Andy's Glasses

Oh wow, we finally won something. Brilliant. And when I say ‘we’, I’m prepared, for once, to become British. Because Northern Ireland is part of Great Britain, albeit a consistently troublesome part, and Rory McIlroy is from ‘the province’ and thus his victory is our victory and we can bask in the collective joy of his brilliance. Ok, its only golf, not a proper sport, but we take what we can get. And this is not like Andy Murray winning Wimbledon, because although he’s (for the time being) ‘British’, we hate him. Whereas Rory is charming and delightful and also prodigiously talented. He’s now won three major tournaments and is only 25. A feat only ever previously achieved by Tiger Woods (we’ve all heard of him) and someone else that we’ve collectively forgotten. Now all Rory has to do is crash his car whilst rushing out to shag 14 mistresses and he can become one of the sport’s true greats.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with golf, per se. Its just… its just… that ‘sport’ involves sweating. Not just the sweat you get whilst sunbathing in Tenerife, but proper, down the gym, running the track, rugby-scrum type sweat. The sweat of endeavour, of hard work, of pushing the body beyond its comfortable limits, or of sitting on a tube train in July. Proper sweat, for proper sport.

Lewis Hamilton sweats four times his body weight (ok, that’s not much, agreed, but its all he has… other than Nicole Scherzinger) every race he drives. But its sitting down sweat. Driving a car. I drove to the City yesterday afternoon, had the top down and sweated like a pig. But no-one took out a magnum of champagne and sprayed it over me when I parked. Not even a poxy can of Coke. Though Lewis did really well, coming from 20th place on the start to finish 3rd. Wish I’d have seen even the teensiest bit of it… there again, not really, but a wonderful result for the diamond-earringed-one, and thus for all of England.

The cricket’s not looking so good. But we have confidence in our tail-enders, even if we have none in our openers. And we can beat India. Though the Indians don’t seem to be aware of this. At the moment.

Then, after searching all the sports pages, every little nibble and snippet, I found about 4 words about football. I mean, come on, is that all there is? And in 4 very succinct words, it transpires that all the players Spurs want to sign are going elsewhere, Arsenal are spending loads on the superstars they always used to pride themselves on never signing, Manchester United still have a new manager and Chelsea are buying everyone else.

But I’m still exited, because until that first ball is kicked, in about 3 weeks time, we’re all level. Anything can happen. Its all about promise. Potential. Hope. And praying. Lots and lots of praying.

Happy monday

Amen.

A xxxx

What a great word that is: shalom.

Its hebrew. And it means hello, goodbye and peace. All at the same time. So every time you greet someone, you’re actually wishing them ‘peace’ as well. And we could all use a little ‘shalom’ in troubled times.

Peace occasionally breaks out in the Middle East, but its rare and soon gives way to violence again, which is almost the natural status quo in the region.

So yesterday there was a demonstration in support of Palestinians. Although it looked just like a fun-filled day of anti-Israel hatred and passionate anti-semitism in general. As one observer noted; where were these people when Assad was (and is still) murdering his own people; when ISIS slaughters thousands across the region; when Boco Haram kidnaps 250 children in Nigeria? Even when Britain and America was bombing the shit out of Lybia? Yet when Israel attacks the places in Gaza responsible for sending over 250 rockets into its land, every day, the entire wold is in outcry. ‘Disproportionate!!’ yells uber-tosser Nick Clegg. “Children are being killed!!!” cries the BBC and the Independent and the Guardian as they conveniently fail to mention that ALL the rockets fired by the Palestinians are aimed at civilian targets. And that before this ‘heavy handed’ Israeli response, Israel sends over leaflets, sends text messages, automated phone calls and now, they even fire warning shots at every building targeted before they strike in earnest. No other nation in the world would offer such things to the ‘enemy’. Yet the fact remains that innocent Palestiians do get killed by the fire. Mainly because Hamas encourage those receiving warnings to ignore them and become ‘martyrs’. As an Israeli said the other day: ‘we use missiles to protect our people; they use people to protect their missiles’.

Today was a ‘peace rally’ in support of Isreal. Specifically, to show that Israel, like any other country in the world, is allowed to defend itself. To protect its citizens. Mel and I went down to Kensington to show that we don’t read the fucking Independent and its poisinous and partisan reporting, and we don’t beleive what the BBC’s horribly biased reporting tells us and because there are two sides to every argument. Unless its a jewish arguement in which case there’s one more side than the total number of people arguing. But no-one was arguing today. This was about peace and it was so peaceful it felt like a street party. And it was fun and it was funny and there was no hate-mongering, no nastiness, no anti-anything. Except one (Zohanesque) banner which read: SAY YES TO HUMOUS, SAY NO TO HAMAS.

Hamas refuse a ceasefire. Even one in which, if things were as ‘disproportionate’ as they maintain, you kind’a think they’d want just to protect their people. The truth is they really don’t give a shit about their people as much as they care about the destruction of Israel to which they have sworn.

Because Israel has the Iron Dome defense system which manages to destroy most incoming missiles does not mean those missiles aren’t being sent in anger. Or just to make a statement. Of course the Palestinians mourn the death of a child. Yet they publicly celebrate the death of any Israeli, man, woman or child.

Israel has the right to defend itself and its populus.

Happy peaceful sunday

A xxxx

What a night. What a day. What heat. What’a what’a.

Some places do ‘heat’ really well. Holiday places. Nice places. Maybe a sea breeze, maybe some mountain air, but it can be hot and it can be nice. London’s different. We don’t do heat well. So just as well we don’t get that much of it or it could become a problem. Though as global warming sets in and the ice caps melt and the seas swell and the Priuses rule the roads and Al Gore found a new career, who knows what might happen? Maybe London will become so hot that we should all get in the AirCon business immediately ahead of the rush.

Yesterday London reached 31 celcii. That’s about 85 to any primitive races out there who don’t know a celcius from a kilowatt hour. On the Conway scale of temperature measurement, that’s ‘fucking hot!’, just one down from ‘JESUS!!!!’. And as London is pretty well made of concrete, just like we like it, that all heats up nicely too, so we all put on the AirCon, which we have at work, and pump all the humidity out onto the streets. Which is nice of us. So if ‘the temperarture’ is ’31’, the streets of London are bout 40, with 325% humidity. And that’s humid. You step outside and you sweat. Profusely. Even ‘ladies’ who according to legend don’t sweat, do so like the proverbial pig.

At 9.30 last night as I drove round the North Circular (how lucky am I?) the car told me it was still 26 degrees. And it felt like it. When I returned home I showered and stood, still wet, in front of the fan and it was wonderful. For about 3 minutes. Then I was dry and sweating once more. Then went to bed. And that’s where the real trouble started.

Its not in fact a mere ‘fan’. Not for me. We have a Dyson Air Amplifier. Pretentious? Non. Its heaps better than a fan because… because… because Mr Dyson, sorry, Sir Dyson told me so on the telly. So it must be. It certainly looks nicer. Though after 15 minutes of sweating into my pillow I started playing with my… Air Amplifier, moving it, raising it, angling it, lowering it, anything just to try and enjoy some air. Even some non-amplified air would have been wonderful, but nothing. Or not enough to avoid the stiflage that I was feeling.

At 2 o’clock I gave up, came down, drank tea… TEA? in that heat??? Yes, I’m British, its what we do, I read for a couple hours, hoping that sleep would take me and lead to where I wanted to be. But it wasn’t so. I’d just moved my place of sweating to somewhere else in the house. Which was nice, don’t get the impression that I was unhappy or upset or frustrated about being up HALF THE FUCKING NIGHT.

By 5 o’clock I dozed off. The alarm went at 7.25 for Tai Chi, but my chi was simply unwilling. So I had some Tai (ha, ha, haaa) and went back to sleep.

Lovin the heat, just lovin it.

Cool Saturday

A xxxx

Ya gotta love those European Rules. A bunch of overpaid do-nothings in Brussels who do nothing but eat out all the time on expense accounts paid for by us, have passed a new law. Don’t know where they found the time in between all the foie gras and private jet flights and mistresses in love-nests in The Hague, but find it they did. And they have decided that obesity is now officially ‘a disability’.

So what? you may think, ya gotta call fat people something, so ‘disabled’ is as good as anything else. What’s in a name??

But you’d be wrong. Because by classifying immenseness as a disability it becomes protected as such under laws of equality and discrimination. Like, well, like disabled people, and women and gays. And effnicks. Hermaphrodites. Romanians. Lib Dem voters. Minorities in general. And so when Terry Tubby, who you employed in 1994, becomes 2-ton-Tel, you have to provide him with a wider chair, desk, toilet. You have to instal a lift, a winch, widen all the doorways in the offices, provide masseuses for his legs and other extremities, wash him weekly and you need to set up a McDonalds franchise no more than 2.6 metres from his workstation.

And when interviewing for the receptionist position at Gyms-for-Babes-a-go-go, specially marketed with that ‘only way is essex’, WAGy kind of thing, you cannot discriminate against Suzie, who weighs in at 327lbs and looks like Ayers Rock. And if she’s qualified and doesn’t get the job then she will sue and take you to court. Which in turn will have to be widened, strengthened and installed with all kinds of mechanical facilities just to get her on the stand.
As a lifelong fat bastard, cruelly trapped in thin body, I think we need to thank those Euro-tossers for hitting yet another nail right on the chins.

But really, if people are just a touch overweight, or smoke like chimneys, or live a rotten terrible lifestyle that involves excessive carbohydrates, masses of fats, no fucking exercise whatsoever and fourteen packets of Nachos a day because tv watching is just not the same any other way, even with the 18 cans of beer to wash them down, for those lucky people, there’s now no need to change their seemingly destructive ways. No. Instead we can just give them statins. The new(ish) wonderdrug that for years has been taken by those with raised cholesterol levels is to be rolled out (like most of the people due to take it) to up to 40% of the population. To ‘save them’. Yes, just one little pill a day and you can maintain your unhealthy lifestyle without worry nor care. In fact you should start thinking about taking 2 pills a day and supersizing those portions. Why the hell not?

Well its good for the drug companies, terrible for the NHS who will fund it, and much easier than trying to educate a bunch of fucking slobs.
Its not a perfect world. But with the right drugs…

Happy Friday

A xxxx

There’s something about a Harley Davidson. Something wonderful. Something big. Something very shiny. Something very very very loud.

My mate popped over yesterday on this rather splendid toy. Its a fat boy. No, not the geezer sitting upon it, he is The Perfect Man, but the bike. And as my mate is in more of a mid-life crisis than most, strapped to the back of the Harley is a Fender Stratocaster. Every biker should have one. Helps with the aerodynamics. In fact he’d just bought the guitar and was going to pick it up in a car, which would have been, sort of easy, convenient, sensible. But mid-life crises aren’t about sensible. They’re the antithesis of sensible. So the bike it was, 47 little bungee cords holding the beast in place and stay off the motorways or the ‘sail’ you’ve created causes all sorts of horrible and destabilising effects.

So now I want one. The Harley. Just think how great it would look on the drive, next to ‘the car’ which also does a lot of sitting on the driveway during an average week as I can’t fit it on the Tube and there’s nowhere to park it even if I was prepared to undertake the ‘traffic jam to madness, suicide or murder’ every day, which I’m not. So maybe I should just exchange one seldom used crisis for another? Maybe I should have neither and get a new pushbike? Or just give up and buy a wheelchair in readiness for ‘the day’. That’s depressing.

Another ‘star’ found guilty (by public opinion, if no-one else, yet) of tax avoidance. Chris Boardman, old Olympic cyclist, joins the named and shamed who put money into strange and complex vehicles (like the Harley really) of a twisted and purely conceptual nature, for the purposes of sheltering money from the tax man. The other day they actually listed lots of rich stars who would never cheat on tax. They pay loads, give lots to charity and are fine, upstanding, holier-than-thous, if e’er there was, and I wanted to punch each and every one of them. Because for JK Rowling, she can afford to do lots of ‘giving back to society’ with half a billion in the bank and a big ‘KER-CHING!’ every time Harry Potter is on tv or some new kid is introduced to the joys of wizardry.

Everyone I know ‘pays enough tax’. We all do. We pay fucking shit-loads. And more. And when our mates, or accountants, or the papers, say: take out an ISA; that’s fine and cool and shelters (a little bit) of money from tax. And when its pointed out that certain payments made are tax deductible, we bloody deduct. And yet when people with loads of money are advised to do things that are NOT ILLEGAL but which shelter some of their money, they are lambasted by all and sundry. No-one makes anyone take out an ISA. If we’re so fucking righteous, we should all decline such things and insist on paying the government as much as we possibly can. But we don’t. We pay too much already. So we look for ways out, for small savings. Really we shouldn’t be so quick to ‘j’accuse!!’ those who try to save a bit more. They are heroes. Though indeed fun to ridicule and pillary as immoral bottom-feeders.

If we pay more tax we can have more public inquiries. And you can never have too many of them.

Happy Thursday,

Born to be Wild.

A xxxx

If they made a boy-scout badge for murder, what would it look like? A woman with someone’s hands on her throat, like a cartoonish Nigella and Saatchi? Or a knife in a heart? I think we should speak to the scouts associations and inquire. Also there should be badges for adultery, sado-masochism and sexual prowess, possibly for football violence and joy-riding too. Cross-dressing. Pole dancing. In the Romanian Scouts they have them for shop-lifting, pocket-picking and sleeping rough in Park Lane.

I was never a Boy Scout. They never wanted me. Ok, I never asked to join. Even as a kid I thought the whole enterprise a little bit creepy. Particularly the uniform. I have no specific objection to short trousers (as opposed to just ‘shorts’, which are fine) except they are exceptionally stupid. Less so on the little boys of the Scout movement, but very much so on the leaders, the grown men with their little trousers and funny things round there necks and all manner of bizarre scouty stuff.

The Boy Scouts were invented in 1907 by Lord Baden-Powell. Who was 50 at the time and had a burning desire to spend a lot of his time around little boys wearing shorts. Would never be allowed to happen today in the post-Savile, dark-side-of-Rolph-Harris era. But in 1907 the words ‘game boy’ had a very different meaning to what it does today.

I’m generally in favour of any activity or group of activities that gets the kids off their tubby little arses, away from the tv and their computers for a few hours to go out, catch butterflies, plant seeds, tie knots, sail a boat and make tents. But I’m not convinced that becoming a Boy Scout is anything but plain fucking weird.

Lord Baden-Powell’s great grandson has just been sentenced to prison for murdering his wife. In Australia. Who’d’a thought that you were’t allowed to do such a thing in Brisbaine? But apparently its almost as illegal there as it is here, in a civilised country. If you watched Home & Away, as my family do, you’d think wife-murder was more common than barbecuing. Prawns, not wives. They’re a bit tough in the eating. Specially gym-toned, surfer-babe, Home & Away type wives. Anyway, Gerald Baden-Clay (yes, it is a rather oddly derivative name that’s passed through that line) strangled his poor, long-suffering wife after having long-standing affairs with lots of other gym-toned, Home & Awayesque women. Then drove her 8 miles away and dumped her by a river. Is that a fit way to behave in a marriage?

And watching the Germans parade the World Cup by the Brandenberg Gate yesterday brought tears to my eyes. And memories. Do we allow Germans to congregate in such large groups? In public?? Where’s the Yankee troops when ya need ’em?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Well, its all happening in the world of women. The Church of England (note: not ‘Britain’, not the ‘United Kingdom’, not effin Scotland, but the church of ENGLAND) is to ordain women bishops for the first time since records began. Well, for the first time anyway. And that is just brilliant news. Particularly for women who really want to become bishops and for… errr… hmmm…

This is good for the job market too. I don’t know how many women bishops are needed to, kind of, keep up with all the bishoply work that needs doing on a day-to-day basis, how much female praying is required, how many red-and-white frocks need to be worn in a spiritual way, but the C of E is now officially an equal opportunity employer. Or maybe God is now officially an equal opportunity employer. Their version of God anyway. Other versions may vary.

So perhaps this can be an aspiration for young girls. No longer will they devote time and energy to trying to become a Victoria’s Secrets model, or a WAG with an orange face and a yellow thong, let them become bishops. Every chess set needs one. In fact, needs four. The future is bright. The future is holy.

And yet more golden opportunities for women emerge from yet another direction as well. As David Cameron clears out his cabinet of crusty old Eton-Oxbridge white middle-class men to make room for something new, something exiting, something radical in the way of government. Which may well be yet more Eton-Oxbridge white middle-class men, but I think not. Maybe the constant feeling by the public of total dissociation from a government who bear no relation to normal people’s lives, anxieties and problems has forced D-Cam to try and appear a little more ‘man-of-the-masses’ even though he’s never had a proper job, speaks like the Queen and wouldn’t know a ‘money-worry’ if it bit him in the wallet. So perhaps its time (and 10 months before an election would certainly seem an appropriate time) to try and make government just a touch more representative of everyday Britain. Which is not the exclusive domain of former public schoolboys with trust funds.

Approximately half the population of this nation are women. Approximately. About half are men. And the discrepancy are those I’m not prepared to comment upon at this juncture. So to garner the female vote, he needs to put more women in the Cabinet. I don’t mean that in a perverse way. Though…

To properly represent the population, Cabinet should have just one upper-class twit, five women, three of them with tattoos, one complete slag and one bishop. There should be three homeless Romanian beggars, two Polish builders and five fat-bellied blokes who drive Transit vans and would normally vote UKIP on the grounds that its easier to spell than ‘conservative’. We should have several Brits of Asian descent, half a jew, or maybe one very small, kind of Woody Allen type one, and four paedophiles. Sadly, for William Hague, there’s no room left for a whining, semi-gay Yorkshireman. Sorry Bill. Even after posing around with Angelina Jolie, you’re still done and dusted. Brad Pitt you ain’t.

I’ve sent a copy of this to the Prime Minister in the hope he’ll heed my good counsel.

Happy Tuesday, unless you’ve just been sacked from the Cabinet. In which case: I’m looking for someone to cut my hedges.

A xxxx

deutschland deutschland uber alles
‘we’ played the game without any malice
unlike those Argies, South American scum,
they kicked the shit out of Schweinsteiger; booted him in the bum

then chinned him in the chest, elbowed him on his head,
kicked him in the goolies, left him there for dead.
But Bastian’s a hero, descended from the Hun
He got right up like the Terminator, never one to run.

So they beat him with big sticks, kneed him in the thigh,
punched him, strangled him, bit him and stabbed him in the eye.
His leg cramped, his teeth jarred, his bloody arm fell off
He just kept on going, a hero, not a toff.

The match was actually quite wonderful, it really had it all,
except a goal or two, which eventually came when the net finally caught the ball.
Deep into extra time, the score finally settled right
when penalties were looming the Germans ended the fight.

The match was fast and furious, played at a fabulous pace
The Germans marching onwards, the Argies exploiting the space
Schweiny, (as I call him), was pulling all the strings,
til the ball broke lose and Messi could do his things

But even the little wonderguy, so filled with all that is magical
could fail to prevent the inevitable becoming rather tragical.
To win the World Cup for Leo just wasn’t to be
to become an unquestionable superstar like Pele, Maradona and me.

They gave him the man-of-the-tournamet, a trophy to hang on his wall
that wasn’t what he really wanted, but you just can have it all
As the Germans brought on Gotze, Super-Mario as it turned out
Scored in truly fabulous style and ended the 2 hour goal drought.

So now its really over, the football’s done and dusted,
no more great games to watch, the tv might as well get busted
along with certain reputations, of teams that didn’t do well
England were just plain shite, Brazil are going to hell

Spain fell a long way, the Dutch lost the plot
The French are of no concern and Croatia can go and rot.
Because everybodys singing, from Berlin to Buckingham Palace,
of the German victory; Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles.

Happy monday

A xxxx

Test cricket is an acquired taste. For a start the matches last 5 days. So unless you’re retired, unemployed, very rich or so organised at work that you can just ‘pop over to Trent Bridge’ for the week, you generally just pick a day to go. Just one. But its a long day. Very long. A full day, but rather civilised in that most other sports don’t stop for ‘drinks’, for lunch and of course, as its a British invention, for ‘tea’. Ya need a few scones after all that… errrr… all that standing round wearing white clothes. Need to top up those calories after barely moving for 3 hours. Its exhausting. And I can’t watch it.

Yet I consider myself some kind of cricket fan. Mainly because its just so eccentrically leisurely and British and its a game so full of numbers and statistics that it appeals to my inner actuary. (Didn’t even know I had one of those, but life’s full of surprises).

One Day cricket came about to kind of ‘speed things up a bit’. Like putting caffeine in the tortoise’s lettuce leaves. And 20-20 is like ‘ultimate cricket’ when everything happens in a few hours and can even claim some degree of excitment. And that’s great for the tv generation, for the impatient, for a society that generally lacks patience and demands its sports to be fun. Cricket was never about fun. Perish the thought. Its a game for gentlemen and proper gentlemen possess a sense of fun like they possess a pair of hob-nailed boots or a thong.

A cricket team has 11 players. And when they go into bat, they start with the best batsmen. Those who are great at scoring runs. They’re specialists at hitting the ball a long way and defending their wickets (those little wooden things that, should they fall down, or be hit by the ball, then YOU ARE OUT!). So most runs are scored by the first five or six batsmen, then once they’re all out, the bowlers come in to bat and they’re also generally specialists, but at bowling and many are not to great at batting. And they bat in pairs, one at each end, and each pair is called a wicket. Yes, that’s confusing but cricket is as much about confusing the uninformed and the foreigners as it is about sporting prowess.

Yesterday morning, on day 4 of the test against India something special happened. England had partially ‘collapsed’ and after an Indian first innings score of 457, had made just 202 runs when they lost their 7th man. That’s generally a bad thing. For England. Not so much for India and the streets of Mumbai and would have been filled with dirty-faced, shoeless little slumdogs whooping around in celebration. Indians don’t work when cricket is being played anywhere in the world. In fact they don’t work at all, only for Asda, making little sundresses for Mel to buy in Cornwall, earning £1 every three months.

So there’s 4 men left, but as there has to be 2 batting, that means there only three more wickets, three more ‘outs’ before the inning is over. And the last 4 batsmen are not there a the bottom of the list for nothing. They’ve earned their right to be last by sheer determination and sustained displays of ineptitude with the bat. Yet they did ok, with three of them joining the last remaining proper batsman, Joe Root, and combining to score another 90 runs before the penultimate wicket fell and the very last man came on to the pitch. England were still 160 runs behind when Jimmy Anderson, great bowler, but batsman upon whom the whole nation was depending??

Three hours 52 minutes later (I told you it was exciting, I never said it was quick) our final pair had scored nearly 200 runs, overtaken the Indian lead and set a record for final wicket partnership in a test match anywhere, ever. And cricket scores go back fucking centuries. Every cricket ball that was ever batted has been logged and kept for posterity. Because in cricket you have the time to do such things. An abundance of time on your hands.

So to Jimmy Anderson, and the outstanding Joe Root, I raise my hat. (Gentlemen do have hats). And although I didn’t watch even one ten second snippet of the play, I was with you. Numerically. A wonderful achievement. So wonderful that the match will now probably be drawn. But that’s great in cricket. If we wanted every game to produce winners we’d all be American.

Perish the thought.

Happy sunday

A xxxx

So its arrived, the ‘big match’, the final frontier, the last hurdle, the… yeah, whatever. Holland playing Brazil tonight is so exciting, so massive, so, so, so… so something that I’m going out for dinner and will completely forget all about it. The interest in who comes 3rd and 4th in the World Cup holds the same interest as who didn’t win last year’s celebrity bake-off. Or who failed to win a first round match at Wimbledon. Its basically to find the champion loser. And no-one likes a loser. Even though if Brazil played Holland in virtually any other circumstance, I’d be rivetted.

I’ll save my rivetting for tomorrow night. For what might be ‘la grande classique’ or might be ‘la boring dull garbage’. We can only be hopeful. But who do we support? Who is the lesser of evils between Germany and Argentina? We, generally speaking, hate them both. Neutrality is so uninspiring. So pointless. Might as well be Swiss. I can’t support Argentina because:

of the Falkland Islands
of Maradonna’s cheating goal in 1986
they played the most horrible game ever on wednesday night
they can be quite horrible and nasty when required

I can’t support Germany because:

they’re mainly German
of all those wars
there’s something immensely satisfying to see them lose
they’re mainly German

I love Argentina because:

of Lionel Messi, the best player in the world, bar none
they can at times play wonderful football
I still love Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa

I love Germany because:

errrrr…
hmmmm…
ah! because my car’s German and I love that.

Yet Germany are the only team, other than a few of the south amercians, who play the game as it should be played. They play to win, rather than just to not lose. They are organised (as they would be; its a national trait), they are a wonderful collective and they are fab to watch.

Luis Suarez has gone to Barcelona on a free transfer. His teeth are going seperately for 75 million quid. And suddenly there’s a new phrase that is being used in the Liverpool context, as reciptients of these riches. To ‘do a Spurs’. Meaning to get a shit-load of money for a player and squander it on second rate (that’s only the good ones) rubbish players. How flattering for my team to be yet another metaphor for failure.

So come on Germany (yes, I’m afraid its come to that)

Happy Saturday

A xxxx