Andy's Glasses

… come back another day. Preferably one when I’m not going to play tennis.

London is wet this morning. Very wet. Ahhhh, that’s good for the lawn, the flowers, the water supply. But its pretty much shit for anything else. Certainly won’t be much good for the cricket, unless it happens to be dry up in Yorkshire at Headingley. But as Yorkshire is the wettest place in England (based on nothing but prejudice, contempt and the Londoner’s view that the rest of England is a great big, wet, windy slum), I doubt they’ll be bowling many overs there today.

Yet in a month’s time we’re going up to Scotland. Oooohhhhh, Scotland. If they’ll still let me in with my English passport, my London number plates and my horrendous attitude (see ‘slum’ etc, above). And I’m quite excited about it. Mainly because we’re driving up there and I’m hoping that they don’t have speed cameras in Scotland. That’s the main reason for going. The other is that other than 3 snowily frigid days in Edinburgh about 15 years ago, I’ve never been there.

This is part of the new policy of ‘seeing some of Britain’ which only started last year with my first ever trip to Cornwall. Mel had been when she was about 7 and once every 40 years or so is about right, I reckon. Lovely though it was. In fact it was wonderful.

But did you know that Scotch comes from Scotland? Amazing but true. I’d never realised that. I thought that Loch Sporran Single Malt was made in Korea, like everything else. But no, it actually comes from Scotland. Well ‘china’ comes from Dresden, Delft, Wedgewood and they ain’t in China, are they?? Anyway, we’re going to drink some Scotch in its natural environment. As opposed to in my lounge, where it normally gets drunk. As do I. So drinking Scotch/fast driving, they just go together perfectly.

We’re also stopping off in Liverpool for a night on the way (again, never been there before) and then on to Hadrian’s Wall, see if we can make it a bit stronger, higher, put some barbed wire on it, run an electric cable. And then up to Scotland itself. I see myself as a kind of Bob Geldoff in Live Aid, in all those film clips, visiting the third world places of misery and deprivation trying to understand their plight and let the world know such places actually do exist AND NEED YOUR HELP.

I’ve looked up some useful phrases to use with the locals up on the Island of Islay. Like “DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH????” And I’m piling up the cds to play very loudly in case there’s any bag-pipers up there sneaking round and catching us unawares. I’ll just drown him out with some Bruce Springsteen. Because if you listen to bag-pipes for more than 20 seconds you either die or go insane. That’s a medical fact and explains a lot about the rise to power of the Scottish Nationalists.

So I’m really looking forward to the trip, and I think the Scotch people will really like me and my Cockney Charm. Just don’t mention football, goal-keeping, the Crankies or deep-fried Mars bars. And I suppose I should remove the effigy of Nicola Sturgeon that’s currently hanging (in every sense) from my rear-view mirror.

Bonnie Sunday

A xxxx

So this afternoon Arsenal take on Aston Villa at Wembley. The FA Cup Final. Biggest game of the… month. Used to be the biggest game of the year, then it got devalued by crass commercialisation of other factors in the game and now no-one cares. Unless they’re in the final. So to celebrate this event, I’ll be at the Alexander McQueen exhibition at the V&A.

Because I’m a new man. And thus will happily forsake football (well, happily forsake Arsenal) in favour of a retrospective of a truly inspirational fashion designer tragically taken from ‘us’ at the height of his career. I miss him every day.

I have no idea what he made. I know he never made Levi jeans, nor anything sold in Marks & Spencers. The stuff he made was ‘creative’. ‘Artistic’. Art forms that cover the human body. Particularly the female body. Even though he was gay. Still he produced wonderful creations that beautifully adorned a size zero anorexic. I don’t know if there was a general market for women who want to walk round wearing a Picasso on their backs, or an off-the-shoulder Manet with a split thigh.

The thing is, you have to book these events in advance. They sell out. So we (ie: Mel) booked it months ago. And ‘May 30th’ meant nothing to Mel at that time. Nor me, really. Only later it became evident that there was ‘football conflict’. As there is virtually every Saturday and Sunday throughout the entire year, some Thursdays, many Tuesdays and Wednesdays and the odd Monday.

Yet I’m happy to go. Not because I’m a McQueen devotee, but because the V&A do the best exhibitions ever. They did the Bowie one and it was mind-blowingly spectacular. So I have high expectations. I want holographic models, multi-media presentations, I want the ghost of McQueen talking directly and personally to me.

And I won’t check the score at Wembley any more than I absolutely have to.

Sepp Blatter re-elected? What a fucking joke. As is FIFA.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The best name for any organisation in the world is ‘Dignitas’. Its just right. Perfect. Doesn’t say a lot yet speaks volumes. Other Swiss names are less noble, less dignified, less succinct. Like Sepp Blatter, for example. That says: bumbling buffoon, old git, stupid, stubborn moron. Whereas Dignitas is so neat. Yet they don’t advertise, they don’t employ a Twitter/Facebook campaign to increase sales, they don’t do excessive marketing of any description. Yet they are known by the world. As the place to go to get yourself dead.

And, unlike FIFA, Dignitas are trusted implicitly by everyone. You can’t just turn up and ask them to murder you, they wouldn’t do it. Oddly, FIFA probably would, but it would cost a fortune in bribes. But if you are a genuine, terminal case with a proven and tested irreversible medical degenerative condition, Dignitas will assist you in committing suicide in a clean, painless and yes, dignified manner, at a time of your choosing.

AT A TIME OF YOUR CHOOSING.

There’s nothing to fear but fear itself. Wow. That’s sooooo true, yet such a worthless truism. Doesn’t help you one bit. And we do have fears. Not necessarily of dying but of pain, suffering, incontinence, inability to breathe, to swallow, tubes sticking out of every orifice, of dying in a manner that is not just subjectively horrendous, but that is agony for all around. We don’t like to watch suffering in our loved ones, its horrible.

So this week a man of 52 took himself (and his family) to Zurich for Dignitas to help him to die. Because his tumour had worsened to the point that he could not longer use his legs and his hands were failing too, breathing, swallowing, all starting to fail. So HE made the decision that it was ‘time’. He didn’t want to reach the point where he was hospitalised, bed-bound, intubated and in constant pain. So he pre-empted it with a trip to the Alps. Because if you can’t swallow, you can’t take the suicide pills and its too late.

And I simply cannot understand why here in Britain we are so keen to prevent such a wonderfully humane and kind and helpful situation as choosing your own death so that its a ‘good one’ as opposed to agony for everyone.

Assisted suicide here is called ‘murder’. You go to court. They probably won’t, if the circumstances are as above, put you in jail, but you’ll go through the whole process and be dependent on a jury of your peers (not necessarily bright or enlightened ones) for continued freedom.

Yet oddly, the general consensus among regular people is to allow assisted suicide to take place here. Because that’s what should happen in a civilised fucking country. You shouldn’t have to be rich enough to go to Switzerland just to die peacefully and kindly.

So if the people want it, why are the politicians so unbelievably resistant and negative, throwing up non-existent moral arguments that no-one particularly cares about? Its not their place to do that. They are there to act for us in what we want. And they’re failing. Have failed. Still failing.

There must be checks, obviously. You can’t just get hold of a perfectly healthy but quite rich old spinster aunt and drag her screaming to her noble and peaceful end, that wouldn’t be right.

But to choose when to die; its the mark of civilisation and humanity.

Happy morbid Friday

A xxxx

… I smell the blood of a weasly little Swiss Mun.

Its all, finally, gone to shit at FIFA, the world governing body for football. Or rather, the shit that has been happening for the past quarter of a century has finally come to light. Thanks to that most unlikely of un-footballing nations, America. They may not know the difference between a ‘midfield diamond’ and a corned-beef-on-rye (hold the mustard) but they know about corruption when they see it. And at FIFA they saw plenty. The organisation is rife with it, and has been since 1991. Over a hundred million pounds paid out in bribes by various marketing companies for various World Cup rights, and that’s before we start on the votes and the bids.

Because let’s face it; there is no way on Earth that Qatar would be hosting the 2022 World Cup without some serious dosh changing hands under the table. Our four-yearly international footballing feast is a SUMMER COMPETITION. You can’t play football in 50 degrees. You can barely go to Tescos in an air-conditioned car to buy a pint of milk in 50 degrees. Human rights issues and jihadist funding actually take second place for once to the sheer impracticality of hosting a football competition somewhere where it simply can’t be played. And why would you? The World Cup is supposed to go to ‘footballing nations’.

Russia is a footballing nation. Its also a very horrible nation indeed. So the 2018 World Cup in Russia is also seen as a bit of an anomaly. How could that happen? Ahhhh, cross enough palms and anything can happen.

Fourteen FIFA executives are facing corruption charges. But not Sepp Blatter. Not Teflon Man. In fact the President of FIFA decided on the party line, which was to say how pleased FIFA are that this terrible corruption in their midst will now be cleaned up. Yeah, by someone else. And it begs the truly MASSSSSIVE question: what the fuck has the President been doing not to notice all the shit flying all around him for 17 years? Even if he is truly ‘innocent’ of any corruption, he must surely be the most naive, negligent and imbecilic President of any company ever.

Any decent man would swallow the bullet. But Sepp’s never been decent. He wouldn’t know ‘decent’ if it bit him on the wallet. He’s a tosser.

The Official World Cup sponsors are also, understandably, up in arms and putting pressure on FIFA. McDonalds, so a spokesman said: “takes matters of ethics and corruption very seriously”. Unfortunately, McDonalds isn’t so serious about the obesity of 2 entire generations. Whereas Coca-Cola, the other gut-expanding sponsor of this athletic event (lucky Americans don’t do ‘irony’ really) are similarly disgusted and feel the competition is now forever ‘tarnished’.

This is what you do:

1. Get rid of Blatter, now, today, right now, kill him if you have to.
2. Move the 2018 World Cup to England.
3. Move the 2022 World Cup to England.
4. Appoint Gary Linneker standing President of FIFA.
5. Get rid of FIFA altogether so Gary can go back to Match of the Day.

This may be awful but its not exactly a surprise, is it?

Happy Thursday

A xxxxx

Why does it always come back to Batman? He obviously had a much greater influence on my childhood than I first thought. What would Freud say? And would it be in German anyway?

But to summon Batman they used ‘the Bat Signal’. A beam of light in the shape of a bat which lit up the sky for all to see, glowing across the clouds. Massive. Couldn’t miss it. Unless Batman was in the bath. Or eating dinner inside the house. Or watching a movie. Or just ‘out somewhere’.

Today we’d use an app. A Bat-app. A Bapp. Whatever. Because its so much quicker and easier and, assuming Batman is never parted from his Bat-Smart-Phone, will get instant response. Even if he is in flagranti with Lois Lane at the time. (I know, that was Superman’s bird, not Batman’s, but everyone knows she played away). His phone would buzz, Lois would think it was vibrator time, and he’d be off like a… like a… like a man dressed as a funny bat. With Robin, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner of the bedroom, already in costume.

Because we like apps. Well, I don’t, I fucking hate them as some new form of techno-wizardry that hails directly from The Devil himself. But other people do. They love them. And in a world increasingly dominated by (tossers) people walking down the roads apping all the sodding time, Apps are how the world operates. And those who lack apps are destined to become the dinosaurs.

And the latest casualty is the Black Cabs. The Hackney Carriages of London Town. As iconic an image as you can get for our City. Now under massive threat by the advancing curse of the Uber. Which is set to be the Jurassic Extinction of regular taxis unless they wise up.

On Sunday we went out for dinner. Restaurant in Covent Garden at 8. But we had a drinks invitation first, in the West End. And we drank more than expected and it got late, so instead of the intended 15 minute walk (it was 5 to 8) I said ‘I’ll get a taxi’. But before I could raise in hand and whistle, Tory-Boy, the son-in-law, had flashed his app, summoned the god Uber and a Prius pulled up next to us before I could even say ‘what’s Uber?’ They send you a little map showing the precise position of your driver relative to you and stating ‘2 minutes away’. Its impressive.

Ahhh, but the Somalian driver hasn’t done ‘The Knowledge’ like the Jedi Taxi Drivers of old, he doesn’t have that encyclopaedic knowledge of every London street, passage, shop, brothel and alleyway, does he? Fuck no. He’s got a satnav, what more ‘knowledge’ does he need? Ok, he may be a jihadi rapist with a criminal record (‘save your kisses for me’), which no London Cabbie can, but he’s cheap. My mate Bobby took an Uber to a meeting in the City and it cost him 17 quid. Took a taxi home, exactly the same journey; £38.

So, as much as I love black cabs, and I do, they need to wise up a bit. Get an app or something. And they really need to become more competitive price-wise for longer journeys.

You can’t ‘ban Uber’ as a response to competition. You have to compete. Or become consigned to history. Sad but true.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I know companies get very protective of their ‘intellectual property’, aggressively, litigiously so. Try and open a shop called ‘Apple’ and see what happens. Even if you actually sell apples and nothing else. You’d have fifty-seven Madison Avenue suits on your doorstep with injunctions and court orders before you could say ‘we’re open’. All charging YOU $2000 an hour. Because branding is everything and companies who spend zillions a year building up that brand don’t want to see it borrowed/stolen/abused by an innocent would-be shopkeeper from Grimsby who might actually be named ‘Ronald Macdonald’.

But there are limits. Or there should be.

Rhianna is starting a new fashion line. Another one. She’s got loads already but ‘needs’ a new one. And she’s calling it Robyn. Because that’s her actual, parent-given, birth name. I never knew that. Never cared.

But Batman cared. He always did. So DC Comics are in a ‘trademark war’ with Rhi-Rhi because they ‘own’ Robin, the slightly effete, symbolically gay, something-of-a-loser, sidekick to the Caped Crusader. So you see the problem? Robin. Robyn. Oh no. And DC Comics have complained that ‘the name is identical/highly related’ and that this ‘is likely to cause confusion or deceive the public’.

So you can see the problem. Someone may go on to Rhianna’s ‘Robyn’ site because they’ve been kidnapped and strapped to a table above which is a massive circular saw, slowly descending towards their navel and instead of being saved from sure death they’ll instead receive a little black strappy dress with sequins in size 8. When they’re actually a size 6.

So to avoid this terrible ‘confusion’ they need to simply announce that Robin with an ‘i’ only deals in underwear worn OUTSIDE his clothes and Robyn with a ‘y’ doesn’t generally wear underwear at all and if she does she wears nothing else with it. I hope that avoids an expensive and unnecessary court saga.

Just as importantly; England won the cricket. Amazing. I always knew and had total confidence in them. Even on Thursday when we were shit and on Saturday when it had all gone to darkness. Then in steps Ben Stokes, the new, improved, tatooed version of Ian Botham and destroys the New Zealanders. A century in 85 minutes and three wickets in the second innings. Flintoff reborn. I love cricket.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Its all a load of bollocks. All of it. Everything. Every word spouted by ‘the scientific community’ and/or ‘government agencies’ is total rubbish, lies, never to be believed. Statistically speaking.

I went to the doctor a few years ago and they checked my cholesterol. “OH MY GO-O-O-OD!!!! FUCK MEEEEE!!!! ITS 6.2!!!!!!” They called an ambulance immediately, performed open-heart surgery, sucked out my veins with a vacuum cleaner put me on a kale and lemongrass diet…

Ok, they didn’t. But they did gasp and advise me strongly that ‘normal acceptable limits’ were up to 5.8 and I was ‘high’. Not in a good way, like stoned, but in a bad way like clogged arteries. My cholesterol. Dangerous. Killer shit. Gotta be reduced.

So I embarked upon a (relatively) healthy eating programme. Basically I reduced my coffee input by about 95% to just 9 cups a day, cut out McDonalds (3 x a week) and just carried on as normal.

And today I learn that those ignorant bastards were actually killing me. I learn that cholesterol is an essential and health-giving, life-lengthening thing and that high blood cholesterol actually MAKES YOU LIVE LONGER.

All those uneaten eggs, all that fat discarded, all those meals made ‘healthy’, all from a fatally flawed con. Perpetrated in the 1950s in (where else?) America. A dude called Ancel Keys found an upsurge in heart disease in America, which was probably due to everyone smoking 50 untipped Chesterfields a day, and blamed ‘cholesterol’. Which does in fact exist in high quantities in those with heart problems BECAUSE ITS THE BODY’S REPAIR AGENT. So its the effect of the problems, not the cause. What a tosser Ancel Keys turned out to be. Particularly as his initial studies, way less regulated than today’s (which are still in the most part jokeworthy) were ‘flawed’. Only in that he discarded massive amounts of data that didn’t fit with his hypotheses. Just cut out all of Greece, for example, and a bit of Bulgaria, two thirds of Esher…

Which is why ‘Atkins’ type diets work and the slimmed down down immediately drop down dead as soon as their 50th pound is lost. Because fat, however saturated, unsaturated, poly-ed or not, does not harm the body.

Whereas sugars and carbs??? Oh no. Don’t eat them. Nor fruit. They’ll kill you. Make you fat. Ruin your lungs, limbs, hair, toe-nails, liver, spleen and testicles.

So yes; its all a load of tosh. Eat what you like, drink like a lush, load up on fats, it just comes down to luck, genes and personal metabolism.

Spurs finished 5th in the league?? How could that possibly happen? Oh, because Liverpool got thrashed by Stoke. A team long regarded as ‘the Barcelona of…’ of nowhere. It took them 10 games to score 6 goals at the start of the season and Liverpool let them in 5 times in the first 45 minutes. Sam Allardyce will be at Anfield before the day’s done. Or Carlo Ancelotti.

Happy Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

There’s a rule now, to win the Eurovision Song Contest you have to have a beard. Or stubble, at least. Last year’s winner had a beard, even though he wears dresses too, and this year’s worthy(?) winner was fashionably stubbled as well. Fashionable for Stockholm that is. In Shoreditch they’d laugh at him.

When we arrived home last night after dinner the end of the Eurovis was still on. It runs for 18 hours. And the scores were coming in and, according to the endlessly repetitive commentators, ‘it was very exciting’. Like watching paint dry. But there’s a flaw in the evolution of the human psyche in that if you quantify anything with enough numbers, it becomes compelling. As a species we’re obsessed with numbers. Which is why people find darts amazing. Even something as dull as golf. Numbers, scores, results, lotteries, bring ’em on. I don’t know if birds feel the same way. Slugs. Whales. Needs some research.

I haven’t watched a Eurovision Song Contest since I was 6. When I found the nauseating brand of plink-plonk Germano-French crappest-of-crap-pop, frankly too childish for me. I wasn’t precocious, nor musically gifted. But by then I’d heard the Beatles and my parents were big fans of musicals and big bands and this televised garbage grated even then.

Ok, I lapsed when Abba won with Waterloo. But that was more to do with skin-tight blue satin pants suits than music. Abba would have won it with the sound off. And in fact it would have been better that way.

But I sat there, riveted wondering whether Estonia would give their 12-points to Russia (boooooo) or Sweden (yaaaaaaay). Or if Italy might sneak in if they’d done a bit of a Qatar and bribed Georgia to give them 8 points in exchange for nuclear arms. Because you can’t help thinking its a bit political. Neighbours vote for each other, regardless of the direness of the song. You have to keep your borders safe first, musical humiliation comes second.

Britain came 36th out of 40. Notice, that’s ‘Britain’ not ‘England’. When its something shitty and we’re losing its always Britain.

Yet I learned something last night, watching the inane Euros and finally understanding why Nigel Farage may be right to want us away from those imbeciles. I learned that Australia is now part of Europe. Well, they were in it, so they must be. Of course, Australia is just west of Spain. 12,000 miles west of Spain but that’s not the point.

The actual point is employment. Eurovision seems to employ about 24 million people. What else would so many worthless people (you can’t count ‘good teeth’ as any net worth) do to put food on their tables?

Happy last day of the Football Season. (I don’t count the FA Cup final; its beneath us).

A xxxx

“Never let decent facts get in the way of stupid preconceptions and prejudices”. Who said that? Yeah, I did, but its clever so I must have read it somewhere. And its soooo true. But its not just for the National Front or the Socialist League or UKIP or ISIS, its not just the starting point for well-known extremists; its just as embraced by the politically correct.

An Albanian Muslim comes here and commits a crime. Nothing unusual about that. But you can’t just say that ‘all Albanian Muslims are criminals’ even if, most of the time, you’d be pretty well on the money. Its a stereotypical generalisation and therefore rubbish.

Whereas if you say that Jews suffer from bad hearts, that is not anti-semitic, its just good plain medical sense defining a group who spread chicken fat on bread and generally eat too much Polish type food. Even if it tastes great. Still fucking kill ya.

Because there are cultural differences in our ‘multi-cultural’ land. And may the Lord bless them. Otherwise He’d never have discovered Chicken Tikka Massala.

And so to Sue Berelowitz. She was the deputy children’s commissioner for England and was in charge of protecting vulnerable children.

And I bear no resentment against Ms (always ‘Ms’ for ‘those like her’) Berelowitz because she was paid 100 grand a year and failed fucking miserably in her job. Her terms of employment were not success-based. And I don’t hate her because she received a severance payment of £134,000 to leave her post, nor that she’s coming back as a ‘consultant’ to basically carry on the same job at £1000 a day. (Please don’t ask ‘so why a severance payment? when she ain’t goin’ nowhere??).

No, my grudge against Sue Berelowitz is that she failed to see the wood for the trees. That her political correctness blinded her to any form of fact-based information. In short: she’s a tosser. And I use that almost exclusively male term because she’d approve of the equality of the sentiment.

When faced with over 1500 vulnerable kids systematically groomed and horrendously abused in northern towns, all by gangs of horrible Pakistani men, her over-evolved sense of PC made her simply refuse to understand that there may be some kind of cultural problem with Pakistani men. She called it ‘racism’ to even make such a suggestion. Because she was so wrapped up in her world of ‘fairness’. Well what about fairness to the kids, ya bitch??? By refusing to acknowledge the extent and the cause of the problem, that problem will never be resolved, or even reduced.

And still she maintains that ‘the problem is not with Pakistanis, but just with men, always men’. As if her sense of prejudice doesn’t extend to the majority of men who aren’t rapists and abusers.

Good that we’re still employing her though. I think she’s underpaid.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

In 2006 two lovely little kids, Christi and Bobby Shepherd, died in a tragic accident in Corfu. The boiler in their holiday apartment was built to such exacting Greek standards that they died of carbon monoxide poisoning. A tragedy. Which resulted in compensation being awarded to the parents of £320,000 each. I have no idea how such a thing is calculated because its such a horrendous situation that the money is not really significant.

And yet it is. Just as a yardstick. Just as a guide of relative importance. You can’t quantify ‘tragedy’ or ‘life-ruining horror’, but you can look at the numbers.

Thomas Cook, the travel agency, received £3.5 million for ‘damages’ for the same event from the hotel chain involved. Ten times what each parent received for the loss of their children.

A really big deal has been made about this, mainly in the red-top press, comparing the two payouts. But really they’re totally different things. Thomas Cook’s losses can be added up by bean counters. There’s the loss of bookings, the PR disaster and the cost of countering it, there’s cancellations, breaches of contract, failure of standards, blah, blah, blah, that’s three and a half mil, per-lease.

And its not enough. Because Thomas Cook’s shares have plummeted, their credibility shot to shit and 9 years later, they’ve just brought their mighty corporate selves to actually offer a kind of apology to the parents. Kind of.

Yet Thomas Cook’s losses are real. And, charitable gestures aside, the 3.5 million quid may prove much more harmful than good.

So the parents get 320 grand for the loss of a child. The single most awful thing that can ever happen to anyone, ever.

Yet an Eastenders star gets 200,000 from the Daily Mirror for having their phone hacked. Some worthless wanker (a lot like Piers Morgan, the then editor, still in denial) was listening to dinner cancellations and ‘giyus a call back when you gerra chance; laters’ and that’s worth hundreds of thousands of pounds in compensation.

Now that doesn’t add up.

And whilst we’re on ridiculous payments, I feel tis time to mention Raheem Sterling. Soon to be ex-Liverpool superstar. His agent famously turned down £100,000 a week for the 20 year old winger for a new contract as risible.

Ok, we had ‘Rooneygate’ when ugly Wayne threatened to go to Manchester City just so his own club, Manchester United, would increase their offer significantly. And we’ve had countless other demonstrations of the dark arts by Lord Voldemort’s representatives in the Muggle World, football agents. But this time its gone really nasty.

Raheem’s agent, the worthless, parasitical Aidy Ward, has claimed that his client wouldn’t stay at Liverpool for 900,000 a week!!! Just as well, cos he ain’t gonna get it. Furthermore he called Jamie Carragher, ex-Liverpool star turned unintelligible pundit, ‘a knob!!!’ for his criticism of Sterling and Ward’s behaviour. Well, he may be a knob, but he’s not wrong.

I think balance needs to be redressed in the world of compensation and payments. Christi and Bobby’s parents should get 100,000 a week and Raheem Sterling and his obnoxious agent should be poisoned with carbon monoxide. And Piers Morgan. Just because.

Happy Friday

A xxxx