Andy's Glasses

What do ya wanna do on Tuesday night, Luv? Fancy a curry?
No, we’ve got Xi Jinping coming over for dinner, thought I’d invite a few mates round. Maybe Mrs Xi will get pissed and sing a few songs for us.
Ok, shall we say a formal dinner for 430 then, in the great room at the Palace? Shame, I really fancied a curry.

The Chinese leader was met by the Queen. Driven to the Palace in a golden, horse-drawn carriage with a battalion cavalry riding alongside. He’ll stay at the Palace for 2 nights. Even though he’s a communist and really should be travelling by bike and sleeping in Gary Neville’s abandoned building with a bunch of like-minded squatters. But Xi, ever the man of the people, bit the bullet and, so as not to cause offence, agreed to stay in the abject luxury of the world’s biggest house (well biggest in this part of the world) with a team of servants to cater for his every need. Such a sacrifice.

But its not hypocritical. No. What’s hypocritical is inviting the bugger over in the first place.

I have no gripe against the Chinese people, all 1.6 billion of them. But the regime stinks. Its oppressive, repressive and vile. There is talk of ‘human rights issues’ but really the issue is that humans don’t have rights in China. They persecute Tibet, they murder any opposition and they are corrupt and brutal.

Yet we need their money. China finances the world. And David Cameron wants some. Wants lots, in fact. So we have to ‘make nice’ to the leader of a country which is allegedly ‘communist’ yet has masses of poverty whilst the ministers are all billionaires. Nothing hypocritical there then, either. Such is politics. You befriend people with whom you disapprove totally in order that you may benefit each other mutually in a financial way. Its called prostitution in other circumstances. In this instance you prostitute your principles for the finance for a nuclear energy plant.

And nice for Princess Katie, sitting next to the Main Dude. Looking sooooo bored. As you would seated next to someone who speaks no English. They ate Venison. Out of cardboard boxes with chop-sticks and everyone got a fortune cookie. Kate’s said: “you spend 5 hours with a dull-as-dishwater Chinese leader and an hour later you want another”.

Happy Days

A xxxx

Well, its done. Our invasion of Germany in general, Berlin specifically, culminated with our escape last night, on a crowded plane bringing us back to the safety and security of Stansted bleedin Airport. And the good thing about arriving back approaching midnight is that there’s no traffic. Just speed cameras.

Loved Berlin. Great place. Wonderfully interesting City. Really funny street names. And an odd thing. The streets, particularly in the central shopping areas, are crowded with people, day and night. Pavements rammed with walkers and bloody bikers (they kind’a cycle anywhere over there). And at night its worse. They illuminate some of the fabulous old buildings for Oktoberfest so the crowds gather and block passage.

But the roads are always quiet. And on every road there are parking spaces. And parking everywhere. Ok, we didn’t have a car, but for once, I wish I had, just so I could park that easily. That’s what you get when you have a city the size of London but only 3 million inhabitants. You get parking spaces. The Dream. Where was my Traban when I needed it?

And on the way home on the radio they were discussing the Neville-gate scandal. Though why its a scandal I don’t really know.

Gary Neville and Ryan Giggs, two of the most loved and celebrated ex-footballers on the planet, are opening a hotel in Manchester in February. They’ve bought the building, formerly the Manchester Stock Exchange. No, I never knew Manchester had a stock exchange either, but there ya go. And its empty. So on the weekend a bunch of squatters went in ‘through an open window’ and, er, squatted. Funny how a brick somehow circumvents the law that you can’t break into an empty building but you can gain access through an available opening.

Neville and Giggs said; ok, you can stay there, with our blessing until work starts in Feb. Not only that, they’ll provide a cook and, using a homeless charity food recycling service, will ensure that their first ‘guests’ will be looked after. In return, they don’t want the place trashed and the occupants will ‘house-sit’ to prevent… errr… squatters from moving in.

I personally think this is a rather nice thing to do. But the general consensus on the phone-in was that ‘Neville and Giggs are rich bastards and therefore should just turn their intended up-market, luxury, boutique hotel into a homeless shelter instead. Permanently. Because they’re rich.’ And I’m sure the banks financing their plans would be fine and happy with that minor change. From a business potentially generating income to repay the debts, to a charity, a bottomless pit.

I’m sure Giggs and Neville do charitable stuff. But they’re allowed to create investments, provide jobs for people. Its allowed. Even though they played for Manchester United.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Its hell here in Germany. They don’t do rugby and their idea of ‘football’ is the sodding Bundesliga, a third rate bunch of semi-professionals who queue up each year to get the chance to get beaten by Bayern Munich. And who knew, when booking a weekend in Berlin, that it would coincide with the World Cup rugby quarter finals and the four most incredible matches in rugby history. A history, I’d like to remind some, that is older than that of America, Australia, certainly Germany and lots of other countries I like to hold in contempt. And if I’m wrong on that, its only in a chronological sense, not a moral one.

Wales did mighty well against might South Africa but alas it turned into a game of two halves, the second of which proved too much for the injury-blighted Welsh.

New Zealand simply thrashed France. Simply. Easily. Efficiently. Mercilessly. Job done.

Argentina amazingly beat Ireland and beat them well.

But the most incredible game was Scotland’s against the Aussie foe. No-one gave Scotland a chance, and that proved to be correct. But not until the 80th minute. Because at the 78th minute the Scots were ahead by 2 points. And just had to ‘see out the match’. Then a penalty given away and in the last minute the Aussies kicked the 3 points and won.

Raising the question: how sorry can you ever feel for Scots? The answer to which I’ll leave to you and your personal innermost feelings and history. The Andy Murray effect, Nicola Sturgeon, Alex effin Salmond, the year 5 geography teacher, Dave Mackay, Billie Bremner, The Hogmanay Show…

The indigenous Eskimo-type igloo-dwellers, formerly known as ‘Eskimos’ before it became incorrect to do so, have allegedly, 100 words for ‘snow’. Similarly, Americans have 200 words for ‘hamburger’, 300 for ‘beer’. Well in Berlin they have 600 words for ‘grey’.

Its grey today. Which almost adds to it, unaccountably. Off on a 5 hour walking tour. In the rain.

Oh happy monday

A xxxx

I love Berlin. My favourite city in all of Germany. Though I’ve not visited others. Its a funny place really. Not staggeringly beautiful, like Vienna or Prague, not picturesque like Venice or Paris, its more like a cross between Burnley and a council estate in Croydon. Nice.

Ok, it does have some nice old(ish) buildings but as over 90% were lost in the war bombings, those have all been rebuilt subsequently. It also has the remains of the Soviet years in the East, horrible blocks of flat, stone, bland, ugly apartment buildings. Those in the West ain’t much better.

Yet Berlin has a great feel about it. And great shops, bars, restaurants. And an energy. Which is mainly spent considering its past. And what a past.

Mainly, the nazis and then the cold war. More recently the Wall and Volkswagen.

Germany is really cool about the war. In a seriously good way. They are genuinely sad and remorseful about their nazi past and have memorials everywhere for the atrocities of Krystalnacht, the Holocaust, Hitler in general. His famous bunker is not open to view so you have to stand 8.5 metres above it in a car park, and piss on the grass and feel better.

Very few buildings survived the war. So there’s a lot of ‘this is where ***** used to stand’. Which is great. The war obliterated the nazi horrors and no-one was in any rush to replace them or remember them.

Great.

Then the Russians arrived. And the oppressors became the oppressed. East Germany, including East Berlin, which became the living embodiment of the total failure of Communism on every level.

Lots of nice cars here. Oddly, a lot of German cars. Including VWs. And Trabants. Remember Trabants?

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Ahhh Deutschland, Deutschland, uber alles. Do you know what that means? Why not; you have google, you can find anything. It means ‘above all’. Germany above all.

Above all what? That’s the question. Just not one I’m prepared to answer. Until tomorrow, when I make my inaugural visit to the Fatherland. Or Motherland.

Going to Berlin for the weekend. No idea what I might find there. Though I’ll guess there’ll be loads of Syrians. Maybe couple of Germans too, I dare say. And how will I know when I’m in the East part, and have to keep my head down, watch out for secret police, join queues for rationed food allowance, or in the West, when its all decadence, transvestites, prostitutes, Cabaret and Leibfraumilch? How will I know? They’ve taken the sodding wall down, which was really stupid from a tourist point-of-view. I’ll start with Bayern Munich’s football stadium. What do you mean ‘its not in Berlin’? Course it is. Where else would it be? In Bavaria?? Don’t be daft. Biggest club, biggest city; that’s the rule.

And it seemed like a good idea, as we’re only going for three days, to get the ‘early flight’. Oh, 6.30. That’s quite early. And because they won’t pick us up on the way over, we have to go to the airport first. So what started as ‘an early start’ has ended up ‘is it worth going to bed?’ The answer to which is always ‘yes’.

I want to speak to Volkswagen whilst I’m there too. Find out what all this mess is about. Perhaps have a chat with Angela Merkel, sort her out about exactly how many refugees her nation will take. As the number went down from ‘all we can get’ to ‘half a dozen’ in a matter of days.

But I must admit to being rather excited about this trip. Having avoided Germany (and Germans, much as possible, Jurgen Klinsmann aside, of course) my whole life, I’m keen to see the city that most people really rave about. And I must also confess that I quite like Germans. They’re not horrible (like Austrians) or arrogant (like Austrians) and nasty (like Austrians), but they’re cool and decent and unlike that other Germanic nation they have apologised wholeheartedly for the atrocities caused by previous generations. You can’t pick your grandparents. That’s a rule of genetics.

So I shall keep you posted, long as we have wi-fi. Which I’d imagine will be everywhere in West Berlin, whilst in the East they’ll have carrier pigeons. For this weekend, like JFK said in 1961, ‘ich bin ein Berliner’. I hope that’s where the similarities between me and Jack end.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Jose Morinho; misunderstood, sensitive, special one, persecuted by the press and the collective referees of every footballing nation? Or just a bad-losing, whingeing, excuse-mongering plonker?

That’s the big question of our times. Replacing the old ones: ‘what is Jeremy Corbyn?’ and ‘will Brendan Rogers be ok at Liverpool?’

Jose was fined 50,000 quid by the FA yesterday because in his post-match interview following one of Chelsea’s many losses this year, he questioned the integrity of the ref. Both his impartiality and his honesty. Oooooohhhhh. Can’t do that, even if its how you feel at the time.

Better off not saying anything. Ah; you can’t actually do that either. Because rule 335941/RGTY/8ju6.7 states quite clearly that manager MUST attend post-match interviews. Even if they’ve lost. Even if they’ve just sacked the team doctor. They’re just not allowed to say what they think.

Therefore the FA would be better off just giving them a script. Or a list of approved statements, all equally bland and meaningless, to fulfill their obligation without incurring a fine.

“It was a game’a two ‘alves”
“he could’a would’a should’a scored a fistfull”
“they think its all over…”

The ‘freedom of speech’ and post-match interview rules were borrowed from Russia.

Meanwhile in a new survey, a big surprise: football’s getting more expensive. Wow. Who’d’a thought? At Everton now the average ticket price is 30 quid. Same as your pre-match bagel at Spurs. Those northerners don’t know when they’ve got it good.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

There are loads of countries where you can drink wine. You’re allowed. There are some countries where its actually compulsory. France, Italy, Spain, Australia. I’d write a list of countries where you may imbibe to your heart’s content; and its good for your heart to do so. Oh, only ‘in moderation’. Where the fucking fun in that? But that list would be long. Very long. So its easier just to say; any country that ends in -an is probably not a good one for wineistic behaviour. Azerbaijan, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Jordan, Iran and Yemen. Ok, they don’t all end in -an then. Neither does Saudi Arabia. But you wouldn’t want to drink anything there other than water.

And the new poster boy for the Saudi Arabian wine society is Karl Andree. 74 years old, he’s lived in Saudi for 25 years. So you’d think he kind’a knows the rules by now. But alas, the ‘religious police’ (like the KGB but with headdresses; the Saharan Stasi) caught Karl with home-made wine and sentenced him to 12 months in prison. Bit harsh, by our standards, but these aren’t our standards, we don’t get to vote out there. In fact no-one gets to vote out there, democracy is as welcome as wine. They have a King. He makes the rules. If you disobey he cuts your bollocks off with a scimitar. You probably won’t offend again.

So Karl gets 12 months. But, with good behaviour (he’s 74; how bad would it be??) they’ve magnanimously extended it to 15 months, without telling him, or anyone else, why. They don’t have to.

But the concern is that normally, 12 months is considered insufficient punishment for a crime so heinous and evil as drinking wine, so they flog you 360 times as well. Just as, you know, a bonus. And 3-time cancer victim, asthmatic, 74-year-old Karl is probably not the best person in the world to start beating with a long cane. So he may even get a reprieve on that one from the King himself. To show the kindness and benevolence and compassion of the Saudi legal system. After David Cameron phoned and made a plea. “Of course we won’t flog him”, King said, “what do you take us for? Sadistic, lawless savages??”

Yes, actually we do. That’s very precise and accurate, your Majesty. But, having agreed that, we’ll still sell you planes, guns, tanks and anything else you need, along with consultations about running your police (the real ones, not the secret or religious ones), your army, security, everything. Because, Oh Mighty One, you is seriously fucking rich and we’ll do positively anything for your regime, even though it stands for everything we find totally abhorrent, evil, racist, sexist, homophobic, chauvinistic and barbaric. Your majesty.

There are moral dilemmas involved in government. Saudi Arabia, China, Russia. How do you deal with these people? When you need their buying power but disagree with virtually everything they do?

Glad I’m not David Cameron or I’d look a bit of a tosser too.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Makes me proud to be a Kiwi.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Sunday, be careful what you watch.

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Sports Day. Say that in Welsh.

A xxxx