Andy's Glasses

I once played in a sunday morning tennis tournament which was a charity fundraiser. The sun even shone, great event, people playing tennis at Haberdashers’ School, cos they have lovely tennis courts and lots of ’em. Great day. I’m gonna say me mate Jane and I came 12th. Possibly 7th, maybe 23rd. Irrelevent other than for the obsessively competitive. Because it was a Sunday morning and no kids were around, we all parked up next to the courts. And after one of our matches we came to find a great throng of peoplage all around the cars. And there, parked up, top down, gleaming redder-than-red, was a Ferrari. I don’t know which model so I’ll say it was a Tossa-Rossa, which pretty much fits them all. And a smug man with a big grin (and probably a very small penis) was walking up to his car to… to… well, just to lay claim to it, I suppose.

Except the crowds weren’t actually around Turin’s finest. They were in fact gawping at the car next to it, which was also red, and a Bubblecar. One of those fabulous little 3-wheelers that arose in the 60s just to make chain-smoking Europeans look more eccentric in movies. And so cute, the front side opening outwards as the single door. Just fabulous.

And today I saw that in an auction there is one of the ‘other’ 3-wheelers up for sale this week. The Messerschmidt one. As in the German fighter plane of the Second World War, Messerschmidt. Because when the Hun finally realised that Johnny Englishman was not going to let him get away with his tricks and once Douglas Bader had jumped back into his Spitfire to send Bertie Bosch back from whence he came, the Messerschmidt factory had nothing to make. And yet, presumably, loads of parts left over. So they made some little cars. But short on design ideas, they just used the existing plane model but put wheels on it instead of wings. So these Messerschmidt cars actually had a cockpit, with two seats, one in front of the other, just like in a plane. Well, I suppose its just like in the old war films; Germans never actually speak to each other kind of conversationally, they just scream orders to be obeyed. So sitting like that is just fine.

I’ve always loved these old 3-wheelers, from a day before health-n-safety ruled our lives. Seat-beltless death traps. Where do I bid?

Amazing coincidence last night. Went out for a quiet curry with Mel, dinner plans having been cancelled at the last minute. Fine. Love a curry. Went to our local in East Finchley. Great place, dead quiet on a wet tuesday night. Food’s fab though. And we were duscussing the show Sunny Afternoon, the musical history of the Kinks, who I loved as if they were little German 3-wheeled cars. Because they were always a LONDON band. If not THE London band. Anyway, the show’s now moved from Hampstead to the West End, blah, blah, blah.

Then the door opened, I looked up and in walked Ray Davies. Of the Kinks. But much older. My jaw dropped, (probably spilled a bit of biryani, if I’m honest) and he smiled. Muswell Hill boys falleth not far from the tree, then. Amazing.

Happy Wet Wednesday (where does all this rain come from?????)

A xxxx

My wife has delicate feet. But, like really delicate. So she has ‘specialised shoes’. Shoes for every and any possible occurrence. Shoes for work, shoes for play, shoes for formal, informal, dress wear, shoes for walking (long distance), shoes for walking (muddy places), shoes for walking (places that aren’t long or muddy), and so it goes on, then we get to the ‘spares’. The reserves. Just in case shoes. For slightly wet tuesdays when working part of the day and walking medium to short distances on fairly dry ground whilst wearing green. Otherwise WHAT SHOES WOULD SHE WEAR????? Would be a disaster.

I’m not normally privvy to shoe-buying of my women. I’m deemed unworthy. Possessing a total of 3 pairs of shoes. Work. Jeans. Tennis. What else do I need? But yesterday, bank holiday, Mel and I decided to ‘pop’ into Sports Direct on the way to food shopping (I LOVVVE food shopping, almost as much as I hate shoe shopping, but we’ll get to that) to pick up ‘just a spare pair of shoes’. Sounded like a plan. Until we arrived.

Sports Direct is the brain-child of Mike Ashley and it has made him rich. Rich enough to buy Newcastle United football club where his is universally hated for being too rich, too fat, too southern and too Mike Ashley for their gentle, Geordieness. When he renamed the hundred year old stadium, St James’s Park, as: sports direct@St James’s, there were riots.

But his business, built on the old ethos of ‘pile ’em high; sell ’em cheap’ is a fantastic success. Its a modern type ‘store’ in which there are loads of uneducated sub-normal kids, taken straight from the special needs classes at all the schools where they have metal detectors at the gates, and all the parents vote UKIP, and they’re dressed in red, so can be easily identified. Also because they are generally dangerous. And they have walkie-talkies so they can… er… walk and talk. They don’t do advice, they don’t ‘help’ in any conventional shoppy way, they just get things that you need by screeching into their walkie-talkies to the mother-ship, where all the other shoe sizes are kept, either on Venus, or a satellite orbiting the moon.

And why I am considered a fairly bad shopper, whilst my wife is the Nigel Farage, the Real Madrid, the Jennifer Lawrence of the shopping basket, is because of our slightly different styles of shopping, to our individual approaches to purchasing.

I look, I find, (within my 30-second limit) I buy. If I don’t find, I leave. GAME OVER.

Mel examines every item on sale. Every single one. She is systematic, thorough, ruthless and microscopically efficient. Rack after rack of clothes, she doesn’t tire, nor get bored, nor lose focus; its commendable. And the reason we can not, should not, must never ever even if hell has indeed frozen over and I don’t have a coat, NEVER shop together.

So yesterday as we walked into (HELL!!!) the store, the size of an aircraft hangar, one wall of which is just sports shoes. Millions of them. Trillions. More shoes than there are grains of sand on a beach. More shoes than there are atoms in the universe. Every size, colour, style, design, every combination of those, every variation conceivable and inconceivable, they have them.

I recognised the look on Mel’s face as we entered. It said: there is THE perfect pair of shoes in here; for tuesdays, green/grey, medium walking, short-driving, orthotic-friendly, elevated heel, well padded… I just have to find them.

And in the mirror on the right I recognised the look on my face. Sheer fucking terror! Panic-rising! Pale, sweaty, nauseous-looking, manic-eyes darting round looking for escape (or death; either way),

I tried to be good. I tried to be supportive, but she knew the look on my face (terror), she could tell by my body language (retching), that the trip was doomed. Would need to be suspended until she could come alone. I felt bad, a bit guilty, but the relief as we left Sports Direct to the other 3,000 punters; that odd combination of Rumanians, Bulgarians and UKIP supporters who are their demographic.

Happy, relieved-to-be-back-at-work Tuesday,

A xxxx

Its a catastrophe! (for the LibDems)
Its terrible!! (for the European Union)
Its awful!!! (for the conservatives and even worse for Labour)
And its the end of the world!!! (for Nick Clegg)

Europe has spoken!! And, with one voice, it has said: WE DON’T WANT ‘EUROPE’. Well, ‘Europe’ can be there but just as a collective term for the continent, not as some kind of homogenous unit of Euro-ness. Not as some brotherhood of nations, all equal under one currency, except for Germans who are touch more equal than everyone else. And not as some kind of open-bordered wonderland in which the unemployed peasant scum from the Eastern reaches are given a warm welcome in every country until they can find one that will fund their every need and desire without any requirement of ‘work’. Or ‘Britain’ as its known.

UKIP basically stormed the European parlaimentary elections here. Massively. Similarly, in France, the (fucking) National Front stormed to Euro victory. Right wing parties winning was the theme across all of the Euro-voting and yet… and yet…

Greece; the most nazied-up, almost-swastika wearing Golden Dawned bunch of uber-fascists, in fact voted en masse for a very left-wing but very ANTI-EUROPE party.

So the trend in fact was not one of swing to the right (praise The Lord for small mercies) but swinging away from the European Union.

What Nigel Farrage and UKIP have to be admired about is for thier fundamental understanding of ‘the common man’. In most cases, very common, almost and oik. Doesn’t matter what we think of him cos rightly or wrongly, he gets the same vote as Mr Eton and Oxbridge. But he doesn’t understand quite as much and he gets bored much more quickly so has a limited attention span.
So its all very well for Grant Schapps, Conservative party chairman, to bang on about how ‘the message has been received loud and clear from these elections’ (the ‘message’ to his party being, effectively: FUCK OFF!!) so the Tories just need to ratify this and realign that and strategise the fundamental algorithms of euro-memberness.
And its all very well for the Lib Dems to say that they had the right message (stay in Europe) but unfortunately it was just a message no-one wanted to listen to. Because the message was too long, way too intricate, too complicated, and too Cleggish.

What Farrage realised it that less is more. That simplicity is all. That feed a man enough and he’ll be satisfied. He doens’t need a Roman feast of information. Especially when he’s a bit dim to being with.

So UKIP’s message was this:

There’s zillions of Romanians and Bulgarians coming HERE. To rob us, rape our pets, steal our homes, fornicate publicly, drink our booze and get handouts from the government in millions.

We need to have control of our borders to stop this travesty.

But we can’t if we are in Europe because they make the rules.

Ergo we need to leave Europe, take control of our borders, control immigration, save our Labradors from Bulgarian rapists. (Ok, now sing the first 3 verses of Land of Hope and Glory).

Simple message, small bits, single theme. So easy. And that’s what mainstream politics needs to learn. If you can’t simplify something; don’t use it. Or else you are seen as overcomplicating or really fucking patronising.

British politics may indeed improve as a result of this seeminly awful result. Assuming it recovers at all.

Happy (Black) Monday

A xxxx

I’m not a big tv watcher. Using Andy’s Calculation, there’s very little to watch. The Calculation goes like this:
99% of our 637 tv channels show 99% rubbish approximately (within 3 significant figures), 99% of the time. And I’m only interested in the remaining 1%. So we don’t ‘have the telly on’. Never. We turn it on to watch something, then turn it off again. Unless I’ve got the remote then I certainly have to check those other 636 channels just to make sure that there’s no ‘must sees’ on some lowly, deserted, obscure oldies channel. Something like Terminator 2, or Die Hard (the first), or a really cool music bio of a very old band, most of whom were dead by 1987 from drug abuse.

I say this not as some claim to superiority over those who wake up and turn the tv on from bed, then turn it off 18 hours later as their eyes are closing on the ending day. But its just what I am, what we do. Which does make me a bit superior, but only in a nice, pompous, sneering, holier-than-thou kind of way.

Yesterday, as predicted, there was a lot of rain. Interspersed with some (though very little) sunny bits. Just a few. The afternoon walk was cancelled, so I watched some of the QPR/Derby playoff match. Dull as dishwater. Terrible game. Went out for a while, listened to some of it on the car radio, the commentators fell asleep, woke up and spoke of their holiday plans for the summer. There was no football worth mentioning. Then QPR had a man sent off. That was the total excitement of the game until the 88th minute when (Spurs reject… and West Ham reject, and Fulham reject, and…) Bobby Zamora hit the one and only, hence ‘winning’ goal. QPR go to the Premiership. Harry Rednap returns.

Then we came home. And the heavens dids’t open. Fuck me dids’t they open. Hail, the size of hailstones! Ok, they weren’t exactly big but there were loads of them. Hundreds, at least, if not more. For ages and ages. “Well”, I proclaimed, “we certainly can’t go out in this!!” and promptly turned on the rugby. Which was wonderful. Brilliant game. Jonny Wilkinson signing off from the game in definitive style.

It was still pouring, then it stopped. Brilliant. We have the brother-and-sister-in-law coming round for a barbecue. Rain’s stopped. Great. Get it all ready. And we did. Prepared the requisite 4 times more meat than 4 people could ever eat under ‘normal’ circumstances, throw in some lettuce leaves ‘for the gels’ and fire up the barby. Then it rained again. Big rain. Lots of it. But all was not lost because the Champions’ League final was just kicking off. But dinner guests? And tv???? That’s simply not acceptable. Completely incompatible with accepted protocols of British decency, dining and hostage. Might as well spit on the Queen’s crown as turn the tv on at dinner.

The sun came out. Hoorah. We barbecued, Flinstones scale meat. Then after the feast we took our port and coffee and cigars (not really but its just the image; light up a stogie in our house and the smoke alarms would have the Fire Brigade here in 10 minutes but the anti-smoking lobby here in 6) and watched the end of the Madrid vs Madrid final. The injury time equaliser for Real. The extra time. In which Gareth Bale scored THE important goal. I don’t care that a couple of foreigners scored yet further goals, Gareth was the hero. The Spurs boy (if only) came good. One year away and he’s already won the Champions League. Bless him. He could have won it for Spurs. If he’d just stayed another 6 generations. Maybe.

Then we turned the tv off.

And then, after they’d gone I turned it sneakily back on for The Eagles Story (part 1).

Brilliant day. Brilliant night. Lucky I don’t like tv. Or rain.

Happy sunday, let the sun shine all day.

A xxxx

I hate the rain. Tennis just got cancelled. The lawn can’t be mowed. The car’s wet. And we won’t be able to do lots of ‘things’ like walking, gardening, all those -ings that get done on bank holiday weekends. Another bank holiday weekend. The fifth this week. So it seems.

But… and yet… though…

if ever you ‘simply have to stay indoors’, then today is most certainly the day. The most wonderful day ever. And not just day, but half the night too. Because today is officially, sports-not-to-be-missed day. Not played, of course, playing sport is for wimps. For watching.

Though a brief mention of ‘other news’ first, before the sportsfest begins.

Some (tosser) bloke has invented the ‘superfood’. Its called Soylent, after the old science fiction book (in which that version of Soylent ends up being made from slaughtered humans; fucking good advert that is) and is the complete and perfect food for humans. Just add the powder to water and create a beige sludge which, whilst not tasting essentially ‘good’ in any foody sense, will not make you instantly vomit like most other ‘superfoods’ that Gwynnie and Madonna currently use. And the balance of vitamins and proteins and goodness is so… so… so good, that all you need otherwise is some special oil which he provides for lipids and wonderful unfatty fats that caress your heart lovingly and clear your arteries and stroke your testicles. From within!

One question: by how many miles does this man miss the whole point of ‘food’?? I’d rather live on kebabs and McDonalds and die younger.

UKIP won lots of seats on councils yesterday. Lots. They provided their ‘earthquake’ in an almost-racist, near-xenophobic, slaughter-the-foreigners way. The whole nation turned to these saviours of British values. Except in London, where they were laughed off the polls and won very little. So as Tory Boy said to me last night at dinner: ‘the best reason yet for not letting people outside London vote’. And I must admit, with obvious respect for both the democratic process and to the inbreds, retards, gullible dimwits and uncultured residents of Burnley, Norwich, Halesowen and The Wirral, that I’m inclined to agree with him.

So, be in your seat by 3 o’clock for the Championship play-off final, the single most valuable football match in the world. Worth an estimated £80million to the winner who will then spend a year in the top flight as the real reward. Derby playing Queens Park Rangers, for which me mate Dave has made a 24-hour trip from Israel back here to, hopefully, go back tonight very very happy. Incredible that the match to decide who came third in the second division is worth way more than the Champions League final. Which is on at 7.45 on a screen very near you. Gareth Bale and Ronaldo versus Athletics Madrid, the wonderful underdogs. Oh my.

And in between, the Heikeken cup final with Jonny Wilkinson playing in French, with subtitiles, for Toulon against Saracens to decide Europe’s finest rugby team.

What a day this is destined to be.

Happy saturday

A xxxx

I generally avoid movies with the word ‘tomorrow’ in the title. I know; its a perfectly innocuous word, an everyday word, even an every-tomorrow word. But it has deep implications in the world of cinema. Because its a euphemism for ‘the future’. In fact it really is about the future, just normally not such a faraway future as it implies in any movie title. And it also implies some kind of apocalyptic event that is due to happen ‘tomorrow’. Unless:

doh, it can be avoided.

Tom Cruise puts on an ultra violent exo-skeleton comlete with nuclear armaments; such a lot of ‘stuff’ on such a small person.

Bruce Willis is sent into space with some other old men

Jake Gyllenhall saves the world from a deep freeze.

The aliens can be persuaded not to invade us but go to another planet instead.

The big movies for this summer (summer’s always a stupid time for movie releases; all blockbuster rubbish aimed at either children or adults who have a mental age of 12 or less). And this summer’s ‘bumper offerings’ include:
Tom Cruise in Edge of Tomorrow, when the world is gonna end if Le Petite doesn’t do some serious scowling to camera.
Dawn of the Planet of the Apes; done that, been there, hated it the first time round, can’t imagine its improved with age.
Guardians of the Galaxy; don’t even ask.
Jupiter Ascending; true story of a poor girl who cleans toilets, who looks a lot like Mila Kunis, who is actually a princess from Jupiter!! Who’d’a thought?? Waits for Prince Charming, who has six arms (bit like Rolph Harris then) two heads and six penises; one on each toe. Its a porn film. Well, it would be if I’d made it.
And there’s yet another, inevitable, Transformers. The 19 sequels to the pretty cool original have all been tragically disappointing rehashes of the same old same old, but without Megan Fox, there is simply no reason to watch it again.

Back on this planet, almost, there’s Maleficent, the wicked witch from Sleeping Beauty, before she played for Wigan. Ok, its basically for Disney what ‘Wicked’ was for the Wizard of Oz. It explains why the wicked witch was oh so wicked. And stars Angelina Jolie, who for some reason I can never quite bring myself to loathe. Even though I know I should. Must be those lips.

And if that’s not fab enough!!!! there’s Expendables 3. I love a sequel. I love draining the dregs from an initially flimsy, pathetic and ridiculous premise and stretching it to new realms of the imbecilic in order to try and sell some popcorn. Schwartzenneger, Stalone, Harrison Ford, blah, blah, saving the world with Zimmer frames rigged with machine guns, and as much plastic surgery as you can get before Tomorrow.

But at Cannes this week… that’s in France… south thereof, they’ve been previewing the ‘other’ movies. The good ones. Made in foreign languages (though not if you’re foreign in the first place) for pretentious fuckers like me.

The Search looks fantastic, in a depressing, foreign kind of way, as does Two Days and One Night (but obviously no ‘tomorrow’) with the gorgeous Marion Cotillard.

So its not all bad. Just most of it.

Happy Frinday

A xxxx

So sang the Clash in 1982 on the Combat Rock album, one of my all time top-whatever. It was a protest against Iran’s banning of music. All of it. No music. Its subversive. Degenerates the masses. Corrupts the populus. Evil westernism. Ban it. And they did, as part of the Islamisation of that fine (??) nation. So when six ‘kids’, young adult types, posted a video of themselves dancing on a rooftop, miming along to Pharrell Williams’ ‘Happy’, they were arrested and are in jail. They were just having fun. Which is illegal in Iran. Fun is a crime.

How fucked up is any nation/religion/organisation that actually criminalises simple, innocent, inoffensive pleasure? Answers on a postcard, per-lease. Though I’m not questioning Iran’s right to ban what they want; its unfair to make judgments based on our more liberated views. But please, get a grip.

Rachida Dati, former French cabinet minister, now Euro-MP and also a muslim, she too was fucked up. But in a different way. A more modern way. A much nicer way. And thus she gave birth to a child. And, unmarried, she refused to name the father. How noble. Though when she eventually did pick a name out of the hat, the guy refused to admit responsiblity on the grounds that Ms Dati was at that time sleeping with 8 other men as well. What? All in one bed?? Some bed. She’s probably not a devout muslim then.

Rachida, in fact the first muslim woman to serve in French cabinet (though she’s so gorgeous it was inevitable, really) is now kind of defending Nigel Farrage and saying that he is not in fact ‘a racist’. Even though he looks like one, sounds like one, acts like one and certainly smells like one (they all smell of fags and beer, haven’t you noticed? go sniff a racist today). Nigel’s claim that ‘all Romanians are thieving bastards’ (my words, but however you choose to gild that lily, that’s what he said) has landed him in hot water. Where he spends so much time the only suprise is that he doesn’t wear a scuba tank over his suit.

And to be fair, (something I try NEVER to be when UKIP are involved), Nigel did refuse a European coalition with France’s Front Nationale party along with the equivalent (neo-nazis) from Holland and Greece, but only because he’d then have problems denying the racist card back home. The very fact that such organistions saw in Nigel’s lot a like minded group says a lot. Like Nigel. He always says a lot. Normally digging himself out of one hole or another with a blunt shovel.

And much as I really don’t want an influx of 2.6 million thieving, raping, organised-criming, Romanians and Bulgarians swarming our shores, mainly because we don’t have the room nor the houses nor the infrastructure to accommodate such input, I can’t condone outright bans on immigration. They’re oppressive.

Today is voting day, here in England. Not the big stuff, but local council elections and Euro ministerialisms. And I don’t mind who votes what, you almost have the right to vote for whomsoever you please. Almost. But as you place your cross on that paper, don’t endorse insidious racism, however fucking smiley and pally and matey it may seem.

DON’T vote UKIP today.

Happy polling day

A xxxx

Yaya Toure; best player in the league? Ground-breaking midfielder who is the new ‘complete’ player?? He’s big, very big, yet fast, and nimble, has quick feet, wonderful passer, goalscorer extraordinaire, moves like the wind, immovable force, the engine that makes Manchester City tick.

And a total fucking tosser.

Message to Yaya: if you want to leave Man City, just tell them. It will be hard, but they’ll get over it. Once they’ve spent the, what? 100 million? 120 million? that you’d command in transfer fees. But get over it they would. Because starting a fight with them over a fucking birthday cake is as stupid and childish as it is transparent.

Roberto Carlos was given a Bugatti by Anzhi on his birthday. Because that club was stupid and for a couple of years threw money all over the place to try and buy glory which almost succeeded before the owner cut the budget. Roberto Carlos probably got a Ford Focus for his next birthday. A used one. Such is life under Dagestani ownership. Where??? Don’t ask, I’ve never heard of it either.

No-one ever accused Yaya of being clever. That’s not his job. Otherwise he’d have taken over from Steve Jobs at Apple. So he has an agent. Just your normal bottom-feeding, blood-sucking, parasitical scumbag-in-Armani who performs some simple maths:

if Yaya stays at Man City, I get **% of his meagre £220,000 a week salary, for doing precisely, er, nothing. But if he goes to Barcelona, he’ll get a higher wage for me to plunder AND I get a hefty chunk of the transfer fee. Hmmmm. Which scenario leaves me with more cash…

So let’s find a reason to moan. A point of principle upon which escalation of bad feelings can reach crisis point and Yaya can leave. We can say ‘another team wants to pay him more’, but Wayne Rooney already played that card. Ok, let’s complain that ‘no-one loves me and I’m really sad’. That’ll play well in the media and create sympathy. Because everyone (under 7 years old) is miserable if all they get for their birthday is two cakes and no Bugatti, and therefore I’ll keep my pride intact.

Yeah, fucking right.

Two giants of sport retired from active service this week. Ryan Giggs and Jonny Wilkinson. Two of the finest left feet ever to grace the pitches of the world. Both were prodigal beginners, both worked hard, achieved greatness in their careers and were loyal to their teams and the games they represented. One of them shagged his sister-in-law but no-one’s perfect. Well, I suppose in a strictly moral sense Jonny W. is pretty perfect. Almost too perfect. Shunning fun and drinks with his mates to spend another 12 hours kicking a rugby ball between the posts. He was Mr Serious. Mr Totally-Focussed. But that can create an image of almost dullness. Whereas Ryan slept with his brother’s wife and then took out a superinjunction to have it banned from the media. Which didn’t go ‘that’ well otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about it today. But heh, everyone makes mistakes. And Ryan Giggs is allowed one. That we know of. I still love him. Not sure if the sister-in-law does.

Happy Wednesday, and belated happy birthday Yaya. McLaren’s in the post.

A xxxx

I try to be politically correct. I really do. But, despite all my efforts, its just so confusing, such a minefield, so complicated. Knowing who can be insulted and who can’t, what you can say about minorities, races, nations and even genders. Its all so full of mixed messages, and we need clarification. And by ‘we’, I obviously mean me.

I mean, Beyonce goes out there and twerks for all she’s worth, shaking that most magical of booties around the stage, and she’s ‘reclaiming her own body for the sisterhood’. Skinny waif Mylie Cyrus does similarly and she’s ‘being in charge of her own sexuality’, she’s taking feminism forward. Albeit in a very skinny, shapeless kind of way. I do like my feminists to be a bit more shapely really. But that’s just my politics.

So when Lithuanian Lil shakes her rather pert and slightly surgically enhanced butt around at Spearmint Rhino, she’s objectifying herself. She’s the horns of the devil. Or creating horny devils, whatever. She’s the ass-end of the misogynist machine, perpetuating female subjugation in a male-dominated, paternalistic world. The bitch. They why do so many men see fit to stuff 20-pound notes into her underwear? Ok, ‘underwear’ may be overstating a piece of pink string, but still. Why do they? Perhaps they think that, like the Ms’s Knowles and Cyrus, that Lil is furthering the feminist cause and these men, the pot-bellied, tie-loosened, half-drunk bond traders and corporate lawyers and Goldman Sacksers, they’re all devotees to feminism and the sisterhood and they’re supporting that worthy cause. Perhaps.

But when a woman finally breaks that ‘glass ceiling’ (which I think was only put there so you could look up skirts), she must NOT be acclaimed as the ‘first woman who ever…’ No. That’s implying that women are different from men. Oh, okay, not sure how that bit fits in. Or if its even allowed to fit in any longer. The assumption must be that she just happened to be the best person for that job and who happens to be a woman. Like an afterthought. She was going to be a man, but opted for femininity instead. Could’a gone either way.

Yet whilst on the beach in Israel, I conducted an extensive, longitudinal, factor analysis study of men and women. And I can confirm, not just with certainty but with a great deal of pleasure and relief; that women are indeed different to men. Wonderfully, curvily (other than those pretty curvy pot bellies at Spearmint Rhino), softly, bouncily, delightfully, tannedly, lithely, leggily, different.

And if that makes me an unevolved knuckle dragger then pass the fucking bananas right this way.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

To all our friends at Arsenal for their wonderful victory against Hull on Saturday. Well done to club, players, fans and everyone concerned with that team over the years.

That was the most sincere and difficult sentence I’ve written since: “I will never ogle, leer at or objectify women again, unless I really have to or am driven by forces beyond my control or that of my genetalia”.

So the Goons finally won something. Finally. Phah. There’s already jokes going round about “27 hours since Arsenal won a trophy; sack Wenger”. And a stunning come-from-behind victory which speaks volumes of the man that Wenger is and always has been. Because he has but one gift. And that is to give his players belief. That they can do it. Whatever ‘it’ may be in order.

I think it safe to say that if Spurs, or most other teams, had gone 2-0 down in a cup final, or virtually any match, they’d lose 4-1. But Arsenal, as the song goes, don’t stop believin’. They are the Premiership’s Streetlight People. (?????)

So whilst there is always much to offer in criticism about Arsene, he is unarguably a supreme motivator. The most important feature of any club manager. Skills and game plans can be taught by others, coaches do lots of the hard work, but getting your players into the right head space; that’s magical. Particuarly as the heads of most players is exactly that: empty space.

And massive congratulations to Athletico Madrid for winning La Ligua by ‘simply’ not losing at Barcelona at the same time the cup final was being played. Amazing that a relatively poor team with few ‘superstars’ that weren’t developed in house, could win in a league dominated so completely for so long by the mighty, massive, obscenely wealthy powers of Real Madrid and Barcelona. Their victory should give hope to all. It won’t, but it should. And the Barca fans (bless ’em) cheered and applauded Athletico after the match.

Me mate Dave, in one of our many poolside discussions of such important matters over the last few days, asked a great question. Who were Real fans rooting for in the Barca/Athletico match. Ooooooohhhhh, that’s a tough one. As Real hate them both. In fact as Real hate everyone who isn’t Real Madrid.

And yet, and yet, and yet… I kind’a want Real Madrid to win the Champions League final next weekend. For one reason only. Gareth Bale. I loved that boy like a son. Who then fucked off and abandoned those who loved him ‘just’ for money, success, trophies, glory, women, lamborginis and career and life fulfilment. Fickle bastard. Superficial sod. But because I still watch him play and because he is still the most exiting player in the world to watch (not ‘the best’ but on the ball, no-one since Zidane creates that frisson, that hackle-rising magic like Gareth at full tilt).

I read yesterday that to be a ‘true Real legend’ you just have to score in a champions league final. Several relative unknowns are ‘up there’ with the greats for doing just that and nothing much more, whereas superstar Ronaldo (fat Ronaldo, the proper, original, Brazilian one, not the Portuguese hair-gel advert) never reached that place in their hearts because he didn’t win ‘that final’.

Ok, last chance for sun and sand before we fly back this afternoon. Boo-hooo.

Happy (half of) Monday

A xxxx