Andy's Glasses

They call it ‘winter sports’. And for good reason. Mainly because they happen in the winter time. When the weather’s a bit funny, a bit unpredictable, when the Thames Valley floods, when England gets submerged, when its cold and in particular, because it snows. The irony being that without this snow, you can’t do winter sports. So the ideal is that it buckets down for about 4 weeks solid, laying down a good 4 metres of wonderful snow onto the mountains, then when you arrive for your 4 days, the sun comes out and the sky is dazzlingly clear and you put on your suncream and you can see for 200 miles in every direction and, most importantly, you eat your lunch outside under the bluest sky you could ever dream of.

And for 3 days, that’s what we had. We lived the dream. We were the chosen people. We had all the snow we could wish for, we had sun, we had bikini-clad babes on the beach, we had sunbeds, cocktails by the pool and Spurs went top of the league. It was that good.

This morning looked the same. Sunny, clear, gorgeous as we headed up the mountain for our last day’s ski. By the time we reached the top it was a bit cloudy. Then the cloud came down to join us on the mountainside and brought some snow with it. Let’s have a frikkin party. Then the visibility went. Or I’d gone blind. Same result. Couldn’t see the edge of the pistes, couldn’t see the middle of the pistes, couldn’t see the skis on your feet. Nuffink. White out. Stuck up a steep mountainside which is covered in lumpy bumpy snow, in the middle of nowhere and you can’t see your hand in front of your face. No problem.

Its winter!!! It fucking snows!!!! That’s what you pay for. You can hardly complain. Well, you can, but to whom?

And then you realise its just fun. Silly fun, but enjoyable. Then you come into a little bit of clarity and you can ski normally, fast and furiously and the snow’s falling hard and fast and hits you at about the same 20 miles an hour that you’re skiing. And its exhilarating and immensely enjoyable and… and… and wintery.

Unlike Geneva airport where I’m currently sitting, which is cold, but more in the metaphorical sense, and sterile, in any sense, and full of the most expensive stuff anywhere on earth, which makes no sense. 2 quid for a little bottle of water? £8 for a bar of chocolate, $5,345 for a Burberry handbag.

I’m coming home.

Happy wednesday, unless you’re David Moyes.

A xxxx

The definition of ‘sport’ is as follows:

an activity involving physical exertion and skill in which an individual or team competes against another or others for entertainment.

So there you have it. Its simple, easy, unambiguous and, as ever, subject to great argument and debate.

Is golf a sport? Plenty of skill, low on exertion. Especially if you sit in one of those little buggies whilst doing it. Unless you can replace ‘exertion’ with ‘wearing really horrible clothes’, then possibly, it would have a case.

How about ice dancing? Exertion, yep, skill yep, but competition? Only as judged by others.

Me mate Keith has a simple criterion: if he likes it, its a sport, if he doesn’t, its a nothing and deserves to be ignored and treated with contempt. Like anything where judges hold up “6.8” or “4.7” once the performance has finished. Because really you could apply such judging to films. To pictures in a gallery. To cakes on a shelf. Doesn’t make them sport.

And skiing? Definitely exertion, especially when done really badly, and very skilful in an ideal world, not necessarily in mine, but its not really competitive, other than the inevitable spirit that exists according to the strict yet unwritten rules for men, in which challenges and dares and general testicle measurent devices are applied at every opportunity. “Call that a black run?? Bollox, I’m gonna do it blindfold. With only one ski. Black run… right”

The English Bridge Union has just failed in a bid to get that most regal of card games classified as a sport. Because if it is a sport then the money raised by them for competitions is NOT subject to VAT. Hence the EBU would be 20% richer than it is now. Which would represent a true finesse. But alas, those swine, those scummy vermin, those… those… those spoilsports at the Revenue & Customs have decided that bridge is not in fact a sport. Even though it is more skilful than jumping off a trampoline, more exerting than sleeping or sitting in a chair for protracted periods… in fact it is sitting in a chair for protracted periods, and its very very competitive.

Someone said ‘its not a sport if you can do it with a glass of whisky in your hand’. Yet darts players can hold pints of beer whilst engaged in their sport, as can snooker players between shots and Paul Gascoigne did at half time during international matches.

So to clarify: its a sport if I BLEEDIN’ WELL SAY IT IS.

I hope your tuesday was as wonderful as mine

A xxxx

I don’t ask for much. A warm bed, three squares a day (or four, or better still loads of snacks in between, and booze, maybe some mild drugs, a lot of chocolate…) and comfort and security. That’s all. I’m not demanding, I’m not high maintenance. I don’t ‘want it all and want it now’. I’m a contented soul.

So when I come away for a few measly days of Alpage I expect certain things to happen, other things to not happen. Its not unreasonable, I can’t be expected to watch the entire world for 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Others have to step up to the plate. Have to accept the responsibility for what happens. Have to do what we need them to do, what is expected of them.

Yet Spurs managed to lose at Norwich. I simply can’t understand how that could happen? Its almost impossible. Our away form has been impeccable and they are shit wherever the play. Even though I have great love and respect for Chrissie Hughton. And all I asked was for three points. That was all. I thought I’d left the team in good hands when I took off from Heathrow yesterday morning at the crack of something very early. But no. It didn’t happen. Not as I wanted it to. Not as The Lord himself ordained it to happen in the 5 Books of Moses. Instead it was all bollox and we lost.

Never mind, I’m skiing. And its terrible. A penance. As you can see from the pic, its awful here. There’s no concrete, no traffic jams, no exhaust emissions, no streets full of muggers. Just fucking mountains. Phah! And sunshine. Horrible. And the bluest of blue skies. What a load of rubbish.

Yet I’m wearing a helmet. For the first time in near lifetime’s career of terrible, uncontrolled skiing, I’ve succumbed to the pressure and put a lid on. I actually thought that merely bringing one away with me would be sufficient to appease the powers that be (my wife and daughters) but no, I’m actually wearing it. Its great if you need to head butt a Frenchman. And its for my own good. Whatever that may be.

So I hope you’re proud and relieved that I’m safe and secure from chronic misadventure of a white-out nature. Like Michael Schumaker was. Hmmmm…

Ok, I haven’t eaten anything since lunchtime and I haven’t drunk since the pint of Guinness in the pub just now. So I best rectify that awful situation at once.

Happy Monday.

A xxxx

I haven’t watched any of the Winter Olympics, none of it. Its like tennis, a game I really love to play, but can only watch Wimbledon because its fab but never bother with the Australian Open, or the French. Especially the French. And yet these are big events of worldwide significance. And they are sports, live on tv, for which I’m generally not very discerning. But I don’t watch them.

So I missed ‘our’ girls (the ‘our’ bit is because I’m not sure whether we can still claim Scots as our own) winning the bronze in Curling. I love all that brushing and sweeping and I’m very fond of Eve Muirhead. She’s a babe. Can I say that? Does that empower her or objectify her?? I’m never sure, so best say it quietly and hope she doesn’t notice. Especially as all that brushing must give her muscles like a prop forward. Even though she looks very slim and lithe and…

But tomorrow I’m entering my own Winter Olympics. The time has come to wax my skis, fish out my white lip paste and iron my roll-neck sweaters. Remember roll-necks? Went out of fashion in 1976 when Haircut 100 (thankfully) split up. But not for skiers. We need all the roll necks we can get. Mainly to mop up all the booze that gets spilled at lunch.

So I’m off to Courchevel for a few days to try improve my skiing. Something that’s evaded me since my first ever week, about 35 years ago. I rapidly improved that week. From like zero to averagely bad. Which is precisely where I’ve positioned myself ever since. Fortunately I like going fast. And having ‘all the technique of a three-legged dolphin’ helps me greatly in this respect.

Mel won’t ski. Well she won’t ski with me; too dangerous. The daughters, having been dragged round numerous European mountains as children, have also developed a dislike for my winter sport of choice (sleeping in front of the fire apparently doesn’t count as a sport). So I ski with my mates. And at an advanced age, skiing is a euphemism for ‘eating’. Its all about lunch. And dinner. And tea. Breakfast’s good too. And snacks. Coffee and hot chocolate stops. Mulled wine. Red wine. White whine. Cheese. Croissants. Bread. Because although skiing is essentially a physically demanding and active sport, we try to consume 7 times our body weight each day in fine foods. Which is why we go to France. Or ‘Russia’ as that part of France is now known.

France is one hour ahead of us, timewise. So when the lifts close on Sunday afternoon, that’s just perfect timing to hit the Sports Bar and watch Spurs play Norwich. Its all planned. No-one there will want to watch ‘Come Dine with Me’ on the other channel and Guinness tastes pretty much the same with a French accent.

I’ve spoken to many skiers this week. And for every one that says ‘you simply MUST ski such-and-such run’, there are 19 who say ‘you simply MUST eat at such-and-such restaurant’.

I try and explain that I’M A SPORTSMAN’ not a fucking pig!!! And my sport of choice is taking out French Snowboarders and knocking their obnoxious little offspring over in the lift queues.

Happy skiing

A xxxx

Spurs are playing football tonight. Its a massive game. Probably the biggest and most glamorous match of the season so far as they play FC Dnipro to decide (well, to ‘half-decide’ as its the first of a two-leg tie) who goes through to the last 16 of the Europa League of Teams that aren’t Bad but aren’t Necessarily Quite Good Enough. And I don’t even know if Dnipro is a little town or a local company that sponsors the team. Maybe they make surgical appliances, feminine products, washing machines for Ukranians.

If its not the most important game of the year, its certainly the most dangerous. It will be played 220 miles from Kiev. Where 26 people (and counting) have died in the ‘Russian Spring’ that has caused a month of riots in Ukraine’s capital. Yet the game should indeed go on. It must be played. Football is far more important than Mickey Mouse politics and uprising of the local serfs.

This is not a ‘civil war’, not yet anyway. So its just rioting in a square (how do you ever make a political statement if your town or city doesn’t have a square? impossible) because the government of the Ukraine has basically sold that nation’s future to Russia for 15 billion quid. Which doesn’t sound like a bad deal to me. I’d swap either of my children for a used Nissan, but that’s just me. And basic economics.

The irony, of course, is that it took Ukraine years of Soviet enslavement to finally extricate themselves from the Russian stranglehold, back in the day, when the Wall came down and Pink Floyd ruled europe. So having gained that independence they now want to return to Russian rule once more, financially if not in the previously more totalitarian way.

And the peasants are revolting. Ha, ha, haaaa…

Because the Ukranians see themselves as New Europeans rather than Russian Poor Relations. Though we see them as stocky ugly people with both a distant and recent history of extreme racism, anti-semitism and eating cabbage.

Good question for dinner parties: What’s the most fun you can have with your clothes on?

Great question. Not for Ukranians, necessarily, but we can all play this one.

If you’re dressed (not in rubber/leather/cling-film) and there aren’t any dead fish around and your ferret’s having a day off, what’s the most fun you can have??

I really didn’t want to talk about the Arsenal game because Arjen Robben is indeed a whingeing, diving little Dutch slap-head cry-baby. But if you clatter a whingeing, diving little slap-head Dutch cry-baby to the ground it is still a penalty and you’ll still be sent off if you happen to be the ‘last man’ preventing a goal-scoring opportunity. The fact that the ensuing penalty was missed is irrelevent. The game was dead at that point. I could barely watch the totally one-way traffic and did a crossword.

Another interesting question: is Mezut Ozil the new Emmanuel Adebayor? He comes, he stars, he’s brilliant, then three months later you wish he’d never bothered and you’re stuck with a very very expensive liability.

Happy thursday

I predict a riot

A xxxx

Prince Charles is in Saudi Arabia. As if you couldn’t tell that this picture wasn’t taken in his Tesco Local in Cornwall. He’s gone there to… errr… hmmm…
Well, why does he go anywhere? He goes as an ambassador for Britain. I would imagine, just to keep our oil flowing nicely and smoothly. And whilst he’s there, sucking up to a seriously hateful regime, he joined in the famous ‘sword dance’. Which is NOT (in Suadi Arabia, at least) an euphemism for pornographic or phallic entertainment. No, their swords are real. And sharp. Sharp enough to cut off a pickpocket’s hand. And its a wonderful dance that ends up with all the women lying on the floor and the men walking across them in their hob-nailed sandals, showing their relative positions in society. A society in which women can’t drive, can’t get properly educated, can’t leave the house without a ‘guardian’s’ approval and are not allowed to twerk on a public highway. Gays they just execute. As you would.

Saudi is also a hotbed of radical extremism and has all the democracy you can get from an ‘absolute monarchy’. As opposed to our ‘absolutely pointless’ monarchy, which has no political clout whatsoever.

And Charlie missed the football while he was there. Unless he found a pub with a live stream. Oh, they don’t have pubs in Saudi. Not exactly. They only have coffee shops, shisha bars and torture chambers. None of which screen the football.

But if he had watched the game last night he’d have been thrilled by seeing two giants of the game go head to head. And perhaps a bit saddened that the British reprentative in the contest failed to come up to standard. Though its unlikely the Prince would have called the referee a nob, as Manuel Pelligrini, the Manchester City manager, did last night. Well, I don’t actually speak Chillean but the tone was definitely one of ‘bloody tosser’ type intonation. Because Barcelona had the audacity to play like the best team in the world and actually beat his Manchester City. So he’s scared for his job; we understand that. The Abu Dhabis who own the club (see ‘Saudis’ above; different place, same idea) want to win the Champions League. And don’t we all. But they’ve pumped a billion quid into that sorry club with just that aim and have thus far reaped scarce rewards for their ridiculous investment. So if they fail to win it this year, Pelligrini will go. End of. No arguments. It doesn’t need to be written anywhere. And losing 2-0 at home last night does little to help their cause, their aim, their ambition.

And its all because of a biased referee. Fancy giving a penalty when Leo Messi was hauled down mercilessly by Demichellis? What a nob. Call himself a refereeeeee???? And then he sent the player off!!! As the rules, kind of, errrr, state he should do.

So now Pelligrini will face the wrath of UEFA, as well as that of the Emiratees who pay his wages (and will continue to do so for the next 5 years whether he’s there or not).

I hate managers who blame refs for results. Its bollox. Players lose games, not refs. And can you imagine if we had ‘appeals’ to replay significant events during matches? The games would never end. Every stumble, every slip, every near miss would have the Wengers and Morinhos and Pelligrinis calleing in teams of analysts, experts and lawyers to examine each event in minute detail. Refs are human, they make the odd slip. But nothing like as many horrible managers accuse them of.

Happy wednesday. Arsenal vs Bayern… ahhhhhhhh.

A xxxx

The American Dementia Society has shown conclusively that exercise not only reduces the onset of dementia but also ‘builds up the brain’, significantly increasing its volume over time, as compared to the ‘non-exercise’ group in the trial. Or ‘Americans’ as they’re normally called.

This represents almost a ‘national disaster’ in the States where it was shown that ‘going to fridge for another beer/doughnut/tub of dip for nachos/pound of lard does not constitute ‘exercise’ in a beneficial way. Tossing the tv remote control from hand to hand similarly is short of the required energy expenditure to be classed as ‘exercise’. As is sitting in the pickup while Juan fills it up with gas and checks the tyre pressures. Exhausting though that might be.

This will end in tragedy as the fattest nation on the planet collectively forgets why they shouldn’t be eating more.

And who was it said “you can’t trust women?”

Oh. That was me. I forgot. Better do some more exercise.

Equality is taking yet another giant leap forward in the civilised world with more ground breaking leaps by assertive females into roles formally the almost exclusive domain of men.

This time its the glass ceiling of serial murder that’s been smashed, on both sides of the Atlantic. First Joanna Dennehy goes on trial in Peterborough (half way up north, full of retarded and inbred people with tattoos on their faces) for the brutal murders of 3 men and attempted murder of 2 more, one of whom was stabbed 42 times. So whilst in prison Joanna surely should be working on her stabbing skills and her aim.

Also on trial, this time in Pennsylvania, Miranda Barbour, a rising star in the serial killer world at just 19 years old, ‘stopped counting after killing 22’, as you would. She’s a satanist. Whatever the fuck that means.

So ‘way to go, girls’, as female empowerment takes anther giant leap forward. This time without any twerking.

Vanessa Mae is a classical violinist. A very beautiful one. And rich, now she’s been plucking her fiddle for a number of years and never using her sexuality to advance her career; don’t all violinists play Bach wearing just their Victoria’s Secrets? In fact she’s such a brilliant musician that even a philistine such as I started to appreciate the wonders of the classical genre due to her. Though I must confess I generally watched the videos with the sound off.

Anyway, today, Ms Mae is competing in the Giant Slalom in the Sochi Winter Olympics. Yeah, I’d forgotten there was Winter Olympics on too, I must take more exercise. So how fantastic is that? As well as being the world’s best (looking) musician, she’s a fuck-off skier too. Or, she can wear lycra as well as lace. Either way I’d vote for her.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

I love it when a plan comes together. Which, let’s face it, isn’t too often.

Had an exhibition to visit today at the Excel Centre down in darkest Docklands. We planned to drive. Its Sunday. And then I pondered, and I deliberated, and I did lots of other indecisive things and decided to take the tube instead. Drove down to St Johns Wood, Jubilee Line to Canning Town, Docklands Light Railway to somewhere else south of the river and you’re right there. 40 minutes, no stress, ho hassle, no wasted petrol, no exhaust emissions polluting our lovely clean city (??) and no 15 quid parking fee. Trains park free, it would seem.

But most amazing of all is that there was something really really strange and unusual at the DLR stations. Something odd and exotic that you don’t get on other tube lines. Nothing to do with being in South London either.

When you get off the train they have these weird things walking round in yellow jackets with Transport for London insignia offering help, assistance and advice to travellers. They’re called ‘people’ and they’re really nice and friendly and helpful and polite and charming. So you know they can’t really work for TFL or they’d be rude obnoxious scum. Like Bob Crow. They call them ‘travel ambassadors’ and they’re just like the ‘games makers’ we had at the olympics; lovely people being really nice and showing you where to go.

Nothing at all that you’d expect on a London Transport system. I might complain. We (apparently) want less people working at stations, not more. I can feel a strike coming on.

But no complaints about Dallas Buying Club, the oscar-tipped Matthew McConaughey movie. What an incredible film. Gripping, happy, sad, funny, tragic and uplifting. As only a film about people dying of aids can be. Though its really not about dying at all, its about staying alive in the face of adversity, about taking drugs when the government keep trying to stop you (good drugs, that is, although most pharmaceuticals were represented and abused during the movie), about breaking down stereotypes, about dumb-ass redneck Texan trailer trash (oops), about silly men with moustaches riding rodeo bulls and about extreme weight loss.

And its quite brilliant and well worth the time, effort and cost of the tickets, a bucket of popcorn, three extra large cokes, four hotdogs and a packet of Revels.

Happy sunday.
Yes, it was. I played ice-tennis this morning in honour of the Winter Olympics, which was as much fun as it was very slippery. But the sun shone so who cares?

A xxxx

I went outside this morning, fighting the wind to open the front door, took a few steps that Marcelle Marceau would have been proud of into the gale force morning and threw a tennis ball up in the air. Just to, kind of, ‘service height’, just to see. I never saw the ball again. I had a phone call 27 minutes later from a man in Southend telling me I’d broken his window and I should be more careful with bloody sports equipment and send me a cheque for £27.92 for a new window. A small one. Obviously.

So I did what any red-blooded, honest, loving, devoted, post-modern man would do in the circumstances and watched the hilights of Spurs match at Newcastle again. We won 4-0. Again. Still brilliant. And then to Tai Chi.

And Tai Chi is not subject to wind. Not subject to anything because it is ‘internal’ and therefore is all a state of mind. That’s the whole premise, the entire point, mind over matter. Thus it must have been my ‘state of mind’ that brought down half a dozen trees in Finchley on the way to the Dojo. I’m THAT fucking powerful. And I never realised.

The Times this week has been publishing lists. Music lists. We all love a music list. But there’s been ‘uproar’. In a very Times Reader kind of quiet, gentle, politely uproariously way. Because the thing with ‘top 20’ lists is that there’s only, generally, 20 entries. My lists are different. All chronically indecisive people have top 10s that extend to 46 places. But when you limit yourself to 20, as Bob Stanley did in the paper, you’re always going to be in trouble.

Top 20 guitarists. What??? No Pete Townsend?? No Tony Iommi?? What about that guitar solo on (Black Sabbath track of your choice, if you know any). What about Eddie Van Halen??? The best guitarist his mother ever gave birth to!!!!!! How about that geezer, Dave something-or-other, played in a pub band in Dagenham in 1983 before he lost both arms in a fork-lift accident; fucking brilllllllllllllllliant was Dave…

Yeah, everyone has a favourite guitarist/singer/band. The best bands list left off the Rolling Stones. As it should have. Fucking old gits, child molesters (Bill Wyman), drug addicts (Ketih Richards), dead people (Bryan Jones), nearly dead people (Ronnie Wood), strutting poseurs (Mickey Jagg) and… and… and Charlie Watts.

And singers: no Aretha? How is that even possible? Yet John Lennon rates high. Whereas he was more ‘most influential’ rather than a ‘singer’, its almost an insult to reduce his importance to a mere voice. Rod Stewart should be insulted, hard and often, but he made the list and Roy Orbison didn’t. Go figure.

However, the most contentious omission of all is in the guitarist section. And there, notable by his startling lack of presence is Eric Clapton. Or ‘God’ as he was referred to in the 70s. George Harrison makes the cut but not George’s greatest influence and friend.

No mention of Peters & Lee, The Bay City Rollers or David Cassidy. How about Kylie? Yeah, ok, she’s a Pete Waterman fabrication, can barely sing, doesn’t know a crotchet from a diminished chord, from a hole in the ground, but she’s GORGEOUS.

Obviously Bob Stanley’s criteria were different from mine.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

In 1929 Al Capone brutally murdered 7 ‘opponents’ in the gangsterly world of gangland Chicago. He knew how to treat the opposition. A model embraced by Kim Jong Un, Putin and so many other legends who adopted their own take on ‘democratic bargaining’. Big Al did his negotiating with a baseball bat. If only London Transport was run by him today.

But Valentine’s Day became a celebration of lurve. It went from bleeding corpses in Chicago to red roses, heart-shaped chocolates and unbookable restaurants. And cards. Loads and loads of fucking cards.

The love bit actually preceded the massacre by several centuries, apparently. Even before Spurs were born. Chaucer was a loved up dude who celebrated the day. Its written plain and clear in the sentence about ‘throng-guggling plastitudinous virtues of larft-spangled diversionation’. And in fact it all stems from some sainted person who performed Christian marriages for Romans. Who weren’t, ironically, considering where they are now, Christian at the time.

So as kids we’d send ‘valentines’ to those we loved. Or lusted after. Or wanted to see behind the gym at break-time. And you weren’t supposed to sign the cards. Oh no, they were signed with a flourish of question mark(s) from an apparently unknown admirer. Who was generally the red-faced kid looking coy with a bulge in his trousers.

When our kids were young we’d send them cards every Feb 14th. Because they were ugly and horrible and no-one but a parent (who is contractually obliged to do so) could actually love them.

Cards, cards, cards. Its all about cards. The manufacturers of which cannot create enough spuriously stupid days to ‘celebrate’. Fathers’ Day, Mothers’ Day, Whit-Sun-Day, Eat a Lemming Day, Kick a Tramp Day. Its all cynical bollox by Hallmark et al to fleece us out of more card money. Which used to be about 30p, then suddenly became a fiver. How did that happen?

So I never buy Valentines cards any longer. Nor flowers. Those roses which yesterday cost 7 quid a bunch today cost 27 quid. “Ahhh, but they come from Holland”. Well where did they come from yesterday? Bradford?? I’ll have some more of those Yorkshire ones. “Can’t get them today; market’s closed”. Oh.

So I avoid the whole day. I hide. I shirk. I don’t play their games. I don’t have to. Surely its better to demonstrate your love on the other 364 days of the year than save it all up for the day you’re told to? Surely. Mel is indeed a lucky woman (as I frequently tell her) that she is loved so much. And its NOT, just about proximity and availability. In that ‘love the one you’re with’, Crosby Stills and Nash way. Its real, its constant and its a many splendoured thing.

And all this because I forgot to buy a card.

Love you lots,

Happy Valentines Day

A xxxx