Andy's Glasses

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

Jeremy Corbyn (labour leader, tosser, beardy-lefty-creep, tosser, revolutionary, power-to-the-people tosser) said that if he were Prime Minister (God forbid) he would never press the ‘nuclear’ button to launch atomic weaponry. Never. Pacifist. See ‘tosser’, above. He laughed off such things. “We are no longer in the Cold War”, he said.

At probably the precise moment yesterday when Russian bombs hit their first targets in Syria.

Ok, that’s Syria. Bad place generally. Its not like Putin bombed America.

Is it???

Putin obviously forgot, when he was talking for 2 hours to Obama on Monday, that he actually had his planes lined up and loaded to the max, when he spoke of probable solutions to the Syrian crisis and the Isis crisis. Maybe he felt he didn’t need to as America’s been bombing there for months (and that’s working well…), so they could bomb together. Must’a slipped his mind.

Except…

Syria is royally fucked. Royally.

There’s Assad, the governor, and he’s in control of The Syrian Army. Such a bad man that America and Britain have been arming his opponents. Until they turned into ISIS. Well, some of them did. Others became various other groups of The Free Syrian Army, non-ISIS Jihadis, Kurdish armies, Buy-one-get-one-Free Syrian armies and half a dozen more groups, factions and fighters.

So ‘the West’ are anti-Assad. Everyone is anti-ISIS. The other players are people who just want to overthrow the President. Because he’s a mass-murdering, chemical-weapon-deploying, genocidal scumbag.

Putin is pro-Assad. He loves him. Sees nothing wrong in killing a few hundred thou of his own nationals. He’s a man after Putin’s own heart. Assuming he has one.

The Russian bombing was allegedly upon ISIS. Allegedly. In reality it was against the anti-Assad armies. The ones America and Britain are supporting. ISIS took the day off. Catch up on some housework.

This situation is now so ridiculous that it should be funny. But its not. It could become the next proxy war between super-powers. Another Vietnam. Heaven forbid.

Or Afghanistan; America armed the Taliban to fight the Russians, then 5 years later they’re fighting against their own very impressive weaponry in the hands of the same Taliban. The Yanks armed Iraq to fight Iran, then went to war with Iraq.

History repeats itself. And the lesson learned is NO-ONE EVER LEARNS THE FUCKING LESSONS.

I hope that’s cleared it up nicely for you.

Happy Thursday (let’s hope there’s a Friday)

A xxxx

On Sunday evening a group proclaiming themselves ‘Class War!!!!’ (my exclamation marks, but warranted, I feel, to represent aggression and attitude. Without them its just ‘class war’, a wet and wooly phrase from a bygone era) chose to attack a cafe in Brick Lane, East London. The cafe was full of people, lots of kids, and the mob, carrying flaming torches, threw paint bombs and rocks and by all accounts it was pretty scary. Very classy.

The store was called Cereal Killer and it sells cereals. Like cornflakes but better. Cereals from all over the world. 120 different kinds served with 30 different milk options. All those fabulously bright-coloured things that American kids love; your kids can overdose on artificial colourings too in Cereal Killer. But its a great idea and its very successful.

No-one is ever forced to go there. People choose to do so. If and when they want to. That’s the general idea anyway.

But Class War (with or without !!!!!) decided that Cereal Killer represents the worst kind of ‘gentrification’ of a ‘poor area’ in which the poor and hungry are being priced out. Because a bowl of Tiger Flakes will cost you £3.20 with chocolate flavoured almond and soya goat extract.

Personally, I wouldn’t pay a quid for a bowl of cereals anywhere. If it wasn’t mooing, bleating, swimming or barking (ooooh) yesterday, I don’t want to eat it today. That’s my motto. I make exception for embryos. Only cos I love eggs. But I appreciate cereals are popular. Even in the evening?

It is true that Shoreditch has become very popular, very up-market, very ‘gentrified’. If you can call hipsters ‘gentry’. But that’s what happens in a free market economy. Supply and demand. The more people demanding something the more expensive its likely to be. Like housing. Same is happening (has happened already really) in Brixton. Rents are on the up there too and the peasants are revolting.

There’s social housing. There used to be council homes but we don’t build them any longer. Not enough anyway. But there are still plenty in Brick Lane. And in Brixton. Therefore we’re not talking about the ‘poor’ and ‘starving’, mainly because if anyone starves in England its because they’re stupid, they want to be a supermodel, or both. If people can’t live precisely where they want because rents are too high, then welcome to the world and go live somewhere else.

I have every sympathy with left wing views. Always have had. Not in a practical sense but I like a fair world. But the radical left (like the radical right or the radical anything) are fucking arseholes. And attacking a shop run by two working class brothers from Belfast (where random explosive violence is all too familiar), a shop filled with children, is simply imbecilic and unlikely to further any cause except the ‘stiffer penalties for being an arsehole in public’ one.

Unfortunately Jeremy Corbyn has given a mandate to tossers like Class War!!! to dust off their placards, dry-clean their balaclavas and get the red flags flying high.

Even though he can’t even use his own speech at the Labour conference, instead using a recycled one from 1974.

England are doing well in the Champions League though, so that’s a good thing for national pride.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

“FOOK OFF, REF!!” he shouts in vicious spite,
“I WAS NEVER OFFSIDE, YOU ARE JUST SHITE!!!”
Another episode from Wayne’s World
The flag was up, the ball beautifully curled.

But another yellow card, to go with the collection
for violent temper tantrums are the man’s true predilection.
He scores lots of goals, of that there is no doubt,
but the screams and abuse; what’s that all about?

Yet Wayne, it transpires, has another side,
revealed for tv by none other than his bride.
The man who resembles a potato crossed with a poggle
has a poetic charm, a romantic side, that would make your eyes boggle.

He pens poems, odes of undying love
leaves them for his beloved, as if delivered by a dove
She reads the words and goes all swooney
for the man of her dreams, sweet and tender Wayne Rooney.

“Colleen, Colleen, luv of me fookin’ life
I’m so bleedin’ happy I took yas for me wife
yer tits are gorgeous, yer thighs divine
so even though yer norra granny, I’s so fookin’ glad yas mine”

He’s soft, he’s sweet, a man of passions burning bright
declarations of love and devotion expressed in words wot he rite(s)
Even though those words are generally written in Scouse,
don’t dismiss the man as just another stinking rich louse.

Wayne Rooney is a deep and complex soul, often troubled at times
so he chooses as his release to express himself in ryhmes.
Not to be dismissed as an obstreperous northern git
he has many levels and layers, though most degenerate just to so much shit.

“I fookin’ hate Norwich City they always gimme a kick
so much fookin’ aggro, makes me fookin sick.
So I scored three, made another, punched the goalie in the arm
all for my love of you, so gerron yer knees and thrill me with yas charm”

The next Lord Byron, though he never scored more goals than Bobby Charlton.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

When Monty Python’s Life of Brian movie came out in 1979, there was minor outrage. Ok, there was major outrage. It was blasphemous. It was offensive. It was irreverent to the point of abuse. Yet still they wanted to ban it. As if those things weren’t good things.

But heh, its a movie; how much harm can it do? People likely to be offended by such a film have the power to, kind’a, just ‘not see it’. No-one’s forcing them. Its a bit like church. It exists, some people find it offensive but no-one ‘has’ to go.

The film was effectively ‘banned’ in the lovely seaside town of Bournemouth. By the council who insisted on it carrying the highest censorship rating they could impose so cinemas wouldn’t show it as most of its target market was banned. So a kid of 16 could probably blag his/her way in to see the violence of Reservoir Dogs, learn how to steal cars in Gone in 60 Seconds, see any of a million offerings of sex, rape, torture and murder, but weren’t allowed to giggle at a Jesus spoof.

Blasphemy laws were abolished here in 2008, but still Bournemouth wouldn’t downgrade the film’s rating, so its still never been shown within the land defined by the Pier at one end and Harry Rednap’s house at the other.

But now, for one day only, some 36 years since the film was released, the Town of Bournemouth are prepared to downgrade its rating to a ’15’. For one day only. So that all the residents can go and see it, even though its been on tv about 95 times and the dvd has been available ever since they stopped selling videos.

The new Bond film cost £200 million to make. 24 mil of which was used turning Aston Martin’s new, yet to be released or seen DB10, into scrap metal. And the funny thing is that even though violence in movies makes me cringe a bit (wimp!), and watching difficult situations make me feel uncomfortable, its seeing cars getting smashed up that really upsets me. I’ve never gotten over the start of the original Italian Job when a Lamborghini Miura goes off a cliff.

Does this make me overly metal-sensitive? Too in touch with my mechanical side?? Or just a stupid man?

Answers on a postcard…

A xxxx

2-nil, and you fucked it up, 2-nil, and…

You know that song? Well that was Spurs game yesterday against Manchester City. We won 2-nil but the linesmen fucked it up so they called it 4-1 instead. I don’t care. Free points is free points, whichever way you miss Kyle Walker being 19 yards offside. (Was the man blind?)

But really, I don’t care. Firstly because we won either way, though 4-1 has a magical ring to it that 2-0 kind’a lacks. And secondly because refereeing cock-ups are a part of the game and will remain so until they finally agree to actually use the 736 cameras present at every single match, and concede to take the 3 seconds to rewind and make what we call in rugby a TMO decision. One which no-one can argue with. Though who wants that?

I have one rule. To cover my entire life. I don’t moan about offside goals, whether they’re ours or ‘theirs’. Part of the game, get over it, move on. I leave the moaning to the professionals. Not professional footballers, professional moaners. Wenger, Morinho, the scapegoat-seekers, Arsenal fans and other miserable low-lifes. At Spurs we just score more goals until we get one or two that everyone is happy with or at least prepared to accept.

So we beat mighty City 4-1 and it felt absolutely wonderful.

Then the rugby started. And its a funny thing; I don’t resent those who play for the other side when they play well. I do at football, not at rugby. Its almost like I become some kind of closet gentleman or something equally as unlikely. But no, I’m still the same bastard, but just one that appreciates the skill of others.

The match was brilliant. But so fucking hard. 3 men stretchered off. Bloody and bruisy yet quite wonderful. Unfortunately England lost and will now struggle to qualify for the final stages of this world cup. Which is at home, so doubly annoying. But all is not yet lost. Just the game last night.

Wales were up by 3 with 2 minutes and some left on the clock when we were awarded a penalty. Ok, it was right by the touchline, which is not the easiest, but Owen Farrell had been kicking with amazing accuracy all night and wanted to tie the game up. But captain Chris Robshaw, upon whose shoulders such decisions lie, instead chose to kick for a line out at about 5 metres out. To go for the winning try rather than the tying penalty.

And sadly it all went tits up. A few more bodies got carried off, they swept up the severed limbs and Wales got the ball back.

I’m a big Chris Robshaw fan. He gives heart and soul to every game. And body. Lots of bits of his body. But he was damned. Take the penalty and everyone accuses him of not having the confidence to go for the win. Miss the penalty and its a matter that he should have gone for the win anyway.

We didn’t lose because of Chris Robshaw and his poor decision. We lost because Wales were totally fucking brilliant at times. And they chose those times very carefully.

Bring on the Aussies, that’s what I say. When I’m feeling bold.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Sepp Blatter? Little bald wedding singer who ran FIFA Euro-Tosser? Always has been, always will be. But suddenly his stance that he knew nussink is looking even more ridiculous than previously. He always stated the case for total fucking negligence and ignorance of the horrendous corruption and shit all occurring on his watch. In many minds (well, in MY mind) this was as great a crime as being complicit. Being blind to the abuse happening in the company you run is itself almost criminal.

But now the police have decided to speak to Mnsr B once more, and search his office and home, following a little problem of 2 million Swiss Francs that appeared to be paid by FIFA to Michel Platini, ironically the man tipped to take over Blatter’s old job when the fucker finally goes.

Let us hope they both end up in jail and we simply burn FIFA to the ground and start again. I’ve always said it: YOU CAN’T RUN FOOTBALL WITH FOREIGNERS.

Meanwhile, back home, there are (yet even) more issues about Jeremy Corbyn, the new Labour leader. The one with the beard and no dress sense. Not that we judge books by covers… but we do.

This time its about national security. And whether Mr Corbyn, as a major politician, should be privy to the information discussed at meetings involving security, as most other political leaders have been.

But the problem is that Corbyn is best mates with the IRA. He’s pally with Hamas and Hezbollah. He sides up to any bunch of terrorists with a cause. Do we want such a man knowing the intimate details of this nation’s defence potential? Personally I not only wouldn’t but I’d have him killed just in case he learns anything sensitive. A precautionary pre-emptive strike.

However, all of this pales into virtual insignificance as Spurs are 4-1 up against mighty (phah) Manchester City with 5 minutes to go.

So who cares about national security or the future of FIFA?

Come on Leicester.

A xxxx

I’m a feminist.

My wife told me to be one and who am I to argue.

But the truth of the matter is that I am a feminist. As a true liberal I adhere to the French motto of ‘libertee, fraternitee, egalitee’, and I really do. Most of the time. There are exceptions to my otherwise unbending sense of equality but its not really based on gender or race. More on ‘football team supported’. But that’s me.

And when I find myself in an inner discourse involving double standards I almost hate myself, except I’m really too lovely and wonderful to do that for very long.

One such problem is statutory rape. Underage sex.

If I’d read in the paper that a 30 year old teacher had been caught having sex with a 15 year old girl pupil I’d have been outraged. Abuse of trust. Abuse of power. Disgusting bastard, castration the only option.

Yet when I read today of this woman, 30 year-old Caroline Berriman, a teacher who’d been shagging a 15 year-old boy she taught at school, I didn’t instantly internally demand her castration. And not for the rather obvious reasons.

Instead I remembered what I was like at 15. When, at the boys only grammar school I attended, every waking moment (and plenty of sleeping ones too) that wasn’t used for football was dedicated to sex. To girls. Women. Birds. Tarts. Just talking about it. Obsessively. All of us. All of the time. You’re 15 years old and pumped so full of hormones that your body and mind are trying to cope with them but generally fail miserably. Yes, most of it is ‘big talk’, but its rooted in but one thing, the desire to have sex. Call it ‘animal’, call it ‘natural’, call it what you want, but every 15 year-old boy I knew would give his… something very important, to have sex with someone who looked a lot like Caroline Berriman.

Who narrowly avoided prison for her act of educational copulation.

We want every child to receive sex education, well this was a private practical session. Almost as much fun a putting a condom on a banana. And for that this woman is reviled.

Double standards be damned, the boy involved will not be ‘damaged’ by this, nor ‘scarred’, nor emotionally impaired. He’ll be fine. He’ll be happy. He’ll be over the fucking moon.

Caroline Berriman has taken over from Sylvio Berlusconi as my new hero.

Happy Friday

A xxxx