Andy's Glasses

What a day yesterday was. Amazing. My two favourite things: rugby world cup finals, and curry. Brilliant. The rugby was sensational, the curry possibly even better. Though as I ate it the rugby was long over so there was a strong ‘recency effect’ at play. As in: what’s the best thing you can do? The thing you’re doing now.

Only with the less affected benefit of hindsight can you assess more accurately and say that the rugby must be better because it only happens every 4 years and the curry can happen every night. And should do really.

The All Blacks were just amazing. Every one of ’em. The Aussies were good too, just not quite good enough. And although David Pocock, the Australian flanker, was everybody’s pick for ‘player of the tournament’, and with dirty deeds partner also quite extraordinaire, Michael Hooper, combined into an awesome ball-winning unit, in the second half Richie McCaw showed why he in fact wrote the book on the fine line between legality and brilliance at the breakdown. As for Dan Carter? What more can you say. Best player ever???? Wow, that’s a hard one to say, especially in rugby where different positions have such markedly different roles. But he’s up there with the Gods.

But away from the heavens, several other sporting teams came down to earth with big bumps. West Ham continued their almost ridiculous run of beating the best teams whilst losing to the others, yesterday at Watford. Somewhat at odds with that nice Mr Bilic saying how they were the ‘real deal’.

Chelsea are no-one’s real deal at the moment. And didn’t so much come back to earth because that happened in week 1, but dug themselves deeper into the mud and shit with yet another loss at home to Liverpool. Morinho blamed the ref!!!! Wow!! Hasn’t done that since… since the last time they played. But just to clear it up for the little Portugueser, yes, I do think Lucas should have gone off for a second yellow card after a very cynical tackle. No question really. But Diego Costa should have already been off for kicking Martin Skertl in the stomach. An act which Jose seemed to miss entirely.

Spurs play Villa tomorrow night in the ‘big one’. Though why its ‘big’, I haven’t worked out yet.

Happy Sunday, especially for us Kiwis.

A xxxx

So we’re no longer going to treat ‘foreigners’ under the NHS. Bloody good job. Let ’em rot where they fall. Then go through their pockets and see if there’s anything worth nicking, take their boots and let the ‘bring out yer dead’ geezer pick ’em up with his wheelbarrow in the morning. Now that’s what I call progress towards putting NHS money back where it belongs; into the well-being of good, honest, Ingish people wot pays for it in the first place.

What about the Scots and the Welsh? Should we treat them, or are they ‘foreign’ too? Especially if the inevitable happens and Scotland takes itself out of the Union (Jack; leaving a big hole where the blue bit used to live).

People’s dying words will be: “do… you… … take… Amer… ican… Expr… …”

Ah but its a noble plan by Jeremy Hunt, the Health Minister. And it has mass appeal, unlike most of what the government does at the moment. This brings out the very heart of the ‘why should we pay for those ‘orrible bastards wot don’t belong ‘ere’ matter. But its all down to the implementation, to the point of entry, to the responsibility for the decisions.

A sick Nigerian turns up at Casualty. Is it the nurse’s job, or the doctor’s for that matter, to do a credit check? To check for documentation? Swipe a card? In a nation where carrying Id is not a requirement. Do we know that this Nigerian isn’t British? Works here? Pays his NI. Some do. Ok, not many, most of the ones who contact me are only interested in swindling their government out of someone else’s money. So if the guy is unconscious, who takes the responsibility for declaring whether he/she should be treated? A big responsibility. Hypocratic Oath time.

And the point of initial contact is the only place to ascertain this. Sending a bill afterwards is just pissing in the wind. So therefore do hospitals now need to employ ‘account managers’ or ‘payment bastards’, who sit there 24 hours each day vetting the sick for their eligibility for free treatment? In which case, either you’d need loads or you’re gonna have big queues. Very big queues.

Therefore what is the cost of these additional people? And the cost of chasing payments?

Because much as I disagree totally with ‘NHS tourism’ and freeloading foreign people in general… in fact with most foreign people in general, if the cost of implementing the system is more than the 50 mil a year they stand to save, then WHAT IS THE SODDING POINT?

And whilst we’re there; what about the kind of ‘reverse health tourism’? When people go to Turkey because breast enlargements are only 50 quid each there (that’s 100 quid a pair, or sometimes, buy one get one free). But the silicon bursts, the scars inflame, infection sets in and they end up getting new breasts, paid for by me, on the NHS at six times the initial cost that having it done properly in the first place would have cost?

The NHS is such a mess. And getting messier.

Happy Saturday. Unless your an ill Indian.

A xxxx

Its here. Well, it soon will be. The rugby world cup final. Tomorrow at Twickenham. And though England won’t be in it, the game has an amazing power, even here. Its just two teams left. Australia. And us.

That’s the New Zealand ‘us’. Obviously. My team. My boys. My haka.

I’ve always had a thing about the All Blacks. Just the name was enough to conjure fear when I was just old enough to hear about rugby. England back then were all white and everyone else was shades of grey. Then they invented colour tv. And New Zealand were still All Black.

I loved the Haka, I loved the fact they wore black and most of all I loved the way they played the game. It was different. Faster. Harder. Somehow more natural, more comfortable. As if they were all born throwing rugby balls in the maternity unit at Wellington.

So I personally twinned Aukland with Ilford and adopted that nation as my own. But only for the rugby. The rest of the time you can keep that sorry, sheepy, empty waste-of-space for yourself, stuck out in the middle of fucking nowhere just above the South Pole.

New Zealanders are not just closet Aussies. Even though they can sound that way. Much as Canadians aren’t just closet Americans. They’re nations that are 99% similar to each other, but its that 1% that makes the difference. (Remember; we share 99% of our DNA with monkeys, so 1% can mean a lot. In my case. Not sure about you.) New Zealand is the Jeckyl and Australia the Hyde. The Kiwis being gentle (ruby aside), considered, quiet, thoughtful. The Aussies BIG, BRASH, FUCKING LOUOUOUOUDDDD, MATE, and spend most of most days swilling beer and swatting flies. If I was into national stereotyping I could have a field day with the Aussies, but quite frankly that’s beneath me.

And being my other half English, I’m fairly used to losing to both these nations at rugby on a fairly regular basis. So I can attest that its much nicer losing to the Kiwis than the Aussies. Its more understated. Just a matter of ‘job done, let’s go have a quiet glass of wine together’. Rather than FUCKING POMMMMMS!!!! And gloating, teasing, ripping and all that horrible really drunk stuff that Aussies do so very well.

Oh well, its all about tomorrow.

Bring it on.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Oh Sepp, Sepp, Sepp. Thrice Sepp. Once, Twice, three times a tosser as everyone’s favourite Swiss person (name one other, I defy you, just one, not counting tennis players) starts what could prove to be the most protracted and in-depth bean-spilling exercise in recent history. Even the great Mexican bean spillage of 1952 will pale into insignificance against the truths and lies spouted from the mouth of FIFA’s main dude. Ex-main-dude.

Blatter had decided that Russia would be awarded the 2018 World Cup. It was pre-arranged. Decided before any ‘vote’. And its very undemocratic of FIFA to make such decisions before all bribes, back-handers, bungs and corruption generally has had the chance to make their case. The deal was already done.

Whereas the 2022 Cup was already earmarked for the USA. And at the last moment French Presidential Dwarf, Nicolas Sarkozy arrived at FIFA with a Qatari Sheikh and… well, who knows what happened, but we can guess (Qatar… money… cash… hmmm…), the outcome of which was that instead of going to America; temperate, safe, humane, it was suddenly, out of the fucking blue, awarded to Qatar; unplayably hot, stupidly remote, tragically inhuman, a nation as famous for football as it is for equality. But football is ‘above politics’. Or ‘below politics’. Whatever, it ain’t about politics. Qatar wins, yippee-yiy-yay.

The shit hit the fan, the bribery exposed, Blatter called into question. Which he denied for ages. Though, at 107 years of age, it was probably time for him to retire. Even taken by the throat to Dignitas. Because ‘death & taxes’ are the specialities of the Swiss. Creation and avoidance. Not saying in which order.

Sepp’s successor was to be Michel Platini. French fat-boy, one-time striker extraordinaire, now gone to seed at UEFA. The natural progression. He’s good, he’s French, he’s ‘clean’.

Alas, they found that FIFA had made a mysterious payment to Michel, ma belle, of £1.35 million in 2011. “Oh!” they said, “that 1.35 mil”, errrrr… “that was for ‘consultation'”. Oh, that’s ok then. Helluva consultation.

Never mind, we’ll get Sheikh Salman of Bahrain as the new president. He’ll get to the bottom of it. He has form. Murder, torture, he’s just perfect for the job.

Who said a safe pair of hands can’t have a little blood on them?

Happy thursday

A xxxx

What a strange week this is becoming. And I love a strange week.

It started with Spurs beating Bournemouth. Oh, that was nice.

Then it continued with George Osborne getting his tax credits proposal rejected by the House of Lords. An ‘unelected house’, no less. Having the sheer audacity to overturn the democratic House of Commons. How dare they!!! But dare they did. The first time that House has ‘interfered’ with financial planning since 1283 when Ethelred the Priapic tried to impose a tithe on mobile phones. Or whatever. The Lords interfering doesn’t happen often. But it is kind’a their job to act as a reviewer of intended policy.

As it happens, George Osborne is right in wanting to abolish the tax credits. They’re stupid and very very expensive. When Gordon Brown introduced them (what? 6 years ago? 7??) they cost 1.1 billion quid. Last year that had risen to 30 billion. And its a credit for lowly paid individuals. And has thus become a subsidy for horrible employers to encourage them to keep wages as low as possible. Because the government will top it up. If they raise wages those workers would lose their benefit. So they don’t. And everyone’s happy. Except those of us who pay for it. The employers should pay higher wages themselves, then we wouldn’t need a tax credit. Ok, not quite so simple, I grant you. Some jobs can’t justify higher wages.

But George went too far. He needed to bring the changes slowly, to ease people out of them. Not just ‘ok mate, we’re taking £1300 a year off you as from tomorrow, even though you only earn £18,000. Tough shit’. Its not nice. It doesn’t exactly appear ‘caring’ or ‘benevolent’ in any way. And appearance is everything. A conservative government can’t ever appear to hit the poor. Not in such a big way.

Then last night the world turned upside down.

Arsenal lost to Sheffield Wednesday in the Capital One Cup. Didn’t just lose to the low-league club, but 3-0. That’s a big one. And losing players to injury won’t please them much either. Time for Wenger to start bemoaning the ‘lack of depth’ in his squad. The same squad he steadfastly refuses to increase every summer on the basis that he doesn’t need to.

And Chelsea lost at Stoke. Not quite such an upset as Chelsea are losing to everyone at the moment. But I fear for Jose Morinho. He’s now totally insane and the loss of his job, albeit with the inevitable 25 million pound pay-off, might push him over the edge. Time for his meds.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

A group of whale-watchers in Canada had their boat sink on them whilst watching whales. 5 dead, loads injured, the water, off the Canadian Pacific coast this time of year; 12 degrees. Or in Farenheit, Kelvin or any other scale: FUCKING FREEZING!!!!

But reading about this tragedy brought back some wonderful memories…

15 years ago we took a whale-watch trip from Victoria, Vancouver Island. Not far from where the disastrous vessel set sail from on Sunday. And we ‘drove’ out for about 30 miles because someone with a helicopter had spotted killer whales. Orcas (as ‘we’ call them). And this was no luxury, martini-sipping, sun-tanning trip. The boat was stripped bare and built for speed. Because although we knew where the Orcas were, they didn’t know we knew. And weren’t prepared to hang around waiting for a bunch of pasty Brits and Yanks with thousands of pounds worth of photographic equipment dangling round their necks.

We were very lucky. We found an entire ‘pod’ of whales, a family of about 60 Orcas, with a few other ‘fishes’ swimming with them, like dolphins and porpoises. You know, big grey fishes.

And because this was 15 years ago, mobile phones: a. didn’t work out there, and b. didn’t have cameras and videos fitted. So I had my faithful Sony Camcorder with me, to capture that moment. Or, to miss that moment because I was staring into a fucking camera instead of watching the majestic wonder of nature unfolding before me.

Everyone had a camcorder. Any parent not in possession of a video camera could be reported to Social Services for poor parenting.

As well as the wonderful videos taken of the whales, I made another, taken all the way back to base, as Mel and the ‘driver’ got into a… errr… a ‘debate’, shall we say. Which went like this:

Whale Watch Dude: have you seen Orcas before?

Mel: Oh yes, at Sea World, in Florida.

WWD: Oh! That’s terrible. Sea World is an evil place where wonderful animals are captive in claustrophobic conditions in which they die young and miserable.

Mel: Yeah, but its there, so we went and its not everyone that can afford to go whale watching when Sea World is so cheap and you get a free hat and 50% off your first 9 hot dogs and supersize coke with extra sugar.

WWD: but its cruel. People are better off watching on tv than going to evil places like Sea World.

Mel: though it encourages children to engage with beautiful animals, and Sea World does lots of conservation work with animals too.

WWD: they should never be captive, they’re unhappy and as an eco-warrior I’d rather they were only seen in the sea

Mel: well Shamu dived through a flaming hoop eating fish; you don’t see that out here. And she seemed to be smiling at the time.

for the full movie; come round for tea one day and I’ll fish out the dvd. No pun intended.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We went to Bournemouth (not personally, that’s the footballing ‘we’ in which I AM MY TEAM and MY TEAM IS ME; only happens when we win) and we thrashed those poor South Coasters. And its all because of…

… of God.

HE put an angel on earth for the afternoon. And that angel was called Artur Boruc and he’d forsaken his wings and halo for goalkeeping gloves and a beer belly.

Because like me, God is a Spurs fan. Big time, never misses a game. That’s what ‘omniscient means’. It also means he never misses any game, any sport, played anywhere in the world at any time. Imagine how pissed off His wife gets.

And He saw that His team weren’t doing brilliantly, mainly due to the somewhat indifferent form of our (formerly) superstar striker, Harry Kane. And thus the intervention. Some may call it cheating, but I firmly believe in taking any advantage you can in life. And the Lord saw that Arsenal were, for a few hours, top of the league, and that’s sacriledge, and He’s angry at Morinho, like everyone is. HE is only human… hmmmm…

And so 5-1 it was with both Harry Kane and Boruc scoring hat-tricks for Spurs. God bless ’em.

Meanwhile up north it was a different story. Even God doesn’t go up north. Finds it too dull, drab and miserable.

Sunderland beat arch-rivals Newcastle, for the 7th time running. 6 of those times (by my calculations) with a new manager. They change often, as teams who are simultaneously ‘up there’ (geographically) and ‘down there’ (league table-wise) generally do.

But that win sent Aston Villa bottom of the table with the immediate effect of more manager sackage. Tim Sherwood’s gone walkies. Leaving a real plum job open to offers. I’m sure they’re queuing already, or maybe that’ll be Morinho’s next gig once Chelsea finally get round to sacking him.

Even the 2 Manchesters couldn’t score a goal, not a solitary one between them in their match yesterday, scheduled early to avoid rugby conflict. They left that for Liverpool on the grounds that no-one wanted to watch Liverpool play Southampton anyway.

And West Ham go from strength to strength. The Bilic effect? Or just every dog having its day? I favour the latter hypothesis. On the grounds that they’re scum.

Very happy Monday

A xxxx

Well the only question (unless you’re Jose Morinho, in which case there are thousands of BIG questions) about West Ham’s win against Chelsea yesterday is: does this in fact count as the Hammers run of beating ‘big teams’, after their earlier season dispatching of Arsenal and Liverpool. Do Chelsea still qualify as a ‘big team’? As they are currently 15th in the league and, should the absolutely unthinkable happen and Spurs lose at Bournemouth this afternoon, Chelsea would then drop to 16th. Just one spot above the relegation zone.

And although I hate to be some harbinger of doom, a gloom-mongering sooth-sayer, for Chelsea, I’m prepared to live with it.

Christmas is just around the corner. And should Chelsea be bottom at that time (I know, but I’m saying, kind’a hypofetical, innit) then the chances of them being relegated go up by a factor of 6.9. I worked it out empirically. Or plucked a random number out of thin air; same difference.

There are three photos in the paper today. One shows Zouma’s effort with the ball photographed not crossing the line. Ok, it was only a quarter in shy but that’s no goal. Does Jose think his eyesight, from 70 yards away at a funny angle is better than ‘goal-line technology’. In which case he’s a bigger tosser than even I previously thought. And believe me, that’d take some doing.

The second photo is Cesc Fabregas, a touch offside for what would have otherwise been his goal. Again, a miss is as good as mile, or if its happening to Chelsea, its much better than a mile. Its sixty miles.

The third photo is the game’s referee immidiately after sending off Matic, with John Terry’s pointing finger about an inch from his eyeball. Aggressive, threatening, intimidating. I’d have sent that bastard off too.

Instead Morinho was sent off to spend the second half in the stands, his assistant was sent off and five other Chelsea players were booked.

I’m no strict disciplinarian. I don’t advocate national service for the young, I’m not into corporal punishment (unless you’re paying someone for it and she’s wearing slinky black underwear and high heels). But when I watch rugby I simply love and admire the respect with which the referee is treated. And when I see the horrendous scenes that plague football in the same situations I simply hate it. And furthermore cannot understand why it is tolerated. So easy to correct.

Refereeing decisions are not democratic. They can’t be. And even if they were, democracy doesn’t work in an environment of threats and intimidation.

Now come on Spurs, let’s win, and let’s do it in a nice, calm, gentlemanly way.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

this is a Jaguar CX75. And its gorgeous. Not only that; its ‘lectric. Innit. It has electric power of the plug-in variety and a ‘little’ 1600 turbocharged engine. And its featured in the new Bond film out next week. Ok, driven by the baddie but its a cool set’a wheels, driven by anybody. And how wonderful that its a proper, greener-than-thou hybrid.

Well, the one in the picture is. The one that goes on sale will be. But the one in the movie, seen chasing Bond’s Aston Martin, screeching round corners and burning rubber down the autobahns (haven’t seen the movie, don’t do ‘Bond’, just guessing where they chase) is in fact not a ‘lectric car at all. Nor a hybrid. No, its got a fuck-off, gas-guzzling V8 proper petrol engine emitting more noxious carbon than all the VWs in America. Even though the car will never be produced with that engine for sale. Which is kind’a ‘trades descriptionish’ in my mind, showing people that this car, yet to reach the shops (shops?), is a Supercar, whereas in reality its a milk float that runs on 26 AAs.

Apparently the car in electric form is rather perky. According to some electric car fan who was interviewed. What he didn’t say is that even if this car in full electric mode could perform that well, it could only do so for about 77 yards til you need to plug it in again. Which would make the film 7 hours long and really really fucking boring.

If I was a car, I’d be a Jaguar CX75 (the film version, obvs.). Beautiful, sleek, loud and really uneconomical and inefficient.

You’d be a sodding Prius. In grey. With dented bumpers and a cracked windscreen.

But if I was a rugby player, I’d definitely be Dan Carter. I think I have a man-crush on him. The All Blacks were fantastic in the second half against South Africa and get to play in the world cup final next weekend. Not the most spectacular game, in the rain, but gritty and dirty and wonderful. With the right result. I feel. And Dan feels that too.

If he was a car he’d be a CS75 too. Maybe in black? And we’d ride off, side by side, into the sunset. Aaaahhhhh. Then 75 yards later we’d stop, plug in, chat about the weather for half an hour, then resume. Et cetera, et cetera…

Happy Saturday night; don’t forget to put the clocks back or YOU’LL BE LATE FOR TENNIS. Or, in fact, very early.

A xxxx

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “oh no, Bastian Schweinsteiger, the German football captain and Manchester United semi-permanent hospital visitor is a closet nazi. He spends a half his time dressed as either a footballer or a patient, the other half as a Wehrmacht officer. Oh no!” But don’t worry, Bastian’s no nazi. Well, he might be, but there’s been no real positive sightings thus far. Its just a doll. A plaything. A child’s toy. Phew.

Yes, for just 80 quid (80 fucking quid???!!!!???) your child can replay his (or her, let’s have some equality here) favourite nazi fantasies with this ‘Bastian Doll’. That’s its name. By sheer coincidence. Bastian. Like Schweiny. What are the chances? Phah!

Teach your children all the horrors of nazi atrocities, relive Krystalnacht, invade the tv room (which we’ll rename ‘Poland’), build a mini-Auschwitz in the kitchen. So much fun to be had.

And the doll is made in China. No surprise; everything’s made in China. Even though most say ‘made in Italy/France/Bulgaria’ on the label. This one doesn’t. It is unashamedly Chinese.

Schweiny’s legal people have taken issue with the doll. And you can kind’a see their point. Who would want to be the ‘face of naziism’? Never mind the name.

Yet according to the manufacturers, they just gave their doll a ‘typical German face’. In fact the company boss went one (quite unbelievable) step further to assert that ‘all Germans look like this’. And ‘Bastian is a very common German name’. Not like Hans then. Or even Helmut? Why not go the full Adolph?

Noooooooooooooo. They really don’t. Has this man never heard the expression: when you’re in a hole, STOP DIGGING? You just can’t say ‘they all look the same to me’. Not since 1972. Its illegal. Its a fucking cliche. A joke. “Bloody caucasians; they all look the same!”

Chinese people don’t all look the same. No. 1.599.999 billion do in fact all look the same, the other 2 are Lucy Liu, who is gorgeous, and President Xi, who looks like a third rate Elvis impersonator from ‘The American Bar’ in Bangkok.

Bring back Barbi & Ken but bring them up to date. Give them guns.

Happy Friday

A xxxx