Andy's Glasses

of a 1-all draw.

Here’s my thoughts on yesterday’s game at the Arse, in no particular order (pretty much how all my thoughts go, as my wife would say).

1. Before the game I’d have bitten your arm off for a draw.

2. I gave us the same odds of victory as I’d give the Dagenham Girls Choir in a battle against ISIS.

3. Its generally upsetting to draw after taking the lead but in the circumstances, that didn’t count as ‘general’.

4. 3 of their best players limped off injured, though no fault of Spurs, I hasten to add, just the innate fragility of every player Arsenal ever sign. I say ‘good’, or even ‘damage limitation’ as far as we were concerned. If half their players last up to Xmas before being ‘out for the season’ Wenger thinks he’s doing well. Then spends the rest of the season bemoaning his lack of options. Having refused to buy anyone when the opportunity was there.

5. Its all very well having 98% of possession (or thereabouts) but if it doesn’t translate into goals then its a repeat of the usual Arsenal malaise of ‘chronic overplaying’. Or ‘on-field masturbation’ as more befits a buch of wankers.

6. Every Spurs fan felt the draw was a ‘win’. Every Arsenal fan felt it a tragic loss. Which, bearing in mind recent form, home advantage and the price of property in Walthamstow, was pretty much right.

7. Arsenal have for many years, since the departure of Keown, Adams et al, been a bit fluffy, a touch delicate, lacking muscle. They’d be great at London fashion week, but in football? As exemplified by Mertersacker (6 foot 6) being flattened by Aaron Lennon (5 foot 6).

8. Only Arsenal players, fans and management are fit to decide what ‘time wasting’ is. If they do it, and ALL teams do it, its part of the game, then its fine. If anyone else does it, its disgraceful, cheating and has Wenger hurling Evian bottles around the place.

So 1-1 at the Emirates was sufficient to have Rachie and me running round the tv high-fiving by the final whistle.

One more Tory has defected to UKIP where in all likelihood he will end his political career. He’s Reckless. No, that’s not a misprint that’s his name, Mark Reckless. Big upset for the Conservatives on the eve of their conference, big coup for Farage’s neo-nazis. Yet even that takes back stage to Brooks Newmark. Obviously an American with a name like that, he was Minister for Charities until his resignation yesterday. He got involved with a ‘blond gorgeous, GSOH, non-smoker, babe’ on the internet, who was in fact a male news reporter, and as their ‘relationship’ grew in stature and promise, Brooks did what all good, Christian, happily married fathers of 5 kids would do, and sent ‘her’ a nob-selfie. That’s what results from a rush of blood to somewhere other than your head and you decide to make it public. Though his original intention wasn’t perhaps to make it quite as public as ended up being the case.

The above picture is of another Conservative penis.

Happy Sunday.

A xxxx

When you nail your colour to the mast, some fucker comes along and shoots that mast down with a big cannonball. Bastards.

And so is the life of the football fan. His colours are permanently nailed to a mast and they’re always knocking it down. Every bloody week, so it seems. Yet hope must spring eternal. Because without hope we might as well all support Glasgow Rangers. Yet often that hope is tested. Are there limits to optimism?

All of which, of course, is apropos today’s maaaassssiiiiiiivvvvvvve north London derby match, 5.30 today at the Emirates. Or ‘hell’ as its come to be known over the last few years. And oddly, although Spurs fans are guarded about their optimism for this afternoon (ie; they have none, whatsoever), every Arsenal fan I meet is equally pessmistic and in a state of dread. Everybody, so it seems, except the pundits and press, hates the Spurs/Arsenal match. And why?

Because its so important. It has a value that is beyond points, beyond ‘local’ pride, beyond rubies, beyond almost everything. It is always season defining, and Spurs, who generally lose such events, stick to a pretty grim defninition of their seasons accordingly. And for all Arsenal’s claims of ‘its just another match, we’re more worried about Chelsea’, that’s all just so much posturning and mind-games. More for their benefit that for ours.

This will be my 151st derby game. I guessed that based on it being Wenger’s 46th and I’ve been around far longer.

Time has once again flown, the match has started; watch out for part 2. When I get an effin moment or three.

A xxxx

Ahhhhh, freedom, such a magnificent concept, such a superlative ideal. The dream that liberates us, whilst in some ways, constraining others. And if you express your freedom you’re either a libertarian or a total bastard, depending on whether you’re scottish or not. Or other things, perhaps.

Take Andy Murray, f’rinstance. He used his freedom of speech last week to offer the world his studied political insight in a tweet telling fellow Scots (he left Scotland when he was 12 to go learn tennis proper in Florida and probably lives in Monaco as a tax exile, visiting his mum, who lives in London, twice a year) to “Let’s do this!!!!” in the up-coming vote. “Fuck the English!” he would probably have said, and in fact, he might as well have said it anyway for all the furore south of the border his comment stirred up. Now he says he’s sorry for the upset caused (ain’t everybody; after the fact) but was free to express an opinion, though in hindsight would probably have been better off keeping shtum. Always, Andy, always. But you can’t un-say things once they’re out there. And coupled with his famous comment years ago about ‘I’ll support any team that’s playing England at football’, a pattern emerges.
There is a hill, far off in Wimbledon Town, that currently bears the title of ‘Murray Mound’. I’m starting a petition to rename it ‘Loser Lump’.

There’s other freedoms, even if you’re not a tennis player.

A girl at a school in Camden chose to start this new school term wearing a niqab. A full face veil. In terms of freedom nothing is more divisive than that single item. Women cliam it ‘liberates them’, though from what I’m not sure, unless they were grotesquely ugly to start with. Others claim it to be the ultimate symbol of female repression. Its not a ‘muslim’ thing, the niqab, its a Saudi thing. Thus theories about repression of women would seem fairly sound coming from the most hateful of oppressive regimes.

The school have told her she must unveil or go home. There’s no uniform rule at the school, just ‘appropriate’ is all that is required. So hot pants are cool, t-shirts with “THE POPE’S A C**T!!!!” are fine, even the revolting Arsenal football shirt is acceptable, and many find that more offensive than a niqab. But that, she cannot wear. Because, clothing must be deemed to ‘not interfere with teaching interraction’. And a niqab does just that. And so much more, none of it good.

If women find it liberating to live their public lives inside a black sack then good luck to them. But what it does is seperate them from society, from normality. It creates an aura of ‘weird’, it is, in every way, exactly what its intended to be, a barrier from the world. It says ‘DON’T SPEAK TO ME’, it says ‘DON’T EVEN LOOK AT ME’ and it says ‘GO AWAY’. It removes any possibility of social interraction. Including teaching. I could not hold a conversation with someone wearing a mask; it would be wrong. And thus I agree with the school. Which is more than I ever did when I was attending such institutions.

Happy new year (yes, its Rosh Hashanna today)

And enjoy your freedom

A xxxx

I’ve always had the greatest respect for Emma Watson. She was always clever and bright, consistently scoring better that both Harry Potter and Ron Weasley in spells, Studies of the Dark Arts and Dragon Rearing. After that she went to Harvard, or Yale; somewhere American, and acquired a BSc in Witchcraft, or Politics or something or other. And although getting a degree from the States is not like a ‘proper’ degree from Cambridge or Bath or the University of the Stourbridge Bypass over here, its definitely one up from buying one in a street market in Mumbai. How are you wanting to spelling ‘filosopheee’?

But mainly I respect her because she grew up rather gorgeously. Waif-like, a touch ‘cold’, but beautiful in a very fragile way. And being a man, that’s what you notice first. Long before the words. She might as well have the volume turned down to ‘0’ (as if any woman possesses such a dial, and if they did the lowest setting would be ’17’). And that’s not objectification, admiring beauty, though it may look like it to some, and its not sexism, nor chauvinism but just being a man. Even a post-feminist, right-on, egalitarian man like wot I am.

Emma is now the Goodwill Ambassador for UN Women. Angelina Jolie is a Goodwill Ambassador to the UN for something else. I want to be the interviewer for Goodwill Ambassadors to the UN. BTW: Emma made a speech, she’s a clever little thing, about how men too are ‘imprisoned by their stereotypes’, presumably meaning that we feel obliged to ‘PHWOARRR’ at passing babes when we’re working on building sites, spend evening talking to chests at dinner parties and fail to connect with our emotions, or at least to outwardly display them.

Or maybe it means we can wear her underwear if we want to. I’m not really sure I know what it means, other than it sounds clever. And on an intellectual level equality is a wonderful thing. And I revere women, not just the ones on porn sites, but all women. And believe them to be equal in virtually all abilities other than throwing a ball. There’s no ‘glass ceiling’ in my world. Honest, there ain’t.

And yet I’m a man. And men are, first and foremost, animals. Literally so. As are women. And testosterone is a terrible thing. But like all drugs, it feels so good at the time. And it drives men to objectify women. Its not a conscious act, it just happens. Its visceral, its innate and so when Emma Watson talks about being imprisoned by stereotypes (as she saunters down a catwalk in the latest Burberry, make up by L’Oreal, hair by some ponce in Conduit Street) I think she’s missed an important point. Men are driven by lust. Its chromosomal. Even men who cry. Which is often just a ploy for sympathy anyway; a quick path to physical contact.

Men are horrible. Stereotypes are there for good reason. Accept it and move on.

Avera Kadavra

A xxxx

I’m a big fan of taxation. I love it. The more I pay the happier I feel. I’m contributing to the national pot. Helping the NHS to survive. Allowing the government to help those less well off or unemployed to thrive. Keeping all those Latvian child-molesters and Romanian pick-pockets flooding to our shores in search of benefits. Its a win-win. I work like a dog so they don’t have to bother. And that’s the way of the world. My world anyway. Or so it seems.

So every penny I earn is taxed. Fair enough. The country needs to be run. Albeit not very efficiently. Then every penny I spend is also taxed in vat. Then, with what little is left, I pay my council tax, which is local, so therefore ‘different’. They should spell it differently really: ‘council tacks’ so we know its a different thing altogether. And council tax is linked to the price of your home, so that’s fair. Ish. Should you sell your home, you pay up to 5% in stamp ‘duty’. Not tax, no, duty. Because it is your duty to pay it otherwise they lock you in jail.

But now Ed Balls, he of the flailing elbows, the shadow chancellor and very clumsy centre forward, informed the Labour Party conference yesterday that should Labour win the election they will implement a ‘mansion tax’. Or ‘theft’ as it is otherwise known. All homes valued over 2 million quid will pay 1% per year in mansion tax. That’s 20 grand. £20,000. Enough to pay Wayne Rooney’s wages for about 10 minutes (plus stoppage time).

And this is unfair. Ok, all taxation is a little unfair, which is why we call it ‘tax’ and not ‘sweets’ or ‘football’ or ‘hot sex’. But this is not a transactional tax. Nothing’s happened, no money changed hands, nothing bought, sold or transferred, no income, no outgoings. Just: you gotta nice big house, mate, ergo you’re a rich, probably London, bastard, so give us 25 grand or we’ll reposess your mother-in-law. (If only.)

Ironically, it doesn’t have to be a ‘mansion’. There are thousands of flats in London that regularly sell for over 2 million quid. But ‘flat tax’ lacks the accusatory tone, the divisive requirement that will have every slum dweller in the land smirking and grinning as they sup their flagons of mead in mud-floored taverns; ‘yeah, fookin’ rich shites’.

London already pays 93% of the country’s tax. I made that up, or maybe read it recently. Either way its not far from the truth. And so now they’re inventing a new tax that is almost exclusively for London. So we can pay more. We’re just not pulling our weight. So to fund the NHS, they want 1.2 billion quid a year and so some cash-poor widow who bought a sweet little house in 1973 for £1,472.86, is now sitting on 2 million pound pile in Chelsea, has fuck all in her bank and has to find 20 thousand a year.

Is it any wonder that people find exotic loopholes to avoid paying tax?

Ed Milliband is speaking today. I can hardly wait to see what that hapless fucker has in store.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

We all love it when giants are killed. We even have a word for it: giant-kiling. If that is in fact one word. Who cares? And the manner in which giants are killed is all-important. So when the Great, the Godly (in their minds) Manchester United take their zillions of pounds of inter-galactic superstars (I’m sure Di Maria is from Pluto) to visit lowly Leicester City, recently promoted, completely impoverished and fielding a team containing not one name anyone’s ever heard of, you expect blood. And there was blood. But it was the red blood of Man United that was spilled. In rather vast, and humiliating quantities. Yet it was the manner of the defeat that was so satisfying, so unexpected, so wonderful.
The reds were 2 nil up after about 10 minutes and were ‘cruising’. Which means becoming smug and arrogant and smelling a rout (which proved to be the case, but not necessarily as they originally smelt it) and counting the goals they were all going to score. Dozens of goals. Hat-tricks all round. Even the defenders. If you can call them defenders. Which you weren’t by the end of the game.

Leicester pulled a goal back. Because the midlanders know how to fight. And the goal was brilliant and created by the amazing running of Jamie Vardie. A man who was an unemployed bricklayer three weeks ago.Ok, he wasn’t, but he was playing non-league football four years ago, which is almost the same thing. Playing for Stocksbridge Park Steels whilst Wayne Rooney was deciding how many diamonds to put on the door-handles of his next Range Rover.

United scored again. Ahhhh, 3-1 up, that’s ‘safe’. Which turned out not to be the case as Leicester then scored 4 more unanswered goals as the Mancs defence simply crumbled and forgot what it was there to do. What it is paid, collectively, over a million pounds a month to do. Shit, sorry Louis, just forgot what I was s’posed to be doing. Phah.

And that fills us (assuming the ‘us’ in question are not Man United fans) with distinct pleasure. We all love to see big teams trounced, little teams perform miracles, the odds upset. Unless, of course its our big team being trounced. Then the joy factor is ‘somewhat diminished’. Like, f’rinstance, if High Hopes Spurs (we always have high hopes and aspirations; but not always the results… hardly ever the results) face bottom-of-the-table West Bromwich Albion, at home, down the Lane, oooooohh, that’s three points in the bag. In the bag maybe, but not our bag as we managed to lose. Rachie went and sent me a text message at the end. Two words (one more than our on target attempts on goal over 90 minutes). Which read: ‘total wank’. That was it. The summary of our efforts, endeavors and achievement.

Yet even with all that happening, it was at the Etihad that the story of the day unfolded. Man City playing Chelsea. City have a player sent off and Chelsea score. Quel surprise. Then on comes Chelsea legend, hero and demi-god, Frank Lampard, now playing in Man City colours. And he scored the goal to tie the game. To save new club from disaster, to frustrate old, beloved Chelsea, who’s badge he nauseatingly kissed for 13 years to the disgust of all decent people. Frank turned, didn’t celebrate, looked close to tears and tried to show nothing for fear of being hated by one bunch of fans or another. 1-1 was the final score and Lampard maintained his equanimity. You had to respect him. Even if he does have John Terry on speed-dial.

Happy monday, though for many of us that’s not the case.

A xxx

PS today’s pic is the guy who went in for a tackle against Ed Balls, shadow chancellor of the exchequer, in a ‘friendly’ match at the Labour Party Conference. Nice.

The word ‘ruination’ describes the ruin of a nation. And Scotland has ruined our nation. Or rather, Scotland, Gordon Brown, Alex (bleedin’) Salmond and Ed (poxy) Milliband. It’ll never be the same. The whole democratic process is fucked up beyond redemption. We might as well adopt sharia law instead and start cutting off limbs instead of giving out parking tickets. I’d emigrate tomorrow if they’d let me take Spurs with me.

The problem is all the promises made by Westminster to keep the Scots in the Union. New power. More controls. Greater levels of independence. Cameron has to take blame too. And Clegg is a worthless simpleton anyway so we might as well heap a bit more scorn on him too.

Its fine to give these things, these promises, but there’s always a quid pro quo. And if the Scots get the right to independently organise a lot of their own finances and football matches, without interference from Westminster, then England must equally have the right to do stuff without input from Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dunfirmline or East Fife. We’ll leave aside for the moment the issue of Wales and Northern Ireland’s entitlement to the same consideration.

We promised the Scots independence, no-one but a hapless, small-dicked imbecile would expect a lack of reciprocation for England. Yet Ed Milliband wants just that. He not only wants the Scots to still be allowed votes on English matters in our parliament, he NEEDS them to. Because otherwise, on all such items, the Labour vote is greatly reduced. And should Wales be granted similar terms to the Scots and then lose the right to vote on English matters, Ed is royally fucked because the Principality is filled with Labourites too. The doomsday scenario being that Labour form a government (unlikely under Ed M., I know, but iss jest hyperfetical, innit?) and yet, without the MPs from Scotland and Wales allowed to vote, would effectively have a minority on all matters English under debate.

So, despite all the ‘stronger together’ rhetoric banded about over the past few months, these promises have in fact made us frail and weak together. Our constitution, not that we actually have one, is weakened and the whole democratic fabric is under a big question mark. We’d be much better off as we were before, with the whole of Great Britain being run by some Eton/Oxbridge ex-Bullingdon clubbers who don’t really know where Glasgow or Cardiff are situtated. And with the populations of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland remaining subservient to London forevermore, paying us taxes until they bleed and receiving nothing more in return than a visit from the Queen every 5 years to make them feel needed.

My country lies in tatters. So not much change there then.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Its tropical here in London today. Don’t know what its like in Scotland but I’d guess at miserable. For 45% of the population anyway. Its cloudy here, a little rainy, though not enough to keep superheroes like me and Spurs Paul off the tennis courts, however slippery they may become. (for ‘superhero’; read: ‘idiot’). But its hot. Horribly, damply, muggily, nastily stuffy and humid. Tropical. Without the need for going anywhere.

So last night as I woke up at 5.30 to visit the toilet (well, if you will drink that cup of tea before bedtime…). I was attending to matters, with my eyes closed, as I do. I’m capable of aiming with eyelids down. And if not I’ll just blame someone else. Though in house full of women that’s an interesting conversation. Anyway, eyes closed, taking a pee. And there was a flash of light. Ignore, I’m going back to sleep. Then another. Visible through my eyelids. Hmmmm. Brain tumour? Retinal detachment?? Haemorrhage??? Haemorrhoids?? Oh no, I’m going to die. Or need an operation where no-one wants an operation.

Oh, its just lightning. That’s ok. Loads of it. We were flashing each other. Me and the lightning. I gave up first and went back to sleep. Had to be up in 2 hours for Tai Chi. We don’t allow lightning in the dojo.

But last night we watched the Bake Off. I will say that I watched it to keep Rachie company. Or that there was no football on. Or that I would have been out attacking ISIS or brawling in Glasgow or finding loose women. But no. Bake Off. And I hate to admit but I love it. I find myself getting really attached to the bakers. I love them. In their own individual ways. Not in just a kind of Megan Fox way. I love food. And I’ve found that if there are times when its best not to be eating it, then watching it is almost as good. And I feel for their plight. When the dough won’t rise. Don’t you hate that? Ok, I’ve never made dough in my life. Why would you when M&S do such a good job. Yet these stars make it from, like, flour and stuff. Amazing. Then they bake it. Would you Adam’n’Eve it. And Mary Berry tells everyone how good they’ve been, how well they’ve done, how super it might have been, if only they’d just…

Then Fat Paul Hollywood, dressed in flowing denim shirt that hasn’t been washed since he bought it in 1973, criticises the bakers and complains of ‘underbaking’ and ‘under-proving’ and under virtually everything but a bus. I think he’s an Arsenal fan.

Last night (well it was recorded) Kate left the show. I loved Kate. There’ll never be another. Until next week. I cried along with her and Mary Berry.

I may never go back into the kitchen again.

Happy baking

A xxxx

The Queen was in Glasgow when she formally met Alex Salmond, Scotland’s First Minister.

‘country’ and you can carry on as you are.”

And now its never going to happen. Scotland has decided to remain as part of the Union, has declared by a majority that it wishes to remain ruled over by a bunch of upper-class twits in London, most of whom had never been to Scotland before last wednesday. And will probably never go there again.

So now, as always, having won the war, we have to survive the peace. Which, as recent history has shown, is far more difficult.

This whole episode of Salmond-driven arrogance has been massivly divisive for Scots. They are now a nation split. Nearly half of them have lost a battle to which they had become passionately supportive and emotionally involved. The early nicey-nicey news feature of ‘the wee twins from Falkirk supporting different sides. Ahhhhh’ have given way to threats, fighting, near-riots and a whole demonstration of the full range of man’s hositility to fellow man.

As a Londoner, I’m much happier now because the pound is immediately stronger again and share prices have risen overnight, taking my pension back from ‘breadline’ to ‘just mere poverty’ in one fell swoop. And really, its all about me.

But leaving my own personal gains out of it just quickly, there’ll be trouble. Already everyone’s favourite Scottish whipping boy (other than Salmond), Andy Murray, is possibly regretting tweeting his support for the Yes campaign on Wednesday. He’s always had a difficult relationship with England (read: WE FUCKING HAAAATE HIM) which will not be exactly enhanced by his words in favour of seperation. People have to go back to work today (or back to the dole queues) in Edinburgh and Glasgow and sit next to people they were facing off with full aggression in various squares just yesterday. Scotland’s always been rather partisan on religious grounds, now there’s something else to divide the nation’s populus.

And we have to work out the consequences of all the promises made by our Government before the election. And the repercussions on our own democracy, as well as those of Wales and Northern Ireland. If Scotland is indeed remaining part of the Union, it cannot be constitutionally different from its fellow states.

Everything to play for.

Happy united Friday

A xxxx

Ahhhh the Champions League. The league of, er, champions. Europe’s finest. Except Spurs. We were only allowed to play in it once and were the best team there by miles. For just a wee while. Ahhhhh…

But now all is not so pretty. Not that I saw any of the matches so far but that’s irrelevant. They play them without me. I didn’t watch Liverpool play Ludo Razgd and they didn’t watch me play bridge. Though we both won our games.

Man City had it tougher last night. There’s certain teams you don’t want in your group. And the number one (ok, maybe two) team would be Bayern Munich. And City lost. Only just but as ‘a miss is as good as a mile’ so no points is no points, however close it may have been at the night. Hanging on gallantly until conceding a goal in the 89th minute is very disappointing. But if you got points for disappointment Spurs would be world champions at everything. Fact is you don’t. You get nothing. Gornisht. De nada. Zip. And City seem to be struggling this year a bit. I know, it may not last, they may be in stalking horse mode, like Man United may be in the league, but they just don’t seem… like Chelsea.

Who also managed to drop points last night, at home to Schalke. Even though in the league thus far they’ve looked completely invincible. Which begs the question, that without Diego Costa (rested, can’t play 3 games in a week, what do you think he is? some kind of professional athlete or somefink??) does the juggernaut that is Chelsea turn into an overpriced dump-site? Even with ancient legend Drogba back in the blue. Just a thought.

And Arsenal. Ahhhh, Arsenal. The cause of my deja vu. Although its more like Groundhog Year really. Every summer Wenger buys A player. One. A significant One. “But you’ve lost 3 players!!” the pundits cry. No, says Arsene, we need no-one else. “But Vermaelen’s left, Sagna’s gone; you’re weak in defense”. No, we need no-one. Always the same. Wenger has his ‘war chest’ to go buy playerS but instead buys player and keeps the money safe in the bank earning 0.03%. For a rainy day. In case the roof caves in at the Emirates. Oh, it hasn’t got a rood. Well, just nice to have a reserve. Of cash. Though apparently not of players. And then by Christmas, normally, we get the “of course we’re strugglling in *******, all our players are injured and we have no back-up”. Same old, same old. Every bleedin’ year. Except this year its come early and Arsenal are already looking a bit thin on the ground back four-wise.

Today Scotland votes. Thank Christ for that. We can change the subject now. To: ‘the aftermath of the vote!!! the repercussions!!!’. Its gonna be a long haul.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx