Andy's Glasses

Its not the magnitude of the Dutch win over the holders, Spain, last night that is amazing. Nor that Australia lost to Chile, which everyone except the most devoted or drunk (or both, as is normally the case) Aussie knew was inevitable. Not even that Brasil (note that I spell it the ‘proper’ way, like a native… of Hackney; but in my heart I’m Brazilian) won their first match after a shaky start and needed a very dodgy penalty award to do so.

No.

What’s amazing is just how quickly the World Cup has simply taken over life, as we know it. The newspapers lead with it, every conversation starts with it and every appointment has to be cleared with the fixtures before agreement. And after just a few games, its so fantastically exciting.

The word on the street is that Spain are finished. Defeated. Dead, done, dusted, disgraced and destined to depart for de homeland devoid of delay, discussion or de… oh bollox, enough ‘d’s. Because even if they win two of their group matches (surely even Spain can beat Australia), they now have a shitty goal difference and in all likelihood Holland and Chile will go through. Assuming Spain don’t just do ‘a France’ when they were champions and failed to score one single goal in their group matches. Leaving lots of questions unanswered. The main one being: ‘where do I get the next plane to Paris?’

Spain simply crumbled after a good start. And with all that talent. Whereas Holland, who lost to Spain in the last World Cup final, just played the dream for the entire second half. Robin van Persie’s first goal was that rarest of things: a header that everyone is talking about. Because it came from a breathtaking 60-odd yard pass and was pure genius in its execution. There are very few players that could actually head a ball in that manner, let alone have the presence of mind to work out what needed to be done. Only Van Persie, probably Pele, me and Alan Gilzean…

And that, normally, would have been ‘the best goal of *******’ (fill in yourself: match, group, tournament, whatever) but Arjen Robben scored a couple himself and the second was a thing of incredible beauty. Better than Maradona’s against England in 1986, I feel, for 2 reasons. Firstly because it wasn’t against England. And secondly because Robben may be a cry-baby at times and diver extraordinaire but he’s not a dirty, greasy, cheating, handballing, coke-snorting little shit.

And so tonight. Eng-er-land. We can do it. WE CAN DO IT. WE CAN REALLY DO ITTTTT!!!!!!! And we just need to beat Italy as a start.

Happy 3rd Day (of the World Cup)

A xxxx

Tuesday night there was an ‘event’ by a contact lens company. So we went along. The lectures were kind of lecturish, the food distinctly average to dull. The crowd was, essentially rent’an’optician and the lenses in question, nothing new. There were no great freebies to be had; no ipads given away, not even writing pads, not even a frikkin pen.

Then why would we go? To an event that was never likely to bring rewards and was destined to be the kind of event we turn down on a monthly basis using the ‘life’s too short’ card?

Because this was held at the Sceince Museum. In South Kensington. Where all the world’s best museums are kept. And in fact where all the best museums in the world are free to enter, even for foreigners, tourists, UKIP voters and other lowlifes. They did start charging for the Science Museum and the Natural History and the Victoria & Albert a few years back but there was outcry and they all reverted to free again. I’m going to try ‘outcry’ at the petrol station next week, nothing to lose there.

So basically, you can go there any time, for nothing. Hmmmm. Though obviously you never do go because its too convenient and too, er, cheap.
But what you can’t do is have the place all to yourself. Ahhhhhhhhh. Because it closes at 6 and our ‘thing’ started at 6.30 in a really cool room upstairs, with what must have been the most scientifically-tested to be the most uncomfortable seats in the land. I mean they wouldn’t have just ‘any’ seats at the Science Museum, would they? If they were that hard and numbness-inducing, there had to be a proper, law-of-physically innovative reason for them to be there, at the place that heralds every innovation in the physical world.

But then we could run free, run wild, around the museum, with no guards there or anything. I could have just waked off with Apollo 10 no-one would have noticed. And there were cars and engines and all kinds of fab stuff, all on the ground floor; you have to be a proper, non-paying guest to see other floors, but that’s great and wonderful. And now I want to go back and see more.

Though not til after the World Cup. It started last night. In Brazil, in case you’ve missed that bit. And although there were reservations about… well, just about everything, once the whistle blows and it all kicks off, it suddenly becomes lifted. From the ‘waste of money, cause of deaths, social upset and unrest, strikes and protests, awful stuff’, its suddenly just becomes THE WORLD FUCKING CUP!!! and everything else is forgotten. For a while.

Very excited now.

Come on… oh, who cares?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As ever, there’s been some truly remarkable music-on-tv of late. They had a docu-thing all about the Eagles. Early, middle, late, pre-trial, mid-split, post-litigation, apres rehab, the usual. So much that it was in 2 parts, both long and luxurious and easy on the ear.

On Saturday night it was Wham night on BBC2. Ahh brilliant. Wham! Who I remember as being a bit Club Tropicana, a little Take me to the Edge of Heaven, and overdosing on leather jackets, brilliant white teeth and Georgios Michaelovich prancing round on stage like God’s very own personal gift to every red-blooded woman in the world. The gay men also loved him but only because he empitomised the heterosexual dream. Once George actually came out, the allure was gone for them, oddly. And the girls were all tragically disappointed that the dream would never become a reality. This white knight was never going to rescue them from their tower, he was in the shed with their gardener. But of course George went on to big things as a solo artist, because he was a talent, with a fab voice and great skills.

So I must have just kind of revised the history in my mind and thought Wham! were some proto-supergroup instead of just some silly pop duet consisting of an impossibly handsome Greek geezer and the guitar holding, slightly sickly, pretty worthless, ‘Other C**t’. Oh, him. Yes I remember him, sort of standing there on the stage, getting in George’s way, the Other C**t. But they weren’t a supergroup, they were pop bollox and this BBC retrospective programme only lasted half an hour. Thirty minutes. Clive Dunn got 45 minutes and he only ever sang ‘Grandad’. And they didn’t even play Careless Whisper, because George sang it as a solo artist, even though, ironically, it was actually written by the Other C**t. Odd eh? That’s why when George was off being the biggest celebrity in the universe, the O.C. did nothing. He didn’t need to because he wrote Careless Whisper and must get about a zillion quid a year in royalties.

I met George Michael once. No, not on Hampstead Heath, you horrible horrible person. But many many years ago, before George had er, ‘revealed his true self to the world’ I went to a party at my mate Dom’s. And for some reason, probably that Dom was gay in every single respect other than that he was totally heterosexual, George was coming to the party. A few other people were there, can’t imagine why, Dom’s never been very popular, which you’d understand if you know him, but it was crowded and fun and then and then AND THEN…

Then in walked this rather small, pretty nondescript geezer with a terrible complexion and a monobrow. Ok, maybe not a monobrow, I seriously can’t remember. I think I’d fully expected the house lights to dim, the floodlights to fire up and this massive SUPERSTAR to show his ever-grinning super-white teeth to the crowd, bare-chested and dancing his way round the room singing “Babeee, I’m you-ou-our Maaa-aan…” But no. He just stood there looking a bit shy and a touch creepy and left the superstar duties to me. Well, whatever. I avoided the ‘you look much more tall/bright/handsome/normal/smooth/confident on’t telly’ conversation but everyone’s disappointment was almost tangible.

I’ve never forgiven him though I don’t think this affected his career too profoundly. But 30 minutes for Wham!???

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Comedy was invented by Monty Python. Everyone knows that. Before the words: ‘and now for something completely different’ were uttered, no-one had ever laughed. There had been no jokes, no funny stuff, no nuffink.

Ok, comedy’s old. People want to laugh, its a lift from the mundane, from the burden, from the tedium. So the Romans entertained humorously, and if the comedians weren’t funny enough, they’d be fed to the lions; fair enough. Shakespeare was a master of comedy, both with a very subtle light touch and with the more slapstick, visual fools like Bottom and Falstaff.

Everyone loves to laaaaarrrfffff. Except the extremely religious. Not much fun in the bible.

And there was music hall, and there was Broadway and the Marx Brothers and the 1950s/60s axis of Jewish New York humour, with Sid Caesar and Mel Brooks and Woody Allen and Neil Simon and there was Lenny Bruce. Whilst over here we had Carry On films; same joke put into 59 different contexts, but it worked in a slapsticky, smutty, oops my skirt seems to have been ripped off by that nail, kind of way. Stand up comedy was basically telling mother-in-law jokes, golfing stories, peripheral kind of stuff.

And if comedy was painting pictures, these guys were the impressionists, those who take reality and give it their own signature, blur the edges just slightly.

Then Monty Python came along and they were the full Salvador Dali. They were the surrealist masters of laughter. And in fact still are.
But in the late 70s I first became aware of the Comedy Store; a place operating on Darwinian principles. If the comedian was good he stayed at the mike, if he was dull or bad he’d be shouted down and the next one took over. Brutal. Survival of the funniest. And the compare was a man called Alexi Sayle. Who was funny. Really Funny, with a capital F. And he became bigger than the venue so along with the best of the new breed of comedy from the Comedy Store, the Comic Strip was set up. At Raymond’s Review Bar, Soho’s oldest strip joint, hence the name. I went there sometime around 1980 (if you remember dates then you weren’t really ‘there’) and was simply blown away.

These comedians were young! They weren’t wearing suits and ties and holding glasses of whisky! They were fucking swearing!!!! And they spoke against the government and they hated the Prime Minister and they were anarchists and antichrists and a-a-a-a-… alternative. That’s what we’ll call it: alternative comedy. And it was young and our parents hated it and there’s no more acid test than that.

At the Comic Strip was Alexi, and French & Saunders, Nigel Planer, Peter Richardson, Keith Allen and The Dangerous Brothers. Adrian Edmonson and Rik Mayall. Who spent a 10 minute set just, basically, hitting each other over the head with all manner of rubberised hammers and cleavers and tv sets and concrete slabs, et cetera, et cetera. Sounds daft, slapstick, silly, but it somehow transcended that, and they were still doing it years later on The Young Ones, by which time Ben Elton had joined their tribe.

And now Rik is dead. The People’s Poet is dead. And that is indeed a tragedy. Shakespearian or otherwise.

Happy Sad Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve just realised that this could in fact be the last World Cup tournament ever played.

Sorry, THE LAST WORLD CUP TOURNAMENT EVER PLAYED!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So events like the tradition of washing your horses in the Eden River in Cumbria for the Appleby Horse Fair, which dates back to 1685, will have to step up to the mark and replace what used to be ‘the world cup’. Harder to gamble, I suppose. I mean, the horse will either come out of the water cleaner or not; can’t get very good odds on that one.

Or there’s the Vogalonga in Venice where people row their boats 30kms, starting at St Mark’s Square. Can’t get much more exciting than that. Maybe Lionel Messi can become a gondaleer before 2018.

But you see that’s part of the problem. Argentina. Using the World Cup as a polticial platform. Their players holding up a big banner proclaiming ‘Las Malvinas son Argentinas’. And even in a funny language, that’s still not correct. The Falkland Islands aren’t Argentina’s, their ours. Mine. English as Morris Dancing. British as a Pearly King and Queen. Though they happen to be stuck out there in the frigid wastelands of the South Atlantic right next to Argentina. That’s not the point. In 1981 Maggie Thatcher went to war with Diego Maradona and won. It was one-nil to us and no handballs.

Anyway, the World Cup is simply not a place for political statements. No. You simply have to make your statements before the tournament is set. And with all the fuss about Qatar 2022, which is simply never going to happen, it will just have to be re-bid, but with all that bother, no-one’s even mentioned 2018. In Russia. Oh my. Everyone’s favourite Most Militaristically Aggressive Country in the World. Who by the next World Cup will have ‘taken’ back into their fold, certainly Ukraine, probably Belarus, a few -istans, possibly Czekoslovakia, Bosnia, Serbia, half of Germany, most of Poland possibly a bit of France too. They are nasty people, a repressive regime still ruled by the secret police, gays are banned and its a super place to be.

And before that we have to make it through 2014, to get to the end of Brazil. Which hasn’t started. And may in fact never do so as half of Brazil is on strike. And the other half died in the overly-hasty construction of all the brand new stadia build at a cost of zillions in a country where the average weekly wage is 50 cents (US). And before anyone starts on the ‘legacy’ trail; the actual legacy of the World Cup will be a bunch of super duper stadia that no-one uses and no-one can afford to convert to housing which is so desperately needed.

The metro workers are on strike in San Paolo, have been for 3 days and don’t intend to stop for thursday’s opening match in that city. The President has said that ‘people can walk’. Then England play 3 days later. And its about 800 miles to Manaus. Better start walking now then.

Do you remember when we used to have a World Cup every 4 years? Ahhhh the memories…

Happy monday

A xxxx

We’re at t-minus-four-days from the World Cup kicking off. Brazil playing Croatia in San Paulo, or ‘the tale of two Eduardos’ as I like to think of it. Both of them treacherous, two-timing, double-dealing bastards. For the ex-Goon was born and raised in Rio, then at 15 moved to Zagreb. And that’s 15 years. If it was 15 days, weeks or months, I could understand his national identity crisis. But at 15 you’re a Brazilian. I was and I was raised in Hackney and Essex. But Brazillianism was in my blood.

Anyway, Eduardo, played for Dinamo Zagreb and declared himself a Croatian. Probably because access to the Croatian national team is somewhat less competitive than to that of the Brazilian one. And Eduardo has promised to sing both national anthems on Thursdsay. Like the 90,000 strong crowd are turning up to listen to the bugger sing and could give a shit anyway. The Brazillians will hate him just the same. I know I do.

The Boateng brothers (famous circus family) are another case in point, or perhaps the same case in two points. These boys were born in Germany to Ghanaian parents. Brother Kevin-Prince (ex-Spurs and many, many, many others) plays for Ghana, whilst brother Jerome has embraced his inner kraut and wears the German colours at international level.

But these are just pesky foreigner types and we must at this point consider who is actually going to win the World Cup. Some geezer (ok, in all likelihood a pesky foreigner type) will hold aloft the Jules Rimet trophy at the Maracana in Rio. Assuming its finished. The stadium that is. Should be ready by then, if not they’ll play on the rubble where the grass will eventually be and put some shirts down as goalposts.

Roy Hodgson reckons England have a great chance of winning. I reckon they have a Lib-Dems chance at the Euros of winning this cup. But I’m always a bit pessemistic about our chances. Mainly because we never, ever, ever, never do very well. Since 1966 anyway. And our two matches this weekend, the friendlies, were both drawn. Which is not great. Because if you draw all your matches, you generally don’t get through the group stage. And if you draw after than they its all about penalties. And if we’ve shown nothing else in the last 48 years, what we do definitely know is that WE ARE SHIT AT PENALTY SHOOT-OUTS.

So England won’t win. And the rule is, if we’re not going to win it then we should get out as early as possible so that all us English poeple can then really start to just enjoy the brilliant football available without worrying whether Lampard, Gerrard or both, are responsible for the lastest fuck-up.

You have to fancy Brazil to win; home advantage, super football, always a total joy to watch. Show-offs the world over can unite behind their stylish play.

If not, Argentina look good, though Messi never does his thing for country as he does for club. Spain? Possibly now too old and insufficient young replacements for their all-conquering team of late. Germany are always a worry, not just in football, but kind of everything. Italy no good, France not good enough. But Belgium. Oooooh, Belgium. Must be a worthy outside bet. Last time’s beaten finalists Holland? Unlikely, they completely lost the plot last time and imploded into an orgy of violence worthy of Tarantino. And how about Ivory Coast? Loads of Toures, a Drogba and a few other old men of note.

Oh well, we shall wait and see,

happy Sunday

A xxxxx

Today is the day that Common Riding is celebrated in Hawick. Because its ‘common riding season’ in the border towns. My favourite time of year. Hmmmm. Never actually heard of it before today but its just one more fantastic reason why Europe is the coolest (and most bizarrely stupid) place in the world, and must never be allowed to congeal into one great big, featureless, homogeneous cesspit lacking the wonderful individuality that makes every place so special, unique and daft.

Common riding is a Scottish tradition, celebrating something that happened on the border 500 years ago and so a few angry Scots, or Scots pretending to be angry (I’m gonna reckon these will be the ‘YES!!!’ voters in referenda to come) ride around on common ground, just like their ancesters did celebrating some ancient and meaningless historical bollocks because that’s the way its always been done, going all the way back to a time before Mel Gibson was a rabidly anti-semitic fundamentalist Catholic extremist.

Its like running the bulls in Pamplona. Stupid fucking idea, but some old Spaniard 200 years ago said: eh, I ‘as a groovy idea; let’s all go into da streets and get trampled on by bulls! for fun!!’ Hemingway thought that sounded just fab and now everyone does it. Get bored or gored; there is NO third option in Pamplona.

Back here we have that day when they have cheese-rolling in Gloucester, a bit like the bull-run but 3kg of cheddar is less potentially harmful than 3 ton of prime beef. And lacks horns.

Marching Season has always been a particular favourite of mine. When Irish protestants or ‘orange men’ as they are known, errrr… well, march. They don’t know why they march but ‘pissing off the catholics’ is always a good reason to do anything in Northern Ireland, so they take to the streets, these Orange Men. You don’t get Orange Women; they live in Essex and their ‘orange’ comes out of a bottle you buy in Boots.

In Germany on April the 7th they have Schpraugersnachtelwurst Jumping. When Bavarians dress up as milkmaids, but with high heels, take a piglet in each arm and jump over as many schpraugersnachtelwursts as they can round up in one evening, ending at 11.07 pm, when they all drink 3 steiners of Vodka mixed with anti-freeze and spend the rest of the month in hospital. Its as much fun as you can ever have. In Germany.

And this is just one small sample of the wonderful array of stupid, ridiculous, dangerous or just downright pathetic events happening in a European country near you any time soon. Don’t just sit by passively and let life pass you by; get involved. Swallow a leming tomorrow. Rape a strawberry next thursday. Roll down a Norweigian hillside with with a corpse in July.

and have a lovely Saturday

A xxxx

Men who are hungry prefer larger women than men who have just eaten.

Why? Do they want to eat them? See them as a fuller plate? Probably not but its a ‘fact’. Not necessarily a fact as we know it, but it has statistical significance. All testing needs that. And what that means is that the results show a probability greater than could have been achieved by random chance alone. Not that every hungry man craves Hattie Jacques, but that enough do so that the test is valid.

So this latest ‘test’ is part of a whole load across the world working out who we find attractive and if we want to eat them. And about the links between love and food (well, I really love food so I should be just frikkin perfect for this experiment) both of which are controlled by the hormone oxytocin in our bodies.

So you go to the queue at KFC (hungry people) and ask them if they fancy fat birds and more than half said ‘fucking right, I do’. Then you ask the men leaving the store looking satisfied and a bit bloated, with ketchup on their chins and grease all over everywhere else and ask them and they ay ‘fuck, no! I likes ’em skinny, innit’. And that’s brilliant, blah, blah, blah, p=0.005, publish them results.

In fact it needs to be a bit more ‘criteria based’, a bit more robust, reliable, repeatable, standardised, normalised and quantifiable. So what they actually did was get two groups of men, half of them hadn’t eaten for 6 hours (we’ll call those, to avoid ambiguity, ‘the hungry group’) and the other half had just pigged out on whatever and were full. Then all the men were shown the same pictures of women in red bikinis and asked to rate them for attractiveness. And we know the scores.

But how big is ‘larger’? How full is ‘a fuller figure’? Where is that line between waif and wonderful, between ‘voluptuous’ and ‘tank’? There ya go again, gotta be done proper. Find me 66 women in red bikinis and fetch me my tape measure and hand-warmers.

This was my true vocation. To be a tester of the truly worthless, whilst spending inordinate amounts of time in a room with a dozen red bikinis. ‘How was your day today, honey?’

In an associated test, they found that when people are fearful, their ratings for the attractiveness of their companion go up ‘significantly’. Because when you’re scared your heart rate goes up, your pupils dilate and you sweat, the same physiological changes that happen when you’re aroused. Which is why when someone is about to smash a bottle on your head, its sometimes difficult to know whether to knock him out or kiss him. Same autonomic system. Kind of. But apparently that is why horror movie first dates are sooooo popular. Because you’re halfway ‘there’ before the popcorn’s over. Particularly when dating serial killing zombie vampires.

So I hope that has now cleared up the entire testing scandal once and for all. Clear as something that hasn’t been tested at least 95% of the time.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Richard Dawkins is my least favourite professor of the popularisation of science, possibly of all time. Even though he’s the only one that’s ever existed. He’s an atheist, which I’m fine with, and an almost evangelical Darwinist, which is fine, and he’s not afraid to offend people with book titles like ‘The God Delusion’, which I approve of; he just makes my skin crawl. Mainly because he’s so pompous, but also because he abuses everyone’s God-given (oh, sorry Richard) right to be an arrogant fucker. He crosses the line between “I think…” and “you’re a complete tosser if you don’t think…” Because his is the only way. He leaves no room for anyone else’s ideas nor beliefs, if they aren’t 100% congruent with his own.

And he says sentences like: “Its rather pernicious to inculcate into a child a view of the world which includes supernaturalism”. Those words alone go against the very theme of his existence; popularisation of science. It makes the populus think all scientists are pretentious fuckers and stuffy losers who would rather speak in ‘Chaucer’ than the common tongue.

Dawkins thinks we shouldn’t tell fairy tales to our children. They may grow up believing in dragons and princesses and white knights and Walt Disney and Harrods Christmas Hampers at 984 quid including 2 bottles of Moet. The Professor feels that we’d be better off debunking these sad old tales and instead paint them ideas of the world from a scientific viewpoint. Teach them to be skeptical of the highly improbable. If you think a frog turning into Prince Charles ‘improbable’. Maybe witches and wizards simply ‘evolved’ over the millennia. That’d be a cruel irony.

Let kids enjoy their fantasies. The grim scientific realities come along soon enough to sterilise their world view. Let them have fun while it can last.

The World Cup will be fun. Apparently in the 30 degree temperatures England with face in Manaus, along with the excessive Rainforesty humidity, can result in losing up to 2kg of bodyweight during a match. At which point, the effects of dehydration cause reduced perception, increased errors, poor judgment and mental impairment. Its like being a UKIP voter. But this is serious stuff as not just players but referees will be suffering in the same way, affecting both their mood and judgment. Which then makes you wonder what will happen at the 40+ degrees they expect in Qatar in 2022 (if it goes ahead). But mainly, it will be quite interesting to see groups of hallucinating footballers wandering aimlessly around the pitch bumping into each other kicking at mirages. And stumbling may occur, which may look a bit like ‘diving’. Therefore the danger signs may be more difficult to notice with the Luis Suarez types and the entire Spanish, French and Italian teams who spend most of every game hurling themselves floorwards in regular temperatures.

And they all lived happily ever after.

A xxxx

There’s only two reasons to play sport. One is that you love it, the other that you get paid fortunes for doing it. These two are not mutually exclusive. You can have both. Or ‘live the dream’ as its known in some circles. Or maybe its then not the dream. That if you spend all day every day hitting a tennis ball over a frikkin net, hour after hour, day after day, that it ceases to become ‘the thing you love’, even though the money’s not bad if you’ve made it that far. But tennis isn’t a dangerous sport. Boxing is. Yet the rewards can be massive. I don’t know why, its a game that does nothing for me, but in a way that’s the whole thing. What excites and pleases YOU as an individual. Running the streets for hours on end? Swimming up and down pools endlessly? Kicking a ball about and swearing a lot? Rowing across a grimy reservoir in Luton on rainy days in January? Ahhhh, the dream.

Some sports involve danger. Motor racing is apparently a ‘sport’ though I’ve never been sure why. The cost/benefit analysis of that event is that drivers can earn millions of moneys but one wrong move and you’re Ayrton Senna. Which adds to the glamour, the glory, the heroics. And attracts the women like fake-tan to a Cup Final party. Or lawyers to a class action suit.

Boxing similarly is, in case you missed that bit, rather brutal. The point of the game is nothing but brutality. Two people trying to beat each other senseless. How Roman. And yet, how pure a ‘sport’ is that? Mano against mano. Big gains for the winners (and often for the losers too, just for showing up and playing punchbag) but it has now been shown (like: doh; we needed medics to tell us) that repeated concussions and being bashed around the head all the time can in fact be dangerous! Who’d’a thought that? Does any boxer, particularly in the last 50 years, really not understand that his work is doing him damage? But its the risk he takes, for which he is often handsomely rewarded and from which he gains too massive pleasure of a combined sado-masochistic nature.

And now American Football, the uber-macho gridiron, where men are men and gays keep really really quiet, has realised that their game can be rather dangerous. Again: who’d’a thought that? A game so tough, so big-hitting, so full-on that the players wear crash-helmets and pretty much full body armour, who’d’a thunk you could get hurt? For your paltry $5 million a year.

So a group of gridironers have got together with Liebevitz, Lipshitz, Litigate and Retire, noted 5th Avenue class action specialists, to sue the NFL for damage caused by repeated concussions from… er… well, playing the game which is big-hitting and big-payout, which is why they got all the cheerleaders at High School. Even the great Miami Dolphins hall of fame (that’s a good thing, in case you don’t follow nfl), quarterback (another good thing) Dan Marino (used to be a good thing, now I’m not so sure) is joining the suit, just in case ‘he develops any problems later’. Or he gets a better lawyer who can get him a few mil even without any sign of damage.

And I hate this kind of litigation. Its horrible, its a clichee and its sadly part of American culture. Bandwagon jumping against BIG corporations or insurance companies for the further enrichment of lawyers. But especially in a sporting context. Because its all about responsibility. No-one forced Dan Marino to be a big NFL superstar, get paid zillions of dollars in wages and the endorsements that accompany his status as a demigod, to suffer ‘that lifestyle’ of never having to buy a drink for yourself, never having to book a table in any restaurant; they’ll always find you one, never having to buy a ticket to any event. Awful. And I’m sure that on some level Dan realised that in playing his game, there was an element of risk. Yet now he (and his lawyers) have decided that the NFL should burden the full responsibility of that risk. For giving these guys a platform upon which to ply their trade, play their game and earn a fucking fortune.

And THAT is why I play bridge.

Happy wedensday

A xxxx