Andy's Glasses

Tis a curiously ironic fact, you’ll see, than there is, in fact, no… ehm
word in the English language that neatly rhymes with po-em.

And poetry is greatly needed today as a fitting tribute to a man called Kane,
a man who saved us all from horrendous and unrelenting pain.

That Harry Kane thus serves for us as a suitable anaesthetic
may in some eyes makes us look sad, silly and quite pathetic

Yet to lose to the Arsenal, our deepest of foes, would on the day
indeed fill us with more pain than in 50 Shades of Grey

Nipple clamps are nothing compared to Ozil scoring his lucky goal
It ripped out my heart, daggered into my chest and seared my very soul

The boss-eyed Turkish German wheeled round in joy and bliss
and that, for him, was the end of the match, he might as well have gone to take a piss

A very very long one, that lasted 80 minutes or more
his urologist would be wondering too whether the Kraut was getting rather sore,

He vanished away, whilst still the pitch, a feat not performed by many
his presence no longer felt, he became like the mist, contribution there wasn’t any

And thus Spurs battled on, with passion, with fight, with determination
everyone willing them on, in this and every other nation (except ISIS; they’re all gooners)

Eventually, inevitably, that pressure payed off rather well,
a corner, a flick-on, the Arsenal defence ignoring Harry as if he was a bad smell

So in at the far post, unmarked and all alone,
Harry, for the sins inflicted by Ozil’s goal, really didst atone

But it wasn’t over, there’s time left on the clock
The Arse woke up for a minute or two, but Lloris was like a rock

Then, 80-minutes plus; when a draw was looking rather sour
Super Harry Kane; cometh the man; cometh the hour.

Bentaleb put in a cross, long and curling and high,
Harry followed the ball, jumped and hung there, then connected sublimely, easy as fucking pie

The ball sailed in, the keeper floundered, defenders hung their heads in shame
They’d witnessed a miracle, they now believed in God, and his name is Harry Kane.

‘Free points is free points’, an opinion so often expressed,
doesn’t matter where you get them, winning is always for the best

But free points against the Arsenal is immediately worth six at least
To beat the enemy, to put things right, to finally tame the beast.

I could almost feel sorry for the Arse, but only almost indeed,
For forth place in the league we have certainly sown the seed.

The sun doth shine, the heavens are appeased, the birds sing their merry song
A gorgeous day in London; Wenger pondering where it all went horribly wrong.

Happy happy HAPPY Sunday

A xxxx

The Six Nations rugby tournament starts tonight. England playing Wales. Ooooooooohh. That’s a big one. Its World Cup year in rugby so this is a great little hors d’oeuvres to serve up to the starving nations. Although rugby players generally don’t look too malnourished. So a mini-feast of sport awaits us.

All started, last Sunday night (round here) by the Superbowl. The world’s biggest sporting event. According to Americans. The ‘football’ world cup final may have more viewers but it doesn’t have as many singers at half time. And not as many costume changes by those singers either. As Katy Perry managed to wear 3 different ‘things’ in a 12.5 minute break. At Spurs during the half time break, we may get Martin Chivers, or Pat Jennings, maybe Stevie Perryman, to come on and say a few words. No-one cares what they wear. And they rarely sing. And never change clothes. But that’s only because most matches aren’t televised live and no-one needs to worry about advertising rates dropping for those precious minutes. At $3million per minute, you can’t let attention from the screen lapse. Not for the gridiron fans the long queue for a cuppa tea and the longer queue to piss against the wall in a dingy ‘bog’ under the pitch.In the game itself one of the teams (big guys, crash helmets, tattoos) beat the other team (big guys, crash helmets, tattoos) by 28 to 24. The winning team was the New England Patriots who are led by Tom Brady, or ‘Mr Giselle Budchen’ for non-footballing aficionados. The other team were the Seattle Seahawks but no one cares because we don’t tolerate losers.

Could you call Christiano Ronaldo a ‘loser’? Well, the world player of the year (this is ‘real’ football now, by the way, not that silly padded-up one) turned 30 and as well as his CR7 range of underpants has further diversified and has given his tips for a healthier life. Or, as its known in vainer circles; a 6-pack like his. In yer fuckin’ dreams. I imagined something useful, life-affirming, holistic, like ‘wake up; do a thousand sit-ups; have breakfast, do another 1000. Watch tv whilst doing 2000 more. Eat lunch (salad), 1000 sit-ups. Speak portuguese, do 1000 sit-ups’. But it wasn’t even that good. It was vague and namby-pamby and possibly just got lost in the translation but it was all ‘eat well; healthy stuff’ and ‘get your mind in the place to help you exercise’ and ‘I really am much better than Messi’. Still he must start thinking about life after football. He’s getting old.

Tomorrow sees the actual biggest game in world sport. In my house anyway. Spurs play the Arsenal at the Lane. And there’s so much at stake. Like pride. And pride. And shame. And pride. This match has nothing to do with 4th place, 9th place or even Katy Perry in a stars-and-bars onesy. Its just about ‘bragging rights’. Well, for Spurs fans its about bragging rights, for Arsenal fans its about smugness rights. And if we lose (heaven forbid) I’m not going to work Monday. Nor tuesday, wednesday or the rest of February and half of March. Nor go to my coffee shop or anywhere else where I might be patronised or given the lecture of ‘the nature of football and the management of teams’. Because causing actual bodily harm is a crime, even against Gooners, and I don’t wish to go to prison.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Have you ever thought that men and women are different from each other? Ever crossed your mind? Do you still have a mind? Or has your wife battered it into a mere empty vessel on a life-support system (if you call that ‘life’) that exists for the sole purpose of agreement with her? Or him? (Very 2015; wives can be anyone). “Yes, Dear”. “OK, Dear”. “If you say so, Dear”.

Well fuck that; WE ARE DIFFERENT. And its not just about football. No. Very different. Mainly physically. In case you hadn’t noticed. Men are sort of… manly, muscly (at one time in their lives), streamlined, athletic (phah! right!!!), whereas women are softer, smoother, curvier. They have areas that men simply lack. Or lack to the same extent. Women have a higher proportion of fat. There; I’ve said it. And in this case, uniquely, its not an insult, its SCIENTIFIC, innit? Clinically proven. Although many men, purely in an attempt to reduce this difference in order purely to please their women, unselfishly increase their own BMI by the consumption of 9 pints of beer every day to load up a proper ‘gut’. Such sacrifice.

So women have breasts. And bottoms. That men (well, most men) simply lack in those proportions. And these are fatty areas that men (real men, like me) have turned into muscle, over evolutionary periods. Ok, men grow ‘moobs’ but only because they’ve turned 40. But generally, that’s the domain of the females of the species.

Thus when men go looking for a mate, not in a ‘building sitey’ kind of, me mate Dave, way, but as in someone to mate with, they get a bit obsessed about these fatty areas. An obsession which for some sad individuals never, ever leaves them and fills every waking, and half their sleeping, lives for all eternity. And who would you want to mate with. Ok, ‘all of them’ is really neither constructive nor appropriate in a monogamous society. You want that; go become a Mormon. So for your wife, do you choose slim, petite, boney Carla Delevigne, Miley Cyrus types? Or some luscious lard-arse from Lancashire?

Because we have now learned, from proper, scientific type boffins, that those fatty areas on women are there not just for the titillation, obsession and seduction of boys/men, but they are to provide essential nutrients for their children. Who, whilst breastfeeding, ingest the ultra-healthy DHA fats which make those children brainy. And the biggest source of DHA in the world is Kim Kardashian’s bum. It said so in the paper, so it must be true. Women with bigger bums make brainier kids. Full stop. So you can keep Brigitte Bardot and Milla Jovovitch and Rita bleedin’ Ora; I’m after Hattie Jaques. And next time I see some immense backside waddling thigh-smackingly up the road (I’m gonna say in Huddersfield), instead of being disgusted by the state of the nation’s obesity, I’m going to propose to her. Well, to her arse anyway. Which is not so much mere flab as ‘our children’s Oxbridge entry’.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

In about 1968 I went Valentines Park in Ilford to watch cricket. Essex always played one of their fixtures at ‘our’ park, so it seemed rude not to go. It was a lovely summer day, bright and sunny, in the school holidays, and the cricket, against Gloucester, was as boring as any middle day of a league match could be. So at the tea break my mates and I ventured outside into the park and joined a kickabout. Three older guys came over and joined in too. They were some geezer who’s name (and career) I’ve forgotten, Frank Lampard Senior and Harry Redknapp (the 1st and hopefully only). And they were just great. They didn’t show off, they didn’t play rough, they never asked for a bung, they were just lovely guys enjoying football. And they signed all our scorecards and cricket bats and everything else, because even back then Harry could just about manage to write his own name. Thus I’ve always had a soft spot for Harry Redknapp. My mate.

But do I trust him? Do I believe his stated motivations, intentions and excuses?? Of course not. The man’s a rogue, a villain, one of life’s ‘colourful characters’, a euphemism for someone that causes you to check your watch is still there after a handshake. The watch on the courtroom where he was acquitted of tax evasion was definitely missing afterwards.

Unfortunately, after that fiasco of a trial, Harry was put forward as the next most likely England manager, a job he’d always lusted over. He never got the job, but the media frenzy surrounding Harry over the months of the trial and the job threw Spurs’ season completely out of kilter. He was our manager. We loved him. He took us to the promised land (Champions League) and showed us how great life could be. Then he pulled the rug away brutally after dominating the front pages for 3 months. He took his eye off the ball. Understandably in some ways, but no more easy to swallow for knowing the reasons.

So when he left Spurs I wasn’t sorry. Life had become about him, not the team.

And now he’s left Queens Park Rangers. For knee surgery. Which obviously couldn’t wait another 3 months til the season’s end, even though he’s carried the problem for years. No, it has to be NOW. Leaving QPR in the shit.

Maybe his ‘resignation’ was just a nice way of saying that Tony Fernandez sacked him. If so that’s rather odd timing, even for the impetuous Tony Fernandez. But never mind, Tim Sherwood, the stand-in’s stand-in, will take over at the club til the end of the season.

I’d love to know the real story here. Answers (or mere speculations) on a postcard, per-lease.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

Remember Dominique Strauss-Kahn? He was the head of the International Monetary Fund who stood down after he was accused of raping a chambermaid in New York. Those criminal charges were eventually dropped more quickly than a hooker’s underpants… and that’s where the next problem starts.

He’s in court now (appearing for three weeks only, limited availability so book NOW to avoid disappointment) on charges of ‘aggravated pimping’. They obviously have different laws in France. So I’m not sure where the ‘aggravated’ bit comes in. He’s on trial with 13 others, one of whom is named, wonderfully: Dodo the Pimp. He owns a brothel near Lille. Apparently a really famous and good one, if you’re interested.

So Dominique, who at one time was a presidential hopeful (and to be honest, I can’t see any of this rubbish impeding him in France, they revere debauchery there like we revere intellectualism, honesty and big tits), is accused of arranging orgies. Big ones. Loads of women… er… arranged? organised?? acquired??? purchased???? And all for one purpose. To satisfy him. Just him. Dozens of babes, tarts and sluts, all over the fat git like a fucking rash. But literally so, I’d presume, a rash that fucks.

One girl, hired for the night, entered a room to find 8 naked women all over Dominique. She was ‘revolted’ and left. Now she’s the one I’d take to court, for breach of contract. What was it about people having sex that so upset a sex worker, who makes her living having sex with fat old rich men?

The problem for the prosecution (as opposed to the prostitution, which had no such problems) is that ‘pimping’ is defined as living off immoral earnings. And DS-K earned nothing. Unless you can put monetary value on an orgasm (or 8), he arranged hookers for him and his mates, but didn’t earn any profit from it that couldn’t be wiped away with a tissue. Yet the case continues, even though its virtually assured to fall flat.

And if everyone knows that, the only purpose must be to ‘make a moral stand’ against poor Dom. To take issue with his lifestyle. (Obviously, of the 8 or so women on top/underneath/around the man that night, safe to say not one was his wife). So they want to point out his bad habits, his immoral desires and practices.

Well good luck taking immorality to court in France. There is no French word for ‘morality’; doesn’t exist, has no place in their world. To such an extent that even now, 79% of French people would rather have Strauss-Kahn as president than Hollande. A man who embarrassed himself with merely one mistress.

I’d vote for Dominic, even if he has seemed to model his political career on Sylvio Berlusconi.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I think we’ve found the next American Sniper. And he’s just three years old. Rummaging around in his mother’s handbag (as ya do), ‘looking for an ipod’, apparently, but I reckon he was looking for cash to go and buy drugs, he came across a 9mm handgun. And although the weapon had hardly any tunes loaded on it, there were other things loaded instead. The kid fired the gun which managed to hit both his father and his mother. Just one shot. 2 hits. In dad’s ass, out through his hip and into mummy’s arm. Great shootin’, kiddo!!!

They need more guns in America. And they need to keep them lying around. What use is a weapon if its unloaded and locked in a secure cabinet??

But more importantly, today is the last day of the January ‘transfer window’ in football. Even though its February. The rule is that the last day has to be on a weekday because it gives Sky Sports tv something to waste an entire day upon. And its LIVE and UP TO THE MINUTE and AS IT HAPPENS with commentary by the usual team of ‘at de end’a da day’ and ‘game’a tooo alves’ pundits spurting tired and sad clichés about every possible movement and implication, every bid, every speculative possibility. And if you did that on the weekend nobody would watch it because there’s actual football being played which is far more interesting. Except Southampton versus Swansea which was so interesting I fell asleep for an hour, just waking up in time to see Jonjo Shelvey hit a stunning winner. Which made me happy from a purely selfish perspective as we really need Southampton to be lower down the league at this time. We have enough trouble with resurgent Manchester United and bloody Arsenal and can well do without usurpers from the South Coast getting in the way of our quest for 4th place. And much as I have no other issues with Southampton, I rather like Swansea City.

So today will see loads of activity. Not as much as the final day of the August ‘window’ because traditionally, January is for panic buys and losers. Making Emanuel Adebayor’s possible move to QPR almost perfect.

For Spurs this window is about unloading. Its about surplus to requirements being shown the door. Hopefully, as well as Adebayor, Aaron Lennon may make the move up to Hull. Lucky Aaron. He can enjoy the excitement of a relegation battle. Etienne Capoue is set to leave too, even though most of us have forgotten he even played for Spurs still, and Vlad Chiriches is on the way as well. Sadly a lot of prospective moves are merely ‘on loan’ deals. However, unloading dead wood is good for the soul; is therapeutic, cathartic. And dead wood is something of a speciality for my team. We collect it like others collect art. Or guns.

Happy Transfer Day

A xxxx

Went to see American Sniper last night. Because its on. And Oscar nominated. And got lots of stars from lots of critics. And because some friends said; ‘let’s go see American Sniper’. Mel didn’t know much about it, I’d read reviews. She doesn’t like war films, I’m ambivalent. Not my favourite genre (that’s reserved for pretentious, art-house, confusing, preferably sub-titled, surreal, low-budget flicks, starring a French mega-babe who falls in love with an emu in a dream-within-a-dream scenario involving fem-bots. And it has to be funny) but heh, I’ll go see anything.

So after about an hour-and-a-half, during the ‘hero’s’ 9th ‘tour’ of Afghanistan, with its latest round of shooting and killing, my she-friend turned and said she really didn’t expect so much killing, shooting, warfare. What the fuck, I enquired politely, did she expect from a movie called American Sniper???

Cos what you get is a man who was absolutely brilliant at killing people from a long way away. Insurgents, wearing their keffiyahs and holding anti-tank grenades were no problem, the women suicide bombers caused a minor moment of conscience-twinge, as did the children he had to shoot because they indeed represented a clear-and-present danger.

And its the (true) story of the man who was the ‘winningest’ sniper of all time. A killing hall-of-famer. The captain of the all-pro sniping team. If they’d had one. Afghanistan’s MVP. Being directed by Clint Eastwood kind’a tells you what you’re gonna get.

Americans revere guns. And shooters. And as I sat there watching this great exponent of the art of death, in Swiss Cottage, I couldn’t help but think that in other places the action would have been greeted differently. In Austen Texas, or Omaha Nebraska, or Bum-fuck Idaho, I reckon there would have been whooping and cheering greeting every kill-shot. Because in any situation involving America versus Somewhere else, there are simply no moral considerations whatsoever. In fact that was the Sniper’s thing. He was protecting America and Americans. And maybe he was. But to really appreciate that film I think you really have to be a part of that ‘God Bless America’ mentality and drive a pick-up.

Though it is enjoyable. In a gunny sort of way. Bradley Cooper is good, in a starey, blue-eyed manner. Sienna Miller does laughing gaily and crying despondently in equal measure, alternating between her scenes.

Right, time for tennis.

Harry Kane is a God.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

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