Andy's Glasses

Some Qatari sheikh geezer has bought himself a house in London. Just what we need, another home that is empty for 51 weeks a year. Only to be occupied when Son-of-Sheikh comes over in August with his gold Bugatti Veyron and Diamond-studded La Ferrari to race them round Harrods every night, upsetting the neighbours and the police.

This house only cost £40 million, so its not like they need to use it much. Just a little ‘pied-a-terre’ for shopping trips and football matches. Because Qataris love football, as we’re learning. And this purchase, in fact by the Qatari Royal family, is intended to start ‘a Qatari Quarter’ in London. Ahhh, nice.

Its the oil-rich nations’ version of a caravan site. They can adopt a little corner of Mayfair and fill it with their own. It’ll be really nice. Women will only be allowed in the Quarter appropriately dressed. Which means full burqas. Except the hookers, for whom appropriate dress is a little less Riyadh, a bit more Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

You’ll be allowed to hire slaves in the Qatari Quarter, force them into 7-day a week labour, pay them virtually nothing, house them in squalid barracks and feed them leftovers from the KFC wheelie-bin down the road. There’ll be no human rights in that Quarter of London. And it’ll run according to Sharia law. Meaning no alcohol. Except for the Sheiks when they entertain their hookers, of course. And any other total fucking hypocrites who fancy a quick pint.

And if they want to watch a football match, say Manchester United playing Liverpool, rather than shlep all the way up to Old Trafford, they’ll just bribe everyone to have the match brought down here into one of their gardens. It would appear to be the Qatari way.

Though all is not so wonderful for the nation hosting the 2022 World Cup. A BBC film crew was arrested there last week for ‘spying’. They’d gone to see how the workers (real ones, not like our Miliband-type ‘workers’) who are building the stadia really live. Not the lucky few who are fortunate enough to live in the ‘media friendly accommodation’ proudly touted to the world’s press, but the vast majority of virtual slaves from Sri Lanka and Bangla Desh who live in disgusting squalor. The crew were held and interrogated for 2 days, threatened with prison without trial, then suddenly released.

FIFA are now investigating this because if the World Cup actually goes ahead there, against all common sense and morality, there will be a lot of press arriving to cover it. And they can’t be randomly arrested or have limbs cut off just for swinging a camera around. Its just not football.

What was Cesc Fabregas thinking last night when he took a shot at that player’s head? Did he think no-one would realise it was him because of his cunning disguise? Tosser. Though nice to see Morinho doing a facial impression of Arsene Wenger. Abject misery.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

This is a big moment for the Labour Party. The election of its new leader is a fraught and complex matter. Mainly because it decides the direction the party will take over the next 5 years to the next election.

The Labour Party that got royally shafted, against all expectations, in the election last week, was a reversion to Old Labour. In accordance with Trade Union values and ideals, Miliband trod the Union line by banging on about ‘working people’ in such a way that many of us who do work felt alienated, discriminated against and persecuted by him. And I think I speak for all of Middle England when I say that.

Tony Blair won power with New Labour. Labour Lite. A nominally ‘centre-left’ party that in reality was way more centre than left but had a mass appeal to all of England.

But Labour is the party of the workers and is funded in the main part by the Trade Unions. Who fucking hated Tony Blair and his New Labour/Soft Toryism. Blair wouldn’t give in to their demands.

So now where do they go? The nation has shown that it won’t elect a government with values based in a bygone era. And now the Unions have actually threatened to withdraw financial support from the party if it reverts to New Labour once again.

Leaving a rather unpleasant decision. To either select a Union-friendly leader who will secure their continuing funding, without which the party can’t survive, but who the nation will never vote into power. Or to abandon the Unions, choose someone who might actually win an election for them, but go bankrupt in the process.

Ahhhh, Arsenal playing at Old Trafford, that’s a big one. In a big match to decide who gets 3rd place (with no need for Champions League qualifying banana-skin match) and who gets 4th with all the worries of that extra tie. So everything to fight for, and these teams have a bit of a ‘history’ which, in footballing terminology means ‘they fucking hate each other’. So all was set for a battle royal of passion, power, wonderful football and some serious temper-flaring.

It was so exciting I fell asleep twice. Only waking up to make a cup of tea. It was dull. Very dull. Were Arsenal guilty of ‘parking the bus’??? Wenger’s most often-critisised tactic in other teams?? Playing for the draw? Defending in numbers??

Oh well, at least its over.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Goodbye Stevie Geeeee,
though I never, knew you at all, you had blah, blah, blah, blah… yeah, what-eveeeeer.

Steven Gerrard has played his last home game for Liverpool. Yesterday the fans sober enough to still be awake at the end of the match, or who hadn’t walked out in protest at being beaten 3-1 by Crystal Palace, gave a ‘fitting farewell’ to one of their own. For like them, Stevie G is a Scouser. He speaks their language, though heaven knows, no-one else does; he is local, he is a true great and he only smiles if he absolutely has to. You think of Steven Gerard, you think scowl.

And such a fuss. The word ‘legend’ is obviously being banded about liberally all over The Wirral and across the Mersey, as well as by the world’s press. I picked up someone’s Oyster Card the other day on the tube and returned it to its rightful owner (checking first that there was no easy cash just tucked in there, of course) who said “ahhh, thanks Mate, you’re a legend”. So we won’t go too deeply into modern abuse of a once really good word, a legendary word.

Stevie G never sailed across the Aegean Sea in a rowing boat slaying Gorgons and fighting Minotaurs. But he did play for 17 years for Liverpool. Man and boy. And during that time, I think its safe to say that he did more for that club than all the other players put together. HE won them the FA Cup against West Ham. HE certainly won them the Champions League in Istanbul after his team were 3-0 down at half time. He was such an inspirational player and captain that he didn’t need to do the spectacular. Which in fact he often did early in his career but less so afterwards. He led by example and drove the rest on.

Yet that’s not why he’s so special and revered in ‘that part of the world’. He’s special because he played for one club his entire career. And not just ‘a club’ but His club. The one he was born near, the only club he ever supported as a kid. He lived the dream. When he made moves to actually leave Liverpool at one time, seemingly lured by the evil dosh that Chelsea were offering, his supporters simply threatened to kill him. So he stayed.

And better to have stayed there in the North West rather than move to the North East. Where 3 teams are fighting for that vital third relegation place. Leicester (Midlands) did the impossible and avoided relegation after being bottom of the league on Christmas Day. QPR and Burnley are already gone. Leaving the holy trinity of Hull, Newcastle and Sunderland in at the death. And death is an appropriate phrase because getting relegated is so financially punishing.

Its complicated but basically Hull are gone unless really silly things happen. Not impossible but Newcastle or Sunderland are still in big trouble. Be nice if they could all go down really, but football’s not about ‘nice’.

Ok I’m off to shed some tears for Steven Gerrard before tennis. Don’t know why but Liverpudlians love a good cry over nothing. Spurs fans only cry during matches. Every match.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We need to talk about Chuka. He has withdrawn from the Labour party leadership race. And I don’t mean ‘race’ in any bad way. But this is the oddest thing in British politics since Ed Balls became Shadow Chancellor. In fact this makes even less sense that appointing a man who can barely count to a position involving the nation’s budget.

Because Chuka was the favourite. 7-4 favourite, to be precise, and them’s pretty short odds. And if the dream of entering politics is not to a. lead your party and b. become prime minister, then you should never have given up a decent career as a parasitical lawyer in the first place.

But Chuka has stated that he can’t run because of the ‘scrutiny and attention’ he and his nearest and dearest have been receiving from the press since the race began. So one question for Mr Umunna: WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU EXPECT????

Has he not noticed, in the years of being very close to Ed Miliband, that high political office tends to be a bit of a media magnet? That in fact without the media attention, no-one ain’t gonna win nuffink. We live in a media driven world. Every politician is a media whore first and foremost. ‘Too much attention’ for a politician is like ‘too many cheeseburgers’ for me. Can never happen. Its the dream scenario.

Yet Chuka reckons it was all a big surprise.

So we can emphatically refute his given complaint as being the real reason for his withdrawal. And we must look further, to try and find that ‘real reason’ for why he has bottled out of what should have been not only his dream but the dream for his party. Because Chuka is young. And that could be a massive bonus in the next election when the country’s young constantly complain that they can’t relate to a 50-year-old ex-public-schoolboy rich kid. And he’s smooth and suave and clever and pretty. (So Chuka 5, Ed 0, just for starters).

So if that’s not his reason, it can only be one thing: a skeleton in the Umunna closet. One set to be revealed very very soon.

And this is where perhaps I can offer a unique perspective otherwise lacking in the mainstream political observations. Because we can enter the realm of the purely speculative, hypothetical fantasy.

He murdered someone when he was 7.
There’s a video of him eating a live tortoise.
He once voted for the National Front.
He supports Arsenal.
He shaves his head because he has fleas.
He wanted to fight for IS.
He raped a sheep.
He likes being spanked by Policemen.

Or he’s gay.

Which is kind’a the general consensus. And if that is the case, then even more shame on him for (just last weekend) producing ‘the girlfriend’ who no-one knew existed, and simply not coming out, in the party who paved the way for gay rights and equality. But its sadly very unlikely that ‘the nation’ would ever put a gay man in number 10, so that would seriously affect the party prospects.

I like Chuka. In a party filled with throw-back socialists, total tossers, morons with absolutely no credibility or ability with the public, he is a breath of fresh air. And if he is gay, so fucking what? Have the courage of your convictions; both personally and Party-ly.

Its times like this I wish we still had the News of the World. Then we’d know already.

Happy Saturday, Chuka

A xxxx

I love the summer. Its sunny. Sometimes. Its tennis season. Though I play all year, in the rain, the ice, the snow, hence the ice-pack around my ankle this and every morning currently. People are generally happier in the summer. Ok, not Ed Miliband, probably not Queens Park Rangers fans and people who burn easily. By the sun. Not, like, with a flame-thrower.

And, of course, there’s cricket. Our national summer game. Where on Village Greens and in parks all over the country you see the men dressed in their whites, leisurely playing the definitively British game under a clear blue sky with a ‘crowd’ of 17 people watching in deck-chairs, some of whom are actually awake. Ahhh cricket. I see this scene often. From a fast-moving car on its way back to London, probably to watch a recording of Spurs 9, Wigan 1 on the Sky Box. To help me through the summer months and tortured years.

And this year’s big question is: why is Kevin Pieterson not playing for England in the tests against New Zealand. (Small country round the corner from Australia. Population of 250 people but they manage to produce the best rugby team in the world and a pretty respectable cricket team too. The All Blacks and the… errr… All Whites. How the f*** do they do that so consistently???)

KP, as we call him, is without doubt the best batsman in the country. If he wasn’t before last weekend, his 326 (or thereabouts) runs in a league innings certainly marked him as ‘a bit useful with the bat’). But its never been about his unquestionable ability. Its about the man. Or rather, its about the Tosser. Because KP causes friction. With everyone. With his captain, with his team-mates, probably with his wife too. Nobody likes him. And not just because he’s South African, which is grounds sufficient to dislike anyone, but because he’s a prickly character. Who chooses to extend his personal conflicts and even petty gripes, into the greater world by Twitter and other social media. Then he struts back into the dressing room with usual arrogance.

So do you select players who are disrupted and hated? Just because with them you have a greater chance of winning? Or will his prowess with his bat be offset by the negativity he tends to produce in all around him? Well they’ve left him out in the wilderness, and quite rightly so. But if it all goes tits up against New Zealand, will Andrew Strauss et al be brave enough to leave him out for the Ashes??

Who cares? Its only cricket. But Manchester United trying to kidnap Harry Kane is simply fucking criminal. That’s our other summer sport: football negotiations and transfers. Far more exciting than cricket. Mowing the lawn is more exciting than cricket. Fortunately, Gareth Bale is coming back to Spurs because those hateful Madridistas hate him and we love him. And really, football is all about love. Nothing to do with money whatsoever. That’s why its the beautiful game.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

They’ve made Prince Charles’ letters public. They should make mine public. Though they’d kind’a look a bit “… and how dare you ****** do that with a ***** ***** aardvark you ****** ****** ****** piece of ******…” to make them fit for public consumption. And they’d lose context.

But its a good thing to let the world know the type of man who may, possibly, probably, potentially, sometime, somehow, for some time, become king. Maybe. Though publishing the letters after a court wrangle using the ‘freedom of information act’ is not quite like Henry Root but it definitely gives a greater insight into the Prince.

He wrote to Tony Blair about the army in Iraq, he wrote about farming, about health, about school dinners, alternative medicine and all manner of things close to his heart. And what it shows is that he really is a decent and deeply caring person. With a hell of a lot of time on his hands to interfere. And sufficient funds to buy ink in which to scrawl his missives.

His occasional plummet into the world of the totally misguided is forgivable. His requests for ‘alternative medicines’ to be available through the Health Service is just so much tree-huggery. Everyone knows that homeopathy is 6 parts hope, 3 parts desperation and 1 part placebo. We’re all aware that ‘genetic modification’ of farming is not really the Devil’s work but a means to production and quality otherwise unattainable. And will NOT result in 20,000 clones of Nicola Sturgeon running round in little red dresses making everyone vomit.

Charles cares, so he writes to MPs. And PMs. As loads of people do. The only difference is: he’s Prince Charles and we’re not. And that’s good in that we don’t have to sleep with Camilla every night or wear shit-loads of medals every time we go out for dinner, but not so good in that we get perfunctory replies from 5th grade under-minions placating our concerns and being lodged foreverafter in the ‘nutter file’ whereas Charlie, perhaps in some ways a bona fide nutter, gets a handwritten note from the nation’s most powerful men. And women. (I forgot for a moment that they can vote now). They have to at least listen to Charles. Which is only odd because he can’t vote for them; he’s not allowed that right. Only us plebs get that.

And there’s the big question. Is Charles right to write? Because they ‘have’ to at least pay him attention, which is translated by some as ‘applying pressure’. And since Parliament was formed, the monarchy have no executive power. Nor can they be political. Though pretty safe to say, if they were, they’d definitely vote Conservative. Maybe UKIP at a pinch. So is Charles in some way abusing his position in somehow ‘forcing’ his views on people too intimidated not to at least hear them, or is he just being a devil’s advocate and using his position for the good of mankind?

If only he was a Spurs fan it wouldn’t be such a big decision to make.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Well, not so much ‘life’ as ‘football’ (as if there’s a difference). Why do we go, why do we watch, why do we agonise over the results, the scores, the league tables, the cups, about our own team and everyone else’s? Why does it bother us that Chelsea win the league but thrills us when Swansea win at the Emirates? Why is my fulfilment psychically linked to Arsene Wenger’s misery? Who did that to me? Or to him?

So many questions. The answer to most of which is ‘I don’t fucking know; its just the way it is’. Its a new take on Renee Descartes’ philosophical proposition: Non cogito ergo Spursi. I don’t think therefore I’m a Spurs fan.

Football’s different in America. Specifically for Chris Christie, the governor of New Jersey and in fact presidential hopeful. If they can widen the doors of the White House a bit. During Chris’s first 5 years as ‘gov’ he frequently attended Giants Stadium (sorry; ‘Metlife Stadium’) to entertain in a box there. Well, he wouldn’t exactly fit in a seat, would he? And during that period he spent $82,500 on ‘snacks’. So his expenses claim. That’s 16,500 a year. $825 a game, assuming 20 games a season (which might only occur if the playoffs are reached), as he watched both the Giants and the Jets there. At 5 bucks a hot dog, that’s 165 a game. Or maybe 80 hotdogs and 80 beers. A few bags of nuts if he got peckish between hot dogs. If he had 9 guests with him that’s still way too much food for anyone to eat.

Chris has now had surgery for weight loss. On the grounds that no-one will vote a Fat Bastard into the White House. It wouldn’t sit right. Much like Chris couldn’t sit right in a normal stadium seat.

And whilst in a Gondola on the Grand Canal on the weekend, in the sunshine, singing Italian opera to Mel as the waves lapped gently (this is metaphorical; Mel fucking hates boats and I hate paying some tosser in a Newcastle shirt 85 Euros to paddle me around for 10 minutes) I received a text from me mate Stoke Vaughan. It was brief, it had an annoying little smiley face and it was very gloating in nature. Spurs had lost, obviously. Had to wait to get back to the hotel to find the full extent of the distress and misery.

And learn that QPR are not only going down but about to become the first victims of the Football Fair Play regulations which will punish them for overspending. Like relegation isn’t enough when you’re paying a Barcelona wage bill and getting a Leyton Orient income. Shame.

So the season comes to its last stages, the end, the finale, the last legs. And for Spurs fans we have the contentment that… the joy of… the reassurance… errrrr…

That it can’t possibly get any worse next year. And even that is possibly overly optimistic.

Lucky I’m a Barca fan.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

In 2010, just after Gordon Brown lost the previous general election, the Labour party held its leadership competition. Andy Burnham did ok in the bikini section but his ‘personal skill’ in pretending to be a Thunderbird puppet, although very realistic, was dreadfully dull. Ed Miliband’s Wallace and Gromit act stole the show, despite Ed stumbling on the questions about world peace. His brother, David, was The Man. Tony Blair (the most successful Labour leader ever) was his mentor, he was the natural successor. Smart, bright, smooth, statesmanlike. Ok, his tap-dancing was a little below par but as prospective party leader he really had no competition.

But brother Ed had done a deal with the Trade Unions. Vote me in, he had said, and I’ll spin an entire election about ‘working families’. I’ll fire up the old ‘class war’ terminology and we’ll all ‘hate the rich’ in their ‘mansions’ and make them pay for everything so we can provide ‘services’ for Union members, swap the Union Jack (with or without the Scottish bit) for a red, hammer & sickle flag and we’ll take Britain back to its ‘golden age’ of… er… well, when it was golden. Golden red.

So the hands go up in the voting, 23 on the ‘yes’ side, 97 on the ‘no’, but one hand, that of the Unite General Secretary, counts for 1.4 million votes. Its only fair. Its called ‘collective bargaining’ and as he represents 1.4 million people, that’s how many votes he gets. Even if just under half of them are opposed. Because its democratic that way. Right???

Thus did Ed steal the golden whatever from brother David, a man famously cold towards the Unions who pay for his party.

David acted pleased for brother Ed (who no-one had even heard of before that day), patted him on the back wished him well and left the country to go work in New York. Where he kept his mind to himself and would never be drawn into talk of Ed. Other than placatory good wishes when pressed and before the election. In short, he acted like a mensch. Albeit one who had his brothers 19 inch meat cleaver still sticking out of his back.

Until yesterday. When Miliband the Credible, Miliband the Other, Miliband the David broke his ‘silence’ and came out of the closet by calling his brother a ‘tosser’ like everyone else in the country’s been doing for 5 years, or at least since last Thursday. Because Ed got it wrong. By appeasing to the Unions Ed managed to alienate the massive majority of ‘middle-class’ and definitely hard-working people. The ones who Tony Blair called ‘middle England’ and realised long ago that without them, no election could be won. They termed it ‘New Labour’. Meaning Tory-Labour. David M would have continued in that vein, never offending the hard working job creators, the aspirationists.

The question now is who the Unions will vote leader of the Labour Party. Someone like Ed who toes the socialist line? Or someone decent who really is a bit anti-Trade-Union? Like Tony Blair or David Miliband?

I’d personally vote for Gary Monk. Anyone who can upset Arsene Wenger that much must be worthy of higher office.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Venice is full of culture. Good bits, like pizza, an essential part of Venetian life, along with ‘spritzers’ which are the best type of culture; that which leaves you flat on your back after 3 or more. Then there’s the buildings, the boats, the water itself. All parts of what makes Venice Venice. And stops it from being Camberwell. Or Hull.

And then there’s the high culture that all Italian cities have and most other nations (only perhaps France and Spain) can ever hope to equal but never surpass. You have to get on the football field to surpass Italy, not an art gallery, palace or cathedral. And because Venice was always a very rich city, everything here is bigger, better, more ornate than even other parts os Italy.

Every church is filled with paintings by Botticelli and Da Vinci, every vaulted ceiling a work of unique magnificence. There’s performances every night of Puccini and Vivaldi. Every one’s a Maserati.

But this weekend was the start of the Bienali. What?? Oh, you didn’t know??? You’re such a pleb. Well we didn’t know either, or we wouldn’t have randomly picked the start of Venice’s annual massive art festival for our days to visit. But who knew? Now I’ll find a ‘Bienali app’ and know exactly when it falls. But this year? Phah.

All the fabulous art galleries put on wonderful shows of classic and modern art, every museum, every everything has some Bienali things going on. But what makes it great is not that lot. What makes it great is that you’re walking, lost (you spend half your time in Venice ‘lost’ but it really doesn’t matter), and you spot a big building with a big poster outside declaring some profound work of art. And it’ll be one artist’s ‘thing’ and best of all and almost unique in the very long history of Venice; its free.

Today we stumbled on a Welsh artist, because every nation is represented here, even Wales, with some… errr… interesting stuff. Also an Italian film-maker with an ‘installation’ about how movies are not about the story of the movie but about the intellectual process of thinking about the movie. How that fits with ‘Die Hard, VIII, Revenge of the Bombing Bastards!!!!’ I don’t know and didn’t ask. But it was fabulously done and, as they all are, in a brilliant ‘space’. Yesterday we found an exhibition of painted driftwood occupying the most magnificent old Abbey right on the Grand Canal. You don’t get that in Muswell Hill.

I’ve decided I love Venice. As long as you avoid the really busy bits. Which is in fact quite easy as the waterbuses are fun and take you everywhere. They should have a tube system here. Or maybe submarines. Just a thought.

Happy homecoming Monday

A xxxx

The car came for us at 5.30 yesterday morning. To take us to City Airport. Ooooohhhhh, City Airport, that’s a new one for me. And its great. So small you can barely fit a 50 seater plane in the car park. And if there should be two planes at the same time, one has to wait next door. At The Dome. Thus; no queues for security, no queues at the coffee shop (only one), no waiting, no bother, no hassle whatsoever. One day all airports will be like that. The irony being that they then become popular, take more flights, get 6 new runways, four new terminals, have massive, off-site parking (like, in Kent) and turn into the nightmare that is Gatwick.

However, City Airport, brilliant. Got on a weeny little plane, basically just me, Mel, a pilot, couple of ‘waitresses’… ok, ‘steward-essessesssesss’, (though I’m now used to the gay guys you seem to get at other airports I was almost disappointed), and 37 other people. Good people. Voted for Cameron. Didn’t smell too bad.

And Venice is both the dream and the nightmare. The sun’s shining, it beautiful and filled with fabulous places and stuff. But its busy. Soooooo sodding busy. Its Oxford Circus at 5.30, but all day. Its the January Sales at Brent Cross. They unload great big cruise ships here and dump the contents, thousands of day-trippers, into St Mark’s Square. Where they all seem to be taking photos of each other, rather than the Doge’s Palace.

And as a tourist myself, I fucking hate tourists. Go figure. The traveller’s dilemma.

So we ventured off down the back streets, along the canals, in search of quieter places, nicer places that didn’t feel like Old Trafford 15 minutes before kick-off. And we found them.

The water-boats are fab, the restaurants and bars abundant, the food superb, the wine even better (and 1 Euro a glass; just gimme a tenner’s worth, por favor, hic), the Venetians are lovely and rather gorgeous and the weather is amazing. Except for about half an hour last night when we happened to be on a walking tour of the Ghetto (the world’s very first Jewish Ghetto, even older than Stamford Hill) from which all other ‘ghettos’ are named. Then it pissed down. But really pissed down.

There are more French people here than Italians; it would appear. You can smell them.

Ok, the sunshine is calling me. Loudly and clearly. And in Italian.

Bene Sunday (yeah, whatever)

A xxxx