Andy's Glasses

what do you fancy? A curry? Chinese? Italian??

Luis Suarez. I mean: what the f***? But really; WHAT THE F***????

And at what point does a ‘moment of insanity’ in ‘the heat of the moment’, temporarily ‘losing it’ become a bit of a problem? A pattern. When does the odd isolated action evolve into serial offense? Whatever the question, we really need to talk about Luis.

18 months ago he bit a Chelsea player on the arm. Fortunately for him, there were only 97 cameras on him at the time so he almost got away with it. But it was a bite. Teeth marks. And we all thought: ‘that’s a fucking wierd thing to do’. Then they fished out footage of him doing the same thing when he played for Ajax. But heh, the Dutch are famously tolerant and, when it comes to football, notoriously violent. Luis received a ban for the Chelsea offence. Probably would have been a longer ban if the opposing team had been any other than Chelsea on the grounds that they are hateful and generally deserve whatever they get. And Luis redeemed himself last year by being the best player in the league. And went from hate figure to idol. Not an easy thing to do when you’re not David Beckham and you’ve already received another long ban for racism.

And we all loved Luis. Even when he personally destroyed not just the England football team last week, but the entire nation, I still thought that it was almost worth that pain for the wonder that was provided by El Suarez. But then it started. Not just the gloating but the statements of how Uruguay’s defeat of England was his personal revenge for our collective scorn when he was reviled by all and sundry. With some good reason. But heh, he’s (almost) human, he has feelings, and I allowed him his moment of vengeance.

Then last night he bit the shoulder of the Italian left back. Or the back of the Italian left shoulder. Images are blurred. And there are teeth marks and pain and suffering, even though Luis went down in apparent suffering clutching his teeth, as if the Italian had deliberately shouldered his mouth. Which, kind’a, wasn’t the case when you see it. And we’ve all seen it. From 26 different angles. So Luis is in trouble. Big trouble. He won’t be playing in this World Cup again. Nor for anyone else anytime soon. His chomping days are over. FIFA should give him a 6 month ban and allow him to play again only upon removal of his teeth.

Whereas Naomi Broady (who???) won a tennis match at Wimbledon. Being British that in itself is an unusual statement. But that she was there at all shows just how forgiving and wonderful the Lawn Tennis Association can be. Because although a young Wimbledon champion a few years ago, she was cut off from the tennis world because of the photo above. In which the then 17 year old was posing with a condom machine. And the LTA differs from, say, Ashton Kutcher, in that it doesn’t do pranks and it really doens’t do ‘humour’ in any meaningful way. So they cut off her sponsorship, left her high and dry. Like we have so many tennis champions in this country we can really afford to lose a few potential winners due to almost inapprorpriate behaviour.

Naomi is now 24, will probably lose to Wozniacki in the next round and is northern. But we should all be rooting for her. For freedom of expression, for fun, for showing the LTA that acting like the Taleban is rotten. And because slutty behaviour should always be rewarded.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Wimbledon starts today. The best tennis tournament in the world. Well, the only one I watch, which means it must be the best. Right? I never watch the French, all that clay and 87-shot rallies, nor the Aussie, as its on in the middle of the night, and the same for the American, though that’s in the middle of the previous night, if ya get my drift. And Wimbledon is special. Its old, its on grass and its all white. This year very white. Because they’re no longer allowing coloured sportswear to be displayed by the players. No black shorts, red socks, yellow t-shirts, pink knickers. Just white. And anything that’s on display must be white, right up to the last 1cm band which can be decorative. Any inappropriate garments will be removed. Even the knickers. Though sadly replaced with something more suitable.

So now there’s conflict. Tennis and the World Cup. Forget the cricket, too dull and depressing to watch (where’s the rule that ‘England can’t win nuffink’? Where’s that written??), the New Zealand rugby tour is over now (played 3, lost 3) and there’s probably golf around, but who can be bothered when there’s proper, real, get sweaty and pant, sports on 12 other channels? I may have to suspend work for a bit to get it all in.

So Wimbledon, all white and green and lovely. Its as British (I use that word loosely, to mean ‘English’ as there’s nothing remotely Scottish, Welsh or Irish about that part of greater London) as the aristocracy. And one aristocrat is up for special mention today. Jamie Lonsdale lives on his family estate in Oxfordshire, just 1000 acres given to his ancestor, Lord Raglan, in 17-hundred and whatever, for… I dunno, fighting Prussians? stopping a revolution of peasants? stabbing Napoleon?? Who knows where these things come from in our wonderful and historic land? But incumbent Jamie is selling the pile. Land and all. To settle his divorce from wife number 1 who was one of Princess Diana’s ladies in waiting. Waiting for what? I have no idea, but it probably means something important to crusty old fascists. And he’s doing this, age 55, to marry his newly-beloved. A pole dancer. Not a Pole dancer, that could mean ballet, could mean all sorts of cultured, almost decent things done in a Polish accent. But no. This is a pole dancer, ‘actress’ and member of the ‘Only Tease’ website. Cool. She’s a bit younger than him. Well, quite a bit younger really, but that is the nature of true love. It has nothing to do with lust, with gonads, with dirty-old-men. This is love. A meeting of minds. And she apparently, don’t mind at all. I wish them luck and best wishes for their future. Or ’til the money’s all gone’, as it is known in some circles.

This World Cup is amazing. Belgium, like Argentina, all the ‘big guns’ were dull and boring and lucky to get through. Whereas Algeria against North Korea was fantastic. And the Yanks almost beat Portugal who look soon to follow England back to Europe even with the great (so he says) Ronaldo. The best player in his house.

Over 100 goals so far. And tennis now as well. Better check the batteries on the remote.

Happy monday

A xxxx

Call me naive. Call me unwordly, unstreetwise, unrealistic. Call me Rhoda for all I care. But I was actually shocked on Friday morning when my butcher, a good honest Spurs fan, told me of England’s error as he perceived it. ‘Should’a stuck one on Suarez’s injured leg in the first 10 minutes, got him off the pitch’. I thought he was joking. But no. He wasn’t, he was totally serious.

I ran this awful suggestion, which was still shocking me, past my mate Vaughan the sandwichmaker and not so honest Stoke fan (none of them are) who agreed wholeheartedly with this suggestion, this failure to cause injury was the undoubted cause of England’s downfall. But he’s a Stoke fan. His team ‘do what is necessary’, they ‘let you know they’re there’, they break fucking legs if that’s what it takes.

I later learned that on TalkSport radio Friday morning in the inevitable post-mortem debate, there was much talk of not ‘making Suarez aware of his injury’, as they apparently should have done.

Then I read that Daniel Sturridge ‘should have made more’ of the elbow he received in his face. Meaning he should have hit the ground as if he’d been shot and writhed around in apparent agony until the referee either awarded him a penalty or an Oscar. Or sent him off for ‘simulation’.

So now it comes down to the coach. For being ‘naive’, like me, and not showing his players how to act injured, how to look for any outstretched defender’s leg to hurl themselves over, how to apply suitable orthopaedic stress onto injured body parts (like we do in tai chi), for not studying x-rays of the opposing teams before matches to know which parts to target.

I’m not suggesting we wrap players up in cotton wool. Only Wayne Rooney before we send him home early so he doesn’t get damaged in the crate. But there is a line between the ‘physical side to the game’ and intentional wounding, or ‘grievous bodily harm’ as its called in court. The other side of that line, though equally blurred, is reacting to that physicality. If it hurts like a sonofabitch, you’re allowed to fall down and clutch it. But if you suffer a minor knock to the shoulder, falling down and clutching your face (Rivaldo) is simply unacceptable.

Our game (yes, its still ‘our’ game even though we’re coming home, because we invented it and England is still the home of football even though we’re shit) is being corrupted by cheating.

Though yesterday afternoon I had a unique experience. I found myself rooting for Iran. Against Argentina. The Argies were shit and boring and Iran, in the second half, realised that their South American foes were not in fact gods but just mere mortals who weren’t particularly that good. So they started to play the game properly instead of anticipating the armageddon that never arrived, and they were great. Iran. Who’d’a thought? Obviously not Leo Messi who put paid to the Ayatollah’s finest, eventually, but they did themselves proud. And with not a nuclear weapon in sight.

Happy, non-violent, unsimulated Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve noticed something. Done some tests. Made an hypothesis. Using very small sample numbers. Mainly; my family. And this is what I’ve found.

That ‘kids’ (young adults/late teens) don’t want to watch the same tv programmes that we do. Yeah, nothing revolutionary about that, I loved Monty Python as a kid, my mum hated it. In the days before remote controls (yes there were tvs BEFORE remotes) I could just cover the 12 yards of lounge space more quickly than mum, so I won. Though often with my brother holding her down, just in case she had a Carl Lewis attack or something. But there were programmes we all liked. And of course with only 3 channels to choose from it wasn’t like you could always turn over and watch Terminator like we do now. Ok, like I do now.

But the difference is that we default to dramas. Cop shows. Maybe hospital shows. Thrillers. Total detachment from reality. And our kids default to reality. Or a possible reality. In which groups of uneducated young people with loads of tattoos get really drunk and have sex with each other, with themselves and with each other’s friends’ partners. And talk about it. Endless fucking talking. Its only the accents that vary. Maybe its set in Beverley Hills, maybe Chelsea, Essex, the Welsh Valleys, the Geordie Shore. But its about relationships. Which could be worthy. Except they’re shallow, dim, wanky type relationships about things that are of no consequence to anyone except those unfortunate and pathetic enough to be involved in them. And evidently to the kids watching them.

Thank The Lord there’s always football to join the family together. And bring back NYPD Blue. The Only Way Is Wallander.

Chris Waddle, who himself was an active member of miserably failed England World Cup squads, so he knows from what he says, even though he says it in a very ‘3rd person’ way implying things were different in the 1980s, which they bleedin’ weren’t, Chrissy baby, blames everyone and everything for our nation’s failings in Brazil. The delusion that ‘the premiership is the best league in the world’ implies that its the Brits what make that so. Whereas in fact its just the money that does it by bringing in the the truly world class acts who obviously aren’t English/British. So what’s the answer? What is even the question?? As we have a massive population of predominantly obese football watchers who’d just love the chance to earn 300 grand a week to kick a ball around cluelessly. Just think of all the doughnuts you could buy with that. Other countries with tiny populations do so much better.

So here’s my solution. One I think would gain approval from Michael Gove, the education minister as well as the health department too.

Take all boys aged 5 to 18 out of normal ‘school’. They never learn anything anyway. Starve them, put them in the gym and teach them nothing but football for 13 years. Footballers have no need to read or write; they have agents for that, and it would free up loads of school places for girls, who do much better at education anyway. And with no male competition, the ‘glass ceiling’ in business and industry would be blown away as there’d be no boys/men to take the best jobs; they’ll all be playing football.

A win-win situation all round. And maybe then we could win the World Cup. Maybe.

Happy saturday

A xxxx

Last night, before the kick-off, I received an email from the letters dude at the Evening Standard, asking me to send a letter about the football, whatever the result. Like what am I: ‘letters-R-us’?? But that’s the way it works. You ask for letters and make it appear like they’re the spontaneous outpourings of a nation (London is a nation, isn’t it?) in the ecstasy of victory/desperation of loss.

I thought it would be appropriate to watch the match first and that turned out to be my first mistake. Should have gone to Tai Chi. Where there’s no Luis Suarez, and if there was you could inflict pain and suffering on him. As he deserves. Anyway, I sent the Standard 2 letters, which reflect my deepest feelings of sadness, of loss, of frustration and of course, of fucking inevitability. And I shall share these with you:

1.
England can still win the World Cup. Its simple maths. We need Italy to beat Costa Rica tonight. We need to then beat Costa Rica next week by a goal difference equal to the number of the moons of Saturn. We need gravity to be suspended for just long enough for all the other teams to fall off. Then a plague of locusts to descend upon Rio; maybe one or two significant earthquakes, and then a few points deducted from Italy and Uruguay for cheating.
Everything to play for; come on England

2.
I despair. Uruguay has a population one fifth that of greater London. Therefore, in London alone there should be 5 Luis Suarezes. Yet in the whole of England we can find no-one who can score sufficient goals to keep our (once) proud nation’s dreams afloat in the World Cup. Suarez had open-heart surgery four days ago. And yet he not only made sufficient recovery, against all predictions, to play against the team from where he calls home, but personally knocked us out of the World Cup, in all but some minor improbability. Yet I think we can be proud of… err… the way we… err… hmmm. There’s always Euro 2016.

What I didn’t say was that the buck-toothed Uruguayan sometime cannibal is a God. Nothing short of. And putting aside all the horribleness of yet another tournament failure, you have to just sit back and admire. And realise that, despite the obvious patriotic fraternalism that infects our nation during the World Cup, it is about football. Great football. Brilliant football. Unfortunately none of it is ours, but as an exhibition of the beautiful game this tournament has been magnificent. Even with Alex Song’s wonderful elbow-in-the-back and Beni Assout-Ekotto head-butting a team-mate (what is it about Cameroon? they should come to Tai Chi; they’re wasted at football) this has been a fantastic display of wonders. And none greater than tiny Uruguay last night. Two incredible goals. One a superb team effort with an almost unbelievable finish by Luis, and the second simply all about that man.

So now, as always, we must simply turn off the pseudo-nationalistic bollox and enjoy the splendour.

I’m still depressed.

Happy Friday

Angry of NW11
xxxx

In an opinion poll, 49% of people think Ed Miliband, the Labour Party leader, should be replaced. They don’t say with what. Perhaps a nice lampshade for the corner of the room? A salt-beef sandwich on rye? Flat screen tv? Though my initial reaction was: ‘what the fuck is wrong with the other 51% of people’??

60% of voters said Ed wasn’t up to the job of being Prime Minister. 90% thought he wasn’t fit to operate a microwave. One person from North West London wondered why the word ‘tosser’ didn’t appear anywhere on the list of questions when it seemed so appropriate to the subject matter.

I think the real problem with Mr Milliband the Ed is not that he looks and acts strange. Nor that he is perceived as ‘nothing even close to normal’, that he’s odd, wierd, has the charm of a waiter in a kosher restaurant, the communication skills of crab and the likeability of… of… of… of someone very unlikeable. No. The problem is that he will never be forgiven for stealing his brother’s birthright in the most biblical of coups when he stole the Labour leadership from under brother David’s nose. Even Cain and Abel went ‘wow!!! holy shit!!!’ when that happened.

Looking at the quality of our political leadership, it doesn’t bode well for the short-term future of our fine nation. Milliband, Cameron, Clegg(????). No wonder Nigel Farage has come so far whilst offering so little.

And so to the big dilemma. Of the day/week/lifetime… well, of the last 4 years.

Tonight England play Uruguay in the biggest match… of… quite some time. If we lose we’ll join Spain in coming home from Brazil in shame, with Wayne Rooney’s head returning home seperately in the hold of a dirty old cargo ship. If we win then the hope can linger for another week until we play Costa Rica. And as all Spurs fans know only too well; its the hope that kills. So this game is beyond big; its humungous. Its vast. More important than the Labour leader, than Syrian fighters, than war in Iraq, than curing the common cold.

But Thursday night is Tai Chi. Because I couldn’t go tuesday due to bridge (my other martial art) and I hate not going once in the week and again on Saturday. Because I might forget it all and return to being a wimp. More than that, Tai Chi is a life committment, its a state of mind, a wonderful place that exists half way between Beijing and the David Lloyd in Finchley. And I take it seriously, my allegiance to the dojo, to the philosophy (of hurting people really badly), to my grandmaster and my brothers in our common aim to make the world a much better, and slightly more violent, place.

But the football is just SOOOOOOOOOOO big.

Oh, help me Lord.

Troubled Thursday

A xxxx

Fantastic news: crabs can hear!!! Yeah, really, those creepy, side-walking little tasty crustacea (and sometimes scarily big crustacea) can hear things. Scientists have shown. Like they needed to spend ‘our’ hard-earned dollars on that. Have they never seen Finding Nemo? Not only can crabs hear, they can speak, dance, drive cars and parachute out of a space satellite whilst singing a duet with a sabre-toothed mammoth! But no, some polytechnic in Nebraska or Arizona (or even possibly somewhere near the sea; I didn’t bother with too many details) sat around, probably stoned, and ‘brainstormed’ the idea of discovering if crabs had auditory senses. And they fucking do. They are sensitive to the noise of predator fishes. They hate the sounds made by their mothers-in-law about being a useless layabout wasting their life away being a bottom-feeder, and they really like Nirvana.

I wonder what crabs would make of Philip Neville? The ex-footballer for Manchester United, Everton and Ingerlund who’s been whisked into service by the BBC as a ‘commentator’. His qualifications for the job: he played a lot of football; he has a brother who is very clever and a great pundit on the game; errrrr… and he played a lot of football. Therefore must be able, competent and interesting enough to entertain the 75million people (approximately) who watched England lose to Italy on Saturday. Never commentated before, but heh: ‘how hard can it be????’

To hard for Phil, that’s for sure. He was soooooo dull, so boring, so tedious that there were 400 complaints. Even a police officer tweeted in that Neville was keeping the streets quiet by sending people to sleep. Montonous. Terrible. Northern.

Because being good at something is never an indicator that you can teach it, explain it or commentate on it in any meaningful or entertaining way. The BBC should have tested the man. A dry run. Here Phil, commentate on those people over there getting on a bus, let’s see what’cher made of. But no, in at the deep end and he drowned.

The whole pundit thing is odd. Punditry is being part of the media, not about being a sporting star. Yet they like stars over and above people who might be brilliant observers or even, heaven forbid, mildly entertaining.

Thierry Henry was a brilliant brilliant footballer (until that terrible and unforgivable handball goal) and he’s pretty. So he sits there, all cool and cardigans (sales of which have rocketed since the World Cup started) but says precisely nothing. He mumbles a bit but contributes nothing to the discussion. Though he does ‘sultry and bored’ better than anyone.

Whereas Alan Shearer is more exitable, but simply fails to express himself in any way that could be considered ‘communication’ with other humans. Maybe he’s there for the crabs.

Robbie Savage is there as a clown. A natural Welsh speaker, he too struggles to say anything that’s even worth trying to understand or translate.

I love Clarence Seedorf. Probably because he was a brilliant player right up to his retirement at 73 years old.

And although Gary Linneker appears as ‘the complete package’, being such a great footballer that he even played for Spurs, being handsome, intelligent and witty as well as knowledgable, he just comes across as rather smug half the time. Or at half time. Either way.

So here’s the rules for employing pundits:

No northerners, they are too boring and dim
No ex-Arsenal players, they’re too Arsenalish
No Liverpudlians (as opposed to other northerners) because they can’t be understood.
Same for Scots and Geordies
No Mancunians because after 7 seconds you want to slit your wrists.
The French are too pouty

So that leaves the Dutch and Brazillians. And Gary Linneker. And all the women in the world. Where are they when you need them?

Bring back Baddeil and Skinner.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

Let’s all strive to keep politics out of sport. And by ‘sport’, I mean football. They simply don’t go together. One is a bunch of misguided fools running round like headless chickens kicking anything that gets in their way, and the other is football. Thus we must always strive to keep sport pure of the evils that politicians perpetrate on behalf of their citizens. The Nigerians that played in the dullest of 0-0 draws last night against Iran were NOT the ones who kidnapped 250 schoolgirls for having the audacity to go to school, these were different Nigerians. Peaceful ones who may even believe in education, even if they tend to act like they’re totally unfamiliar with the word, let alone the concept. And these weren’t the Nigerians who sent me all those lovely emails offering me millions of dollars if I’d ‘just’ help them defraud their own government.

And playing Iran. The most evil nation in the world. Until yesterday when they suddenly became friends of America, possibly allies and almost bed-fellows in the new war against Iraqi bad stuff. Like the Sunni militia steaming in from Syria murdering, killing, raping and pillaging for all they’re worth and its not looking too good over there. Again. So just to clarify: America long ago funded and armed Iraq to fight the enemy that was Iran. Then, having armed them to the teeth, Sadam Hussain was deemed a terrible man and so the Americans went in to depose the tyrant they had themselves created. Leaving Iran a very dangerous place where they’re desperately trying to make nuclear armaments. Until yesterday when they became ‘the lesser of evils’ and have been conscripted by their enemies (now ‘friends’) the Americans to combat the new terror in Iraq. Ya got that? Easy.

Then there’s Germany. Massively victorious against stupid, stupid, stupid Portugal. Or stupid Pepe. Who hasn’t realised, despite all his red cards for Real Madrid, that head-butting a player, even gently, softly, almost nicely, will probably, in many instances, get you sent off. Tosser. The match was watched by Angela Merkel who became a bit more Angela Smirkel with each German goal.

And then there’s England. Nothing political there. Just desperation. And ‘must win’ games. Thursday. Uruguay. Do we keep Rooney? Due to the flack the tubby little striker has been taking, loyal wife Colleen has upped sticks and with the 2 kids, her parents, and just a meager 15 suitcases, has moved over to Brazil for the next weeks. I hope the suitcases are filled with books about how to score lots of goals. But somehow doubt it. Just a loyal wife and her summer wardrobe. I’m comin’ Wayne!!!!!

Nothing political about the Rooneys.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Personally, I blame Angelina. Or, rather, Dame Angelina, now we’ve restructured the entire, 2 thousand-year-old honours system to accommodate a foreign person within the realms of those ennobled by Her Maj. Just goes to show, the quickest way to a medal is to get an Oscar. As Sir Daniel Day Lewis just proved as well. Even if you’re not British, like Angelina.

But what she has done is redefine ‘rape’. Not so much redefine it as, er, well, er, make it illegal. No, make it more illegal than it was. Make it a very very VERY bad thing. And make it unacceptable in war. Even if its always been unacceptable in war. Now, when power-crazed, victorious armies lay waste to the rural villages of the vanquished, rather than indulge in the time-honoured ‘rape, pillage, plunder’, they will stop! And reconsider their intended actions in the light of several of Angelina’s speeches, which they would have seen on the news if they had tvs and spoke English. Speeches in wonderful, historic and beautiful venues, given to wonderful, beautiful and caring exceptionally rich people who all agree, in a rich and not-at-all-patronising way, that rape in the sort of situation that no-one present hearing these speeches will ever have the misfortune to witness, is a very naughty crime that must be stopped. So they’re all agreed at the Guildhall/White House/Grand Palace Strasburgh/wherever rich people meet and warring soldiers don’t.

So then the entire framework of social/sexual interaction is brought into question. If a Sudanese Islamist freedom fighter can’t rape his ‘spoils of war’ then can two students from Exeter Uni snog in the Union bar? Logical next step to the question.

And a journalist has now suggested that before kissing, permission should be asked for and unambiguously granted. To avoid misunderstandings. To avoid… well, to pretty much avoid physical contact, I’d think, after so much passion-killing. Though really, if we’re looking to create what is in effect a ‘kissing contract’, prior to any kissage that may follow on or be dependent on said contract, once validated, to be enforcable thereafter and henceforth in accordance with agreement and sufficient poutage…

Ideally you need a third party. To witness. Just as a safeguard against fraudulent contracts. Preferably a lawyer. Or two, really, one each, for impartiality. And perhaps a judge, adjudicator or arbitrator, just to ensure fair play by all the others concerned.Maybe a clerk of the court, jury, reporters, administrators and security guards. Isn’t Saturday Night at the Movies going to be fun with that lot in tow?

And all that, just to replace the system we used, back in the day, which was ‘gin & tonic’. And repeat. And repeat…

According to aforementioned journo-person, ‘attempted kissing’ is something akin to assault (with a deadly weapon; vis-a-vis lips). And who said ‘romance is dead’???

FYI; the only place where unauthorised kissing and rape are still acceptable activities are in goal celebrations at the world cup. Or so it appears.

GET A ROOM!!!!

A xxxx

28 years ago today, Melissa took me to be her lawful wedded whatever. To have and to hold, from that day forth, fifth, sixth and 28th, through sickness and health and 7 World Cups, and counting, for richer or poorer, Love Thy Neighbour. Morecombe & Wise. Til death us do part. Some sitcom of the 60s. Amen. I now pronounce you one thing and another.

Oddly enough, I can remember very little of the actual wedding day, but almost everything about the 1986 World Cup which was playing throughout that summer. Maradona’s ‘hand-of-god’ was the ‘soundtrack’ to our honeymoon. At one point I thought I’d married Terry Butcher.

But the years have been kind. To me, at least. Though in terms of the England and the World Cup, its just the SAME SHIT DIFFERENT DAY. So much for the ‘we can bloody win it’ spirit, why did no-one think to tell that to the team? Stupid, rookie mistake. We, the population of the whole of England, have unanimously decided that this tournament is ours to lose and, for once we are all in total agreement. This is not like European elections, not like local council rubbish, Big Brother households, Best Voice in the Kardashian Home, this is totally everybody. Believing, for once, in our national chances at greatness on an international platform. Everyone in the whole country. Well, everyone I spoke to yesterday anyway. AND NO-ONE TOLD THE FRIKKIN TEAM. No wonder we lost. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Anyway, its my anniversary, though more importantly (apparently) its Mel’s anniversary, so we’re off walking on the Heath, going to the most expensive ‘Affordable Art Fair’ that’s ever been, and doing whatever it takes to keep me away from the football. So I simply don’t have the time to speak to you any more.

My name’s Andy and I haven’t watched football for 14 hours.

Happy anniversary.

A xxxx