Andy's Glasses

Chelsea suffered the abject humiliation and dire, almost-unheard-of misery yesterday of actually not winning a match. What a fucking tragedy. How shameful. Can they ever hold their gelled-up heads up again in decent company? Not that Chelsea players would mix with decent company.

And so unaccustomed are the boys in blue to such failings that their esteemed manager had to not only find someone to blame, but to extend his blame-mongering, which we’re almost used to, into a full-blown conspiracy theory. His own word: ‘a conspiracy’ of English referees against Chelsea!!!!! Because yet again his flailing swans failed to receive a penalty decision after a double-salchow, triple-somersault pirhouette in the box by Cesc Fabregas. Which looked not totally dissimilar to last weekend’s effort by Ivanovic or the previous weekend’s by Costa.

Chelsea are the only team to have a training section for ‘penalty acquisition’. The head coaches are Darcey Bussell and Tom Daley. And their players are encouraged to leap around collapsing at every possible opportunity. Then, when this practice wins a penalty, that’s a win, and when it doesn’t nothing’s lost. In fact there’s a gain. You gain a reputaion for being a bunch of diving, cheating, horrible little tossers. Unless you can come up with a pretty damned good excuse. Or even a laughably pathetic one, like a conspiracy theory.

Jose Morinho is two seperate people; the lovely, cuddly, handsome, smiling, generous version when Chelsea have just won, and the miserable stupid wanker when they don’t.

Mauricio Pochettino only has one persona: unintelligable Argentinian. But at least he’s consistent and nice. Even when, as yesterday, no penalty was awarded after Wayne Rooney’s penatly area semi-strangulation bear-hug on Harry Kane waiting (patiently) for a corner kick. Perhaps because realistically, a point is a good result against a suddenly quite awesome Man United, or perhaps because he shows class.

The final Homeland of the current series aired last night and I almost watched it live. What a brilliant series. If they award an award for the most jittery, nervy, manic, unpredictably bi-polar character ever on tv, it would be a toss-up between Claire Danes and Jeckyl & Hyde. She is totally brilliant whilst constantly making you feel nervous and uncomfortable whilst watching her.

Happy Monday from sunny Heathrow, Terminal 5.

A xxxx

There’s only two basic options for tennis on Sunday mornings at this time of year. Icy or wet. Neither of which is what can be considered ‘ideal’ playing conditions, neither would entice the Federers and the Murrays onto the court; they’d either play on their indoor court or have someone else play for them. A proxy. A servant. But for mere mortals like me, if the choice is not playing or playing in dire and somewhat dangerous conditions (if my wife is to be believed), then there is no choice. You play on an ice rink or a water hazard, because you’re a man. And men are supposed to be brave. And supposed to be ‘on the edge’ and supposed to be stupid.

This morning was the former. Icy. Just a little, which would have melted but the glorious sunshine was just to thin and weak to arrange much meltage. Though not so weak and think or even high enough in the sky that it couldn’t cause temporary blindness for every high-ish ball. That being one high enough to make it over the net. But its worth it. Because I need exercise after my days of excess. And particularly before the days of excess which are about to follow.

Yet before we fly off there’s just the little matter of Manchester United at the Lane. ‘3 easy points’ you may say. Well I’m not so sure. Not so confident. But…

But if we do beat them (from my typewriter to G-d’s ears) and should West Ham draw with the Arse, and if Chelsea, as expected, beat Southampton, and if the season was to finish at six o’clock today; we’d be in 4th place and Harry Kane would play Champions League football next year. And I’d go away a happy man. The happiest man.

Neil Warnock gets axed by Crystal Palace. Who sort of axed him already once, but didn’t do it properly so the whinging northerner stayed there to oversee Palace’s progress from bottom-of-the-table strugglers to bottom-of-the-table strugglers. Not enough though for the powerful men at Selhurst Park who fear the drop, both in leagues and income stream. Drop down a division, well, THAT division and they take back the brand new Bentley and replace it with a 14 year-old Nissan Micra. The players leave, either because they want to or because you can’t afford them any longer, then your wife leaves you to go marry a proper, Premiership owner wot can keep ‘er in da bling and stuff she’s got used ta. The kids are ashamed by the drop in lifestyle and accuse you of ‘ruining their lives’ and you have to start visiting places like Haretlepool and Rochdale on a regular basis.

So you need a saviour. Someone who can keep your team up ‘where they belong’. So you bring in Tim Sherwood. Probably. And he’s the man because… er… because he… hmmmm… well, he did a pretty good job at Spurs, even though he makes my skin crawl.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

To eat meat or not to eat meat, that seems to be the constant question. Though not necessarily at this rather excessive time of year, but a very valid question for January. When we (should) consider such moral quandaries and dilemmas.

My relationship with animals was best summed up on a safari in South Africa a decade ago. We went out just before sunset and saw magnificent sights, like thousands of zebra and wildebeest roaming the plains, herds of elephants with their young, dozens of kudu and springbok running majestically across the land, ostriches, giraffes, rhinos, wow. Amazing. In the wild. Wow. And it was truly magnificent, and an unquestionable ‘don’t I love animals’ moment for all the family.

Then the truck took us to a tented area where they barbecued zebra and kudu and springbok and ostrich and served them with flat bread and salad. Without any irony. And it was fucking delicious.

Because I have an almost infinite capacity for dissociation. I dissociate the living, breathing (biting, attacking, smelly) animal from the serving that appears on my plate. Or in the butchers in the cold cabinet. Different things, different purposes, different morality. I hate reading that Siberian Tigers may become extinct, or that 5000 acres of decimated rainforest endangers the Madagascan primates. But I’ll be reading that whilst eating a burger. Or a turkey.

Whether this dissociation occurs out of necessity, naivety or just plain ignorance, I’m happy for it. Its a blessing, not a curse, and I feel in no way hypocritical in this respect. Or putting it another way: I don’t give a shit; it is what it is.

And that dissociation is the same facility that prevents me from punching Arsenal fans when I see them. I hate the collective smugness that is epidemic amoung the Emirates faithful, that supercilious, almost billious superiority that accompanies their every movement, word and action, yet I can love some of them dearly as individuals. Seperate the one from the herd. The cow from the steak. And by the same token this may be morally wrong. I perhaps should punch each and every one of them at each and every opportunity, like I should never eat meat (unless my life depended upon it, or it was roadkill) but I seperate and make my choices.

If only Spurs had chosen to beat West Brom at home earlier in the season. Or Newcastle when they were really shitty. Then we’d be 4 in the league right now. But we cannot mourn such lost opportunites. Even though we really fucking want to. Because that path leads to depression, to despondency, to dark thoughts.

Never mind, off to Brazil and Argentina in two days to consider all my moral issues whilst eating nothing but steaks. Huge, red, dripping…

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Who needs a partridge in a pear tree?? Unless they’re holding a shotgun at the time, like Prince Edward’s son and heir, and its hunting season. For those who like semi-mouldy birds filled with lead pellets. Unlike me. I don’t like ‘game’ particularly. Much as I don’t like West Ham particularly, and they lost to Chelsea today so we have to wait and see how that affects their SSD. Seasonal Smugness Disorder. Or Football Seasonal smugness Out of Order. As the case may be.

But all those swans-a-swimmin and lords-a-leapin and all that bollox; who needs that? Maids-a-milkin has potential, and you do get eight of them, but quite frankly, you can keep the rest, my ‘true love’.

On the first day of Chris-mas my true love gave to me:
The best turkey anyone’s ever cooked, other than Jamie Oliver but he’s a nob, and Nigella, and she cheats. Our turkey was sublime. So that was brilliant. And everyone said it was the best turkey they’d ever eaten. Though I was still holding the carving knife at the time of asking.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
3 points at Leicester. Brilliant and, once again, apparently completely undeserved, and again, once again, Erikssen scores the winner late in a game when we’re not looking too good.

AND

Sky Sports, as for some legal reason unable to show a game of football at 3 o’clock, even on a Friday, showed instead ‘the best goals of 2014’. No commentary, no ‘talking heads’, or even ‘talking morons’, like they usually have; they didn’t list them, nor rank them, nor get some tossers to vote, they just showed brilliant goals from all over Europe, as far away as Galataseray, Barcelona and Hartlepool..

On the third day of Christmas my true love is giving to me:
Tai Chi at 8.15 in the morning. And having not moved from a dinner table in 3 days, other than to turn on the tv, open another bottle of wine and stagger to bed, physical activity is as wanted as it is trying.

On the 4th day of Christmas my true love is bringing:
Manchester United to White Hart Lane. Not sure whether that is ‘5 go-old rings’ or 3 French Hens.

On the 5th day of Christmas I’m flying to Rio and quite frankly, I don’t give a shit much after that. Though I’d be fibbing if I wasn’t planning just a little trip to see the Maracana, a search for Pele so I can prostrate myself in front of him (and take a selfie), and spend time on the Copa Cobanna looking for the women’s beach vollyball team. And mugging Brazilians before they can mug me.

Happy Boxing Day.

A xxxx

I spent half of last night watching Mel scribbling down tips for cooking a turkey from first, Jamie Oliver’s Cockney Christmas Cooking C-C-C-programme (wasn’t called that but he does enunciate somewhat abysmally and if you don’t add the ‘cockney’ as some kind of intention then he just becomes a little street-urchin who can cook), followed by Nigella’s ultra-sensual breast-fest (hers and the turkey’s) involving lots of finger-licking, purring, chocolate sauce and sex toys. Where cookery meets soft-core porn. No problem with that.

Because we’re making Christmas dinner today. Because its fucking Christmas, innit. And in 28 years of the most wonderfully happy marriage (mine), or 28 years of miserable slavery (hers), this is our first. We’re never here at Christmas. Its our holiday time. When I remove the shackles which normally tie Mrs Conway to the oven and washing machine and release her into the wild (Heathrow) from where we go and find winter sunshine. Otherwise she gets depressed in all that dark, cold winter wank.

But this year our trip, to South America, starts on the 29th due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ (Air Miles flights) and thus, here I am, on Christmas morning looking out on a bright, sunny London for the first time in decades and trying to decide whether to stuff a sodding turkey, and if so, how many minutes per kilo will that require before the ‘resting time’ after cooking? Resting time? Like the bird is knackered and needs a nap? Its fucking dead? How tired can it be??

After Jamie and Nigella (ohhhhh, Nigella…) I watched Top of the Pops, 1979 Christmas Special. Or ‘not very special’ as you realise as soon as Bony M hit the screen.

I loved TOTP, as did every kid, every teen, every young adult, from 1964 to 2006 when we’d all grown up and realised it was absolute shit presented by child molesting perverts and featuring the great and the rubbish who were not allowed to perform live. How was that ever allowed to happen? I mean, for Brotherhood of Man and Gary (paedo) Glitter, its what you’d expect, and more than you need. But at times when the greats, the Marc Bolans and David Bowies, the Who, Stones, Nirvana, Jimi Hendrix, even the Beatles, all had to mime. As a ‘concession’ the BBC let them pre-record a backing track specially for the programme, but really, what bollox. Which is why Rod Steward performed Maggie May whilst kicking a football with John Peel pretending to play the mandolin. When Simon Le Bon’s mike flew offstage at the start of a song he just shrugged his shoulders and mimed into the mike-stand. And when they gave a live mike to Kurt Cobain he swore and told everyone to take drugs. Bless him.

So why did we watch it? Why bother??

Because of the ‘dancers’. Not just any dancers but consistently the worst, most arrhythmic, terrible dancers in the world. They auditioned them, Pans People and Legs & Co, specifically for their ability to dance like Peter Crouch who hadn’t even been born yet, or Stephen Hawking, and for their legs.

And it worked.

Happy Christmas, again

A xxxx

if I sang out of tune; would you stand up and walk out on me?

The wondrous Joe Cocker took those words, previously sung so… er… so… so mediocre-ly by Ringo, and elevated them to a new plane. And elevated himself to superstardom at the same time. Woodstock time. Yet more cast-iron proof that excessive drugs and alcohol, when mixed in just the wrong measures, produce simply perfect music. Ever since proper music gave way to ‘clean-living’ boy-band type tossers and they allowed vegans to write songs during Pilates, it has been the death of proper music. Which is why I won’t listen to anything post-1986. Other than shitloads of exceptions.

Anyway, poor Joe Cocker, died this week. 70 years old. Not particularly ancient but them’s the breaks.

Another who died way too young, back in 1982, was John Belushi, who lived a clean and healthy lifestyle. Other than cocaine by the kilo and any other drugs he could get up his nose, in his veins, down his throat. I loved John Belushi as he simply epitomised the extreme of ‘fuck you!!!’ attitude. And he used to do the most fantastic impersonation of Joe Cocker. The voice, the frantic mannerisms, everything, quite brilliant. One night on Saturday Night Live, Joe Cocker was the guest and they did a Joe Cocker duet. It takes a big man to stand up next to someone essentially charicaturising your every movement, so I guess Joe was a big man. John Belushi was very big.

And now they’re both dead. They’ve moved to the entertainment section in heaven. Which is fucking massive. So much talent.

But heh, its Christmas Eve! Bet you didn’t know that. So I thought I’d mention. Tonight Santa comes down the chimney, yeah, good luck with that, Fatso, and delivers presents for everyone except me. I don’t think I ever bought in to the whole Santa Claus shtick. I couldn’t work out how the presents went from the shops where we bought them, over to Lapland and back again, and who was paying whom? And how could he visit every house in the world in just 12 hours. Ok, plus time differences. Didn’t know you could get jet-lag from a sodding reindeer. I was such an annoying little fucker back then. Lucky I changed so profoundly then. Yeah. Right.

Well happy Christmas to all,

A xxxx

Spurs won again. For the 3rd time 7 days. Swansea, Newcastle, Burnley; we even won a league match at home. And that never happens. Lamela scored a scorcher, starting to pay off his (outrageous) price-tag already. Its only been 18 months and that must be his third league goal. But more importantly, as the young Argie swept in from the right wing, cut inside and hit a stunning left-foot curling shot inside the angle of the goal, other than the lack of ear flappage it could have been Gareth (the Lord) Bale. Who himself, sorry, Himself, could not have had a worse, protracted start for Spurs. Harry Kane is now a god too. Just with a small ‘g’ for the moment. But he keeps on scoring and that is a price above rubies. Which is probably just what we’ll sell him for next year, when he’s really fantastic.

But it was a good weekend for football, not just for Spurs. Unless you support Newcastle, Hull, West Brom, Palace, Stoke or perhaps even Arsenal on the logic that if Liverpool’s draw felt like a win then Arsenal’s must, quid pro quo, feel like defeat. And the Arse had 35% possession during that match. Their lowest ‘since records began’. So for shitty performances, this was Arsenal’s Tsunami, their Hurricane Dorothy, 17 feet of snow in 2 hours. That kind’a day. There again, they drew? If you can play your worst and still draw, how bad can ya be? Or how bad can Liverpool be? For not capitalising on it?

Manchester City had no such problems. Which they rarely do. But only if Toure and Silva are both playing well. Aguero they miss but survive, Yaya and little David are way more important. And sadly, they’re both pretty fit.

At least until they go to Stoke. The pre-emergency ward of the Premiership. The Britannia. Where the fit and healthy go to die. Where the line between ‘physicality’ and ‘common assault’ becomes blurred. Like Spurs, over dozens (literally) of managers, thousands of players, decades of time, maintain their total devotion to ‘the beautiful game’, to fast, flowing, pretty football, transcending all those who might change it (for something more productive, even), so Stoke are the Rottweilers of the league. Different players, different managers, their devotion to ‘the ugly game’ is as enduring as it is bloody. And it was bloody last night. Oddly, referees seem to downgrade offenses at that stadium. So a blatant red-card, stud-up lunge is awarded a mere yellow. Well, its Stoke, what d’ya expect?? they seem to echo. To get a straight red someone’s pulse has to actually stop for more than 25 seconds. Or a limb severed.

The win of the weekend though was QPR’s after being 2-0 down at home to West Brom. Harry Rednapp’s advanced twitching mode ensured the win, as it tends to go into overdrive with every goal his team concedes.

And now its Christmas time. Or ‘football time’ as some of us think of it.

Happy eve of Xmas eve.

A xxxx

“Jesus Christ!!!!” exclaimed the CEO of a massive, mulit-national retail perveyor of semi-erotic underwear, “this is Christmas, for fuck sake, it has nothing to do with Jesus Christ”. (Well, he could have done, couldn’t he? I might have made it up but I might not).

What have we become? Where have we ended up? What is the state of the world when Christmas is now measured entirely in terms of sales figues, percentage increase on the high street, the effect of Black Friday on the Christmas boom, and now, even, whether the rapidly declining rouble will reduce sales in the next three days in London. Presumably as the Russian trillionaires decide to replace their Christmas turkey with 3-for-2 frozen pizzas from Asda. Which are now, incidentally, so ‘loaded with goodness’ that they count as one of your five a day. Though four more like that and you probably won’t live til Xmas.

So I think it is time to become a little spiritual. To divest ourselves of our materialistic constraints for just a few moments, to get in touch with our inner Christ and go back to what Christmas was before its cynical exploitation by the marketing departments. To what Christmas was, where it began, what it really stands for in its own context.

Its the story of a baby. Born in Bethlehem. Which is now in the occupied West Bank and run by Fatah under the Palestinian Authority. But then it was just Bethlehem, a home to Christians. Though logically, not til after the first Christmas. Obviously. So it was full of Jews, mainly, and Arabs. Though in fact the prophet Mohammed wasn’t born until 570 AD so that left just the Jews. And pagans. Anyway…

A young Jewish couple, Joseph, a shepherd, and Mary, who was constrained by the ‘glass ceiling’ even then and gave up her aspirations to become the Chairperson of a FOOTSIE 100 company and had to be a housewife. Though Mary was childless. Which was unsurprising because she was a virgin. And they’re generally a childless group. We’ll ignore issues regarding whether an unconsummated marriage is in fact any marriage at all, but cut to the relevant bit.

Mary, the virgin, pitches up at home one night when Joseph’s been out probably having illicit thoughts about his sheep all day, hopefully not actions, but marriage to a virgin couldn’t have been easy on Joe, and Mary announces that she’s pregnant.
” You fucking toe-rag of a slapper!” sayeth Joseph, understandably, “you dirty whore-bag slut!!! You been hanging round with Matthew Mark and Luke again? You dirty slaaaaaggg!!!”

“Naaah, Joey, it weren’t nuffink like dat, honest, I ain’t bin screwin’ nobody. Errrrrr, God diddit. Honest. God dunnit when I was sleepin’, and now I’m gonna have His baybeeee, ain’t I?”

I can only assume that Bethlehem in the just-BC era was nothing like Camden Town today, or Huddersfield, where such cries would have been met with a slap and laughter. They were more naive then. More believing.

And so it came to pass that Jesus Christ, the son of God was born (on Christmas dayyyyyyyyyy).

How we got from there to 4.6 billion quid spent in Oxford Street in 9 days is quite frankly beyond me.

But I’m not a Christian.

Happy Sabbath day to those who are.

A xxxx

The movie The Interview, written, directed and starring Seth Rogan, will doubtless be full of nob jokes, sexual innuendo, bare breasts, slapstick and probably would be quite funny. For which, in order to interpret such things, you need nothing more than ‘a sense of humour’.

Which is banned in North Korea. Along with most other ‘freedoms’ that we take for granted. Freedom to eat. To speak when we want. To eat pizza. To get blind drunk and throw up on someone else’s car.

And this movie, that we’ll never get to see, also includes the assassination of Kim Jong Un, the esteemed (phah) leader of the North Korean people. A man so clever, gifted, intelligent, wordly, experienced and just that he was a natural for the role. And that he was the son of Kim Jong Il; that didn’t hurt the cause much either. Along with the fact that there is no Korean word for ‘vote’ but there are seventy-six for ‘army’, ‘execution’ and ‘prison camp for life’.

So the North Korean government hacked into Sony Pictures computers, took loads of sensitive information and threated to expose it all if the film was shown. Oh, and while we’re there, we’ll blow up any cinemas that choose to show the movie. Nice. That’s what Koreans call ‘politics’ and we call terrorism.

Sony Pictures immediately stopped release of the film everywhere, even though that’s pissing the $48million it cost to make down the drain. But heh, we can’t be risking our cinema-goers, and more importantly, our insurance policy after a threat of terrorism.

Actually, you can. You bloody should and you almost must do just that. George Clooney said so and I agree with him.

So here’s what you do. You open the film in 1000 cinemas across America on Boxing Day, as planned. And if no-one gets killed in the first week, then you open it here too in February.

If you give in to terrorist threats you are unworthy. You are cowardly. You are a nob. The next thing there’ll be a song someone doesn’t like, or a play, or a stand-up comedian, and the Koreans will be demanding its removal from our lives. Well bollox to that. Where’s freedom of speech? Where’s artistic integrity? What’s it all for if you run away when its threatened?

President Obama has promised ‘revenge’ in time. Then got on a plane for a 17 day holiday in Hawaii. His doctors recommended it because his putting arm was getting repetitive strain so he needs to rest it and smoke Cuban cigars. A proper president would have nuked Pyongyang by now.

Kim Jong Un is a little chubby baby throwing his toys out of his pram. He needs a good slap…

BOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!!!!

Only joking. Not that Koreans would understand.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The Cuban Missile Crisis of 1961 is finally over, just 53 years after it began. The world can relax once more, phew.

Relations of a diplomatic nature can be resumed once more between the largest of Caribbean islands and its massive, continental neighbour who lives about 50 miles away.

And that’s a great thing. Its also the first headline for about 7 months that hasn’t involved murders, suicide bombings, kidnappings, beheadings or Chelsea winning matches. Nice to have something positive for a very welcome change.

You have to wonder, though, how fast Americanisation will destroy what is left of the real Cuba. If you can work out what is ‘the real Cuba’.

The first thing we noticed when we visited Cuba about 8 years ago (we’re British, we could always go there, it was only Yanks who were banned, and rightly so) was that there was no Starbucks. How weird, to enter a busy city on planet earth where that franchise is conspicuous by its absence. No McDonalds either. Bigger problem, but heh, we’ll get over it. An even bigger problem was the general lack of ‘stuff’ everywhere in Havana.

Ok, they have amazing buildings wot the Spanish built, and magnificent constructions built whilst that corrupt mo-fo Baptista was in charge and capitalism went a bit crazy. And they have all those amazing 1950s American cars running round, generally with the engines out of a Nissan Micra having long since replaced the original monster gas-guzzling units. And lots of people. Generally happy people. Dancing on the streets. They really do, every time a band plays. When a band plays somewhere in London 6 people complain about the noise and call the police regarding the disturbance. In Cuba they just dance on the pavements.

But there was no food for sale. Or very little. And nothing much in any of the shops. Very sad. This was a poor country. Zero unemployment, but only in that communist way where everyone has a job title, if not anything to do once they get it. They get the same money from the government whether they work or not. The only item readily available was Che Guevara t-shirts. Fortunately, I love Che Guevara t-shirts and bought loads.

Now all will change. Opening up diplomatic doors with America will open up trade. The Yanks will buy their sugar, their Bacardi, their cigars and in return, Havana will be over-flowing with coffee shops, burger chains and pizza outlets. Which none of the locals will be able to afford, but in time, businesses will grow, the economy will revitalise and all will boom.

I’m glad I was there during the Castro years. They’re gonna fucking ruin the place. But in a good way.

Another crisis averted last night was Newcastle in the Capital One Cup, quarter final. We were ‘brilliant’. I’ll say no more. Brilliant. Powerful. Dominant. Lust-worthy. Awesome. Brutal, but in a kind way. Magnificent…

Happy thursday

A xxxx