Andy's Glasses

now all sing along:
“Spurs are on their way to Wembley; Tottingham gonna do it again… etc. etc”

The only problem is; we have to play Chelsea in the final of the Capital One Carling Budweisser Watneys Pale Ale League Cup. But is that a problem? Yes, but its not an insurmountable one, as shown in 2008 when Aaron Lennon’s winner put them to the sword. Remember Aaron Lennon? Ahhhhh, the memories. At least that one’s in colour and not black’n’white like most of our glorious achievements.

And we arrive at Wembley in typical Spurs fashion: the hard way. After Eriksen’s stunning free kick we had a two goal lead on aggregate and thus could afford to sit back, relax, ‘chill’ (quite literally as it was in snowy Sheffield) and basically, switch off. Which we do so well. Unsurprisingly then, we were punished by 2 goals in 2 minutes by some upstart northern kid (sign him NOW) and were headed for extra time, possibly even the dreaded penalty shoot-out. All for our complacency in not seeing off the game.

And then… and then… as the minutes ticked away… and then Christian Eriksen again, Mr 88th-Minute-Man, as so many times previously this season, came to the rescue, scored the goal that puts us through. To the final. To Wembley. To DESTINY!!!!!

And what a goal.

Because it was the goal that signified something very special. Something previously lacking. Something truly wonderful.

And its all about our ‘Arry.

Everyone knows that Harry Kane (most people’s World Player of the Year) can score goals. Everyone knows that he’s a natural poacher. And that beyond that, he is a fighter. He comes back, even as far as his own half (more than most do), he fights, he tackles, he pursues. He plays with passion, with determination, for every ball, in every situation. May sound obvious really, but as you know; most players simply don’t.

Then yesterday something new, an evolution, a revolution, another dimension. As he picked up the ball, 30 yards out, back to goal. He spun round, saw Eriksen just moving past his defender, and he hit the most stunning, beautiful, perceptive, weighted, early, delicious, delightful, superlative pass into the Dane’s stride. It was Fabregas at his best. It was Iniesta on a good day, Zidane being sublime, even… Pele!!! He’d have been proud to play such a wonderful pass.

There’s still a lot of work to do at Spurs. There’s tons in fact. A lifetime of it. But where there is Harry Kane there is hope.

God bless him.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

This is a bokken. Its a wooden sword. Like you had when you were 7 to go play with your brother and with which to beat the shit out of your little sister just because you could.

Except my one comes from Japan, not Hamleys. Made by virgins, from wood that has been hardened by… by things that make wood hard, using only the finest oakish, ebonyesque, woody stuff and seasoned, tempered, carved by fair-skinned maidens and finished by Yoshi Yamamoto, the Kill Bill of the world of wood. Then they are sailed over on ancient Sampans so as not to trouble the fragile nature of bokken, or upset either its feng or its shui. And it gets sung to every night. To help it sleep.

The purpose of a bokken is to practice sword-stuff, without making everyone, including and perhaps especially, yourself bleed. Swords are very sharp; bokkens aren’t. But they are heavy. Well, my one is. You wouldn’t want to get it upside your head. Neither would I. Though I could cope because of my training. Not in tai chi but from the decades of being a total klutz. I’m a natural and lifelong headbanger.

And because of their weight, bokkens are also great for general fitness training. So as you swing the fucker around cutting off imaginary heads, its great exercise. In a dislocated shouldery kind of way.

And this is just one small part what we do at Tai Chi. One very small, but quite hefty, part.

Tai Chi has changed my life. Not just because its given me something to do on Thursday nights and first thing Saturday morning when I might otherwise be reading newspapers in bed with a nice cup of tea and a warm wife. But because Tai Chi is all about balance and energy. The balance of your body and the energy it employs.

So we perform the ‘forms’, that odd Chinese ‘dance’ because it teaches you how to distribute your weight in any given situation, so as to always be solid in the ground and ready to inflict pain and damage on possible assailants should they attack you in Waitrose one sunny afternoon. And then we apply those forms to self-defense. Like when someone attacks you with a bokken at Nobu. Or tries to stab you when you’re at the Ballet.

We do boxing, aikido, karate. We warm up, stretch out and downward dog until our eyes bleed. We sit and meditate. We attack each other in a hundred different ways. And its fun. Great fun. And part of Tai Chi philosophy is to teach, to help others. So no-one ever wants to show you how good they are, how tough, how solid. Not even the really good, tough, solid guys (and gels; yes, its truly equal opportunity), who are named in Chinese: ‘bastards’.

Everyone should do Tai Chi; you’ll live longer. Or die younger if you don’t learn to block a bokken.

If you fancy, check out this website, and come along, see if its for you. All you need is a white t-shirt. Though a sense of humour might help.

http://www.londontaichiclasses.com/

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

The Australians have awarded Prince Philip, the Queen’s main bitch, a knighthood. Quite right too. He’s old, he doesn’t do too much harm, other than insulting foreigners, and is as loyal to his wife as any 93 year-old held together with drugs, stents, artificial joints and sellotape.

But Australia is not a particularly pro-royal place. As a nation they see themselves distanced from the commonwealth, and not just geographically. They see themselves as a young upstart nation and would like to sever links with their colonial past. All except their Prime Minister, who loves sucking up to royalty and unilaterally awarded the Prince an Aussie Knighthood. The Fosters Order of the Holy Order of Last Orders, gentlemen, per-lease.

Some say that the Duke (yep, he’s a Prince, but he’s the Duke of Edinburgh too) needs another title like I need another (fucking) tax bill. Tweeters commented that giving him this one is like giving Jay-Z a Beyonce CD, or giving your air miles to Mrs Branson. Like selling Spurs another useless midfielder for 20 mil. Because Philip has so many titles that it takes half a newspaper column to list them. And they all come with the requisite medal, as if he’d killed 1,000 aborigines in the battle for Ayers Rock, single handedly, armed with just a Swiss Army Knife and a toothbrush.

And there’s the problem. When the Duke’s on ‘official business’ he has to wear a chest-full of hardwear. Rambo has less medals. You couldn’t fit them on Dolly Parton, let alone a skinny shrunken old Prince.

I’m not anti-royalist, as such, but the whole business with titles is part of ‘the class system’ which is still rampant in Britain. We really don’t need to be importing them from other places. So until they make me Lord Andy of Gants Hill Roundabout, they can all just piss off with their badges of honour.

And even if I was a Lord, I wouldn’t want to face Chelsea tonight. Liverpool have to. Its the second leg of the Carling Cup semi-final, with all level at 1-1 after the Anfield match. Stamford Bridge is never exactly an easy place to go and win matches, but after Saturday’s somewhat humiliating defeat there against lowly Bradford City, the boys in blue will be out to prove a point. Several points, in fact. The main one being that hell hath no fury like a Portuguese manager who’s just had his face rubbed in shit. Something like that. And however noble and humble he is, not to mention somewhat patronising, whilst stating how well Bradford played, he’s not in a happy place right now.

Tomorrow night Spurs play their second leg up in arctic Sheffield. That’ll be interesting too. Where snow is forecast. But being a proper fan, I might just go. Into the lounge and turn on the tv.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

The people have spoken. In Greek. And what they said was: WE DON’T WANT NO MORE OF YER SODDIN’ AUSTERITY; WE WON’T BE HELD TO RANSOM BY ‘EUROPE’ AND FORCED INTO POVERTY, NOT NO MORE. WE WANT THE GOOD LIFE BACK AND WE WANNIT NOW.

So they elected the Syriza party in who have sworn to end the austerity and bring back ‘the good life’. Which, for Greeks, has always been paying very little in taxes and retiring on over-inflated state pensions when they get to about 45. Whilst the rest of the world was busy with toxic loans, sub-prime mortgages and screwing up the entire global banking system, the Greeks were cool and laid back and notched up their own debt (320billion Euros) by sheer indolence.

So its all very well for gobby commy Alexis Tsipras to declare ‘an end to auterity!!’ but how is that going to work, exactly?

The only way for it to work is for him, his party, his nation, to stop paying back the money they borrowed. We don’t like this, so we’re not paying you back any more. We want to have the resources to buy more Ouzo, and we can’t do that when saddled with all this Eurozone debt, so you can all just fuck off, we’re not paying you any more. Or, as they put it, they wish to ‘renegotiate’ their austerity package. Sadly though, they have nothing to put on the table. If you borrow 50 quid from your mate ’til payday’ and then don’t pay him back, you’re a bastard. And he probably won’t lend you another 50 quid next week. Where’s the room for ‘renegotiation’? When you need to keep borrowing but refuse to pay what you already owe?

Of course the Greeks don’t like austerity; its horrible and has left thousands of them in poverty with no jobs and no sign of jobs on the horizon. But I simply can’t see how refusing to pay back what you owe is the answer.

So on the eve of the elections I went to see Birdman, the movie about a failed and forgotten superhero movie star, played by failed and forgotten superhero movie star, Michael Keaton, the ‘first’ of the modern era Batmen, and the best of the tongue-in-cheek ones by some distance.

This is no superhero movie. Quite the opposite. Whatever that may be. Its very surreal, quite dark, interestingly confusing and raises many interesting points that you’re not aware its actually raising. It leaves you dazed and puzzled. But the ‘journey’ is such a great one that it doesn’t really matter. The acting is fantastic, the dialogue totally brilliant and the filming really beautiful. Its different. And that ain’t no crime when movie success is now measured in terms of financial performance as compared to Comic Hero movie franchises.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Poor King Abdullah. Died. Ahhhhhh. Wouldn’t wanna pay his inheritance tax bill. The tax alone would be £759,665,391,885,24,081 and 47p. But they don’t pay inheritance tax in Saudi Arabia. In fact kings and sheiks and shit don’t pay any taxes at all. Don’t need to. When you live in a nation that pumps about 40% of the world’s oil out of the ground every year, there’s money for everyone. Yippee. But are they happy? Oh, its that old one: money doesn’t necessarily make you happy, but it does make you miserable in much greater comfort.

And because Abdullah was a head of state, Britain has sent it representatives to his wake. And as we couldn’t find anyone decent to send, the job went to David Cameron and Prince Charlie. And its a fucking disgrace.

If the head of ISIS died, would we send the royals? Fuck no!! Because they’re a terrorist organisation who murder, repress and have no human rights considerations whatsoever. Ok, what about when Kim Jong Il died? Of course we didn’t send anyone; North Korea is an awful, brutal tyrannical regime in a rogue nation. So how about when Mugabe dies? Would we go??

Then there’s the grey bit. Russia? Iran? China??

And Saudi Arabia.

Why are they grey and not just ‘black’ like the examples above? They are all nations who abuse, repress, flaunt human rights, imprison people for nothing more than questioning their leaders, they torture, they inflict genocide, racial cleansing, colonialism. But unlike the obvious bad guys of the world, these nations are rich in products we use and are massive in trade with us.

So we turn a blind eye to the bad bits and call them ‘allies’ and go pay respects to dead leaders who really deserved no respect whatsoever. And that makes Britain a bunch of sodding hypocrites.

Suppose we forgive Saudi Arabia for its feudal system, for its virtual imprisonment of all its women, for its zero-tolerance, death-penalty attitude to homosexuality (unless its behind closed doors, of course), for its cutting off limbs as part of its ‘legal system’. Suppose we just put all that down to their ‘culture’, to their ‘adherence to Sharia’. Well, they’re a sovereign state, they can run their country how they please; they don’t have to adhere to our liberal, tolerant, deomocratic model, do they? Suppose we believe that.

But they fund international terrorism. From Al Quaeda to ISIS, from Hamas to every other terrorist group around; if you ‘follow the money’ its starts in Saudi.

Attend the funeral? I’d rather watch the Arsenal.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Amazing, the big three teams in the league all went out of the FA Cup today. Amazing. Incredible. Chelsea, the self-proclaimed ‘invincibles’ managed to lose at home to Bradford City? Who??? Bradford City. All those scuzzy northerner fans who made the long trek from Yorkshire, fully expecting to lose, and not really bothered as they’ve been saving for 9 months for beer moooneh. So they can each drink 16 pints of ‘soothern fookin pish’ to anaesthatise them from any loss. I hope at least a few were sober enough to appreciate how fantastic their team’s win was today.

Then Manchester City, the second best team in… well, possibly the country, possible in Manchester, but second best anyway, lost, again at home, to Middlesborogh. From so far up north it makes Bradford look relatively southerly. And Boro took the win back with them, leaving City ready to start yet another season’s lost opportunities dispite spending more on players and wages than any team in footballing history.

And, of course, the tragedy. Spurs, the third biggest club in the world, if you ignore all other bigger ones except 2, managed to again snatch defeat from the jaws of… well, the jaws of a draw, if not exactly victory against another shitty team. Bit of a bummer but reallly, I’d rather a loss than another sodding replay. We’re hanging onto everything barely, and with a lot of good fortune, we can bow out of this one, I feel. Annoying though it is to lose to Leicester. Even if it makes Gary Linneker happy.

More importantly, they’re talking of increasing the maximum speed limit on motorways from 70 to 80 mph. And there’s uproar, mainly from an organisation (of bike-riding tree-huggers, global warming defenders and hunt sabateurs) called ‘BRAKE’. Though others too have questioned this proposed increase. In fact I’m opposed to it too.

It should be 100.

80 is barely 4th gear. And what they should be doing is leaving speeding motorists alone, they’re generally the ones who know what we’re doing… ooops, what THEY are doing, and prosecute the ditherers. The imbeciles who hog the fast lane moving at 15mph below the limit. And once prosecuted they should have their licenses removed, and their legs, so they can’t drive again. Or just shoot them by the roadside and avoid all that costly legal bollocks.

80mph is 128 km/hour. Although some people (no names) see 80 and read it as ‘109’. Because if you drive faster than that you get a suspension but up to that just a few points and a fine.

Keep the roads safe: blow up a slow motorist today.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Andy Murray, the ‘British’ tennis champion, for just a little longer, as we wait for another try to divest ourselves of Scotland, has bemoaned the fact that when Rafa Nadal plays in pain and on medication he’s a hero and when Andy does the same he’s ridiculed as a ‘drama queen’ (Virginia Wade), a tosser (me) and a nonce (errrr, me again). He feels this is double standards being used, and not in his favour. Why?? Why is this? Why is the world so cruel???

Well, its all because one of these two players, and I won’t mention which is which, because its not my place to make judgments, but one is a lovely, heroic, charming Spanish hunk, who we all love dearly and the other is whinging miserable git. Double standards do apply, and so they should.

Because its the Australian Open at the moment and, er, there’s lots of tennis being played out there in Melbourne, none of which I’ve seen, because its not Wimbledon. But one bit I wish I’d seen was the post match interview of the delicious Canadian Eugenie Bouchard, which took place on court, as they do these days. The interviewer, during the analysis of cross-court backhands at game point and drive volleys in the 2nd set (yawn, yawn), asked Ms Bouchard if she’d ‘do a twirl’. And was immediately lambasted for ‘sexism’. Big fuss over this. And I can’t see why. Seems a perfectly normal request to me, totally in keeping with the nature of the game, which is that we watch the men for the tennis and the women for their underwear. The interviewer maintains that it was all relating to the new ‘fluoro’ kits the women, and some men, are wearing. Others maintain that in fact it was a bit weird, a bit pervy, a bit of a ‘Prince Andrew’ moment.

But the most bizarre shit to come out of Australia this week (and remember, ne’er a week passes when that fine nation fails to astound and amaze us) is the sad and rather pathetic ‘blackmail’ plot against Eoin Morgan, the English one-day cricket captain. Some Wally of a Wallaby demanded £35,000 from the English cricket board or else he would ‘reveal details of a relationship Eoin had with a girl 5 years ago!!!!!!’ A relationship that was perfectly normal (so far as we know), nothing extra-marital, 2 single, consenting adults, all strictly kosher. And 35 grand? A lot of money indeed, but enough to commit a crime? 35 million maybe, then at least he could go live in Argentina for the rest of his life (they’ve never been fussy about the history of individuals they accept over there) and eat steak 3 times a day forever. Which would be about 7 years til his heart gave up. But 35k? Pay off some of the mortgage? Buy a new car?? Fit a kitchen??? I wonder if they could pay him with PayPal?

Oh well, at least its Friday,

Have a lovely one

A xxxx

The end of an insTITution. Though its all for the breast, really. As The Sun newspaper ends its 44 year run of showing a semi-naked woman (actually ‘girl’ really) on page 3 every day. Instead they’re going to replace it with girls in bikinis. And having just returned from my time on the Copacabana beach, there’s very little difference between these two states of undress. A nipple or two is generally all that will be saved.

Page 3 is a British institution. Like the Queen. Though she never made it onto that pedestal herself. Eeeuuuuwww. But it was wrong. It was anti-feminist, it was seen (at the time) as ‘pornographic’ and smutty and generally ‘low’. Yet it sold 4 million copies of that newspaper every day. Obviously a lot of ‘low’ and ‘smutty’ people in Britain. And they weren’t buying The Sun for its stimulating journalism. Because its crap. Always has been. Except the football. Which is covered rather well and certainly extensively.

Hmmmmm… could there be a link between tits and football? Is there a common denominator?? Yes, of course there is, and he is very common. He’s your standard British, cor-blimey, salt-a-the-earth, look’a-the-rack-on-thatttttt, beer-swilling, under-educated, avin’-a-laaarf, pot-bellied, unwashed working man. Kind of a West Ham fan meets Nigel Farage. Though I abhor facile stereotyping.

And there’s at least 2 million of those. The other 2 million daily ‘readers’ (because most of them can’t or don’t) are schoolboys. Who love page 3. Even though they all now carry smartphones which can dial up a gang-rape S&M, Asian-babe video in 3.7 seconds. Apparently.

My main concern is that now there is going to be a great many breasts going around with nowhere to display. There’s been about 15,000 page three pictures; that’s 30,000 breasts. Where will they all go? What will they do with them?? Its a grave concern.

Page 3 turned Sally from Stevanage (who eats llama) and Kelli from Kiderminster (breeds budgerigars) and Heidi from Hull (makes all her own clothes, which is why she dresses like a tramp) into superstars. For one day. Because tomorrow April from Anglesey (tortures guinea pigs with car batteries) comes along and yesterday’s tits are all but forgotten. Except for the tragically sad and pathetic (you know who you are) who cut the pictures out and arrange them in a collage next to your bed. To impress your wife.

Yet some of these women made it far. Samantha Fox. Couldn’t sing for shit but we all loved to watch her because we knew what she looked like naked. Linda Lusardi. Jilly Johnson. Aaaaahhhhhhh, the mammories…

We won’t have the exploitation/empowerment argument here, basically because its a load of bollocks. Even though they never actually showed bollocks on page 3. Perhaps they should? Maybe they will?? And that’s what they’re making room for?

I personally shall really miss page 3. Even though I haven’t looked at The Sun since I was 14. But on the rule that anything that causes offense to silly people can only ever be a good thing, they should leave it where it is. However out of time, out of place and out of zeitgeist it may now be.

Something else to add to the very long list of ‘things we must never forgive Rupert Murdoch for’.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So we went from Iguasu in the furthest east of Argentina, to Salta, just a llama’s throw from the northern border with Bolivia, then far west to Mendoza, half an Inca from Chile, and then Patagonia, from where if you travel too much further south you’re in Antarctica. Ish. Then back east to Buenos Aires. So we ‘did it all’. Well, if you don’t count the 50 squillion square miles of ‘the bit in the middle’. Which is vast.

We finished our holiday with two nights on an Estanza. That’s a ranch to a know-nothing gringo like you. Just outside the city.

And like all big cities, it sprawls.

So we left the city, then went through the semi-industrialised, quasi-slumlike bits on the fringes, and then, suddenly, you are in the Pampas. Which you know because it is very green, it is very very flat, and it is fucking humungous in its endlessness. It goes on for… for… well, if the world was still flat (and I for one have never been fully convinced othewise) it would stretch right to the end before you fall off. Apparently soya is what they grow here. Farsands and farsands and farsands of acres of it.

We left the freeway, went on a ‘b’ road, then a ‘c’ road, and by the time we’d run out of letters, we’d run out of tarmac and the last 10 km or so was on a dirt track out in the wilds. Or, ‘polo country’ as they call it here.

Because Argentinians looooooove horses and they looooooooove polo. So our estanza was owned by a (French, apparently) man who loves polo. We had a polo field outside the front door. And they are big things. We had horses. Lots of horses. And we had cows. More than even we could eat in 2 days. And that (now) is a lorra cows. What they called the ‘garden’ was what we would call ‘Kent’. And yet was beautifully tended and mown.

So inevitably, they made us ride horses. Which is no problem for me because I’ve watched hundreds of Western movies, all the Clint Eastwoods and was a big Bonanza fan. So I know how to ride. Obviously. But Mel was nervous. I mean, really, how hard can it be???

First problem, horses don’t have doors. So how ya supposed to get in? Or on?? But we had our ‘gaucho’ to show us the way. Gauchos are like cowboys but smaller. Like rather camp little toy cowboys who happen to be very good at horsey things. Though you’d imagine not great at the boozin’, fightin’, whorin’ side of cowboy life. Naahh.

And so we went forth into the vast countryside on horseback. Like a donkey ride for grown ups. And it was fab and it was fine and no-one fell off.

And now we’re home. Its over. The 2014/15 leg of the World Tour is over. Bummer. Been a blast.

Happy monday

A xxxx

Now here’s ten things that you (probably) didn’t know about Buenos Aires. Unless you’ve been here in which case you forgot them as soon as the plane took off, because that’s the nature of things holidayish. They seem really important whilst happening, then your brain decides that the extra pint of milk required on the way home from the station is more important than the number of steps in the grand palace at ********* (pick palace of choice, unless you’ve forgotten the name as well).

1. Buenos Aires is big. Fucking massive. And incredibly gorgeous. Well, the bits we’ve seen. There are shitty bits but you just call a cab and for 2 quid it whisks you either to hospital (terrible drivers the cabbies) or to a really nice, green, tree-lined safe bit. They have here the widest avenue in the world!!!! Like anyone gives a shit. 142 metres wide. About 14 lanes of traffic. And so big it doesn’t even look like an avenue; it looks like a mess. And surprisingly its called Avenida de 9 Julio. Our favourite date. Other than May 25th.

2. BA people are called Portelinos. Literally means ‘swarthy footballing cheats’. Ok, it means ‘people of the port’. Because apparently there’s a port here. Haven’t been there.

3. The ethnic make-up of Buenos Aires is 44% Italian and 40% Spanish. And that’s a bit of a shocker in South America where you kind’a think everyone’s Spanish or Indiginous or some pleasant mix of the two. But no. The Italians came here in… er… well let’s say in 1857 (like you’d know any different) and brought with them their national characteristics. Bottom-pinching, cowardice, very defensive football and pizza. Every restaurant has pasta, (Italian) and steak (Argentinian) and nothing Spanish.

4. At the end of the 19th century Argentina was the richest country in the world. And BA was the richest place in Argentina. So it demolished all the gorgeous old Spanish colonial buildings, which are present in all their magnificent glory in every other South American city, and replaced them with, basically, replicas. At the start of the 20th century. So the buildings which look like 18th century colonial aren’t. And in deciding to become ‘the Paris of S. America’ the super-rich built palaces all over this city. Then, inevitably, poverty struck, recession came, depressions, military coups, whatever, and there’s hundreds of empty palaces around, if you want one cheap.

5. When rich people die they want to spend forever (rotting) in something palatial too. Why let your standard of living drop just because you’re dead? So they have, just 2 blocks from our hotel, the wonderful Recoleta Cemetery. Its a must see on every book about BA, and I love a good cemetery anyway. AND… Evita is buried there. So its a national shrine anyway. Andrew Lloyd Webber will probably be buried next door. The family crypts are massive, granite monuments, more like churches than graves, with magnificent statues, loads of crosses, Jesuses, alters, ante-rooms and, of course, the ‘whole family’ living (???) in the basements in their little wooden boxes. Brilliant place.

Ok, I lied about the ’10 things’.

Happy thursday

A xxxx