because Tim is not just a nice bloke, he’s a test pilot, a scientist and probably plays golf off a 3 handicap. So, kids, that’s all you have to do. Get a masters degree in atrophysics, join the airforce and you too could one day…

Jose Morinho would be better off in space. He certainly can’t get his team to win on planet Earth.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

The thing about football is: you have to know your limitations. As in life.

Eddie Howe, the Bournemouth manager is well aware of those of his team. So, being an astute and clever guy (heard him talk? he actually speaks English. In sentences wot is gramatical proper) he sets his team and tactics to minimise their limitations (no superstars, no player worth more than 250 quid, small squad) and maximise their qualities (amazing enthusiasm, relentless determination, never-say-die attitude and give their lives for the club). So they score from set pieces. As they did yesterday against Man United. Twice. With stunning effect. The Man United team is worth, collectively, (making this up completely) £476,284,103.67p. The Bournemouth squad: £82.90. The kit cost more than the team.

But Louis Van Gaal does not know his team’s limitations. Mainly because, deluded twit that he is, he doesn’t believe they have any. Which is why he is still insisting that his team can win the league. Even though recent evidence would indeed tend to indicate otherwise. In fact on recent performances United will be lucky to avoid relegation. They haven’t won in 5 games. You can’t win the league like that. Not because there aren’t sufficient points left from games to play that if you won every game you would indeed win the title, but because you’re simply very very unlikely to suddenly change your fortune. Some would say its impossible. And its so stupid that it could have come straight from the Jose Morinho book of Stupidity, Excuses and Failure to Accept Reality (Penguin, £3.99).

Ok maybe not ‘impossible’ because I once read an American book which banned me from ever using that word. In America there are no limitations. Other than Donald Trump, obviously, limited by his own hairstyle.

Alas, when the shit hits the fan, as it has at Chelsea, and (hopefully) is still hitting it, and at Manchester United, the job becomes one of ‘staying employed’ for the manager. And unfortunately, when you assemble a virtual ‘Supergroup’ of magnificently talented individuals, you’re buying a skill set, not loyalty. These players will simply fuck off when the going gets tough. Your Bournemouth players will be there on the 38th game giving their all, whatever the game. The United players, should some kind of victory not be forthcoming, or Euro qualification not happening, will already have their scummy, parasitical agents scanning the Oligarch’s handbook, and the Emirates Rich-List, for new teams for their stars in which they can underperform for £300 grand a week and leave when it gets tough.

Spurs seem remarkably happy, content and lovely at the moment. Not a place we often occupy. We won’t win the league, possibly won’t end in the top 4, but I like the team, love the manager and enjoy what we’re doing and the way we’re doing it.

I know my limitations. And there are many.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx