Andy's Glasses

Why the fuck would anyone ever support a football team? It simply makes no sense whatsoever. Its a one-way deal; you give everything to the club and they give nothing back in return. Nothing. No joy, no happiness, no pleasure, nothing. In exchange for all that misery you just pay them a vast fortune each year to watch them, to buy their merchandise (simply essential, I could never get out of the bath without my Spurs dressing gown, nor drink out of anything but my Spurs mug, wear my Spurs cufflinks, eat my Spurs cakes and take my Spurs Ibuprofen in times of pain… other than match days, doesn’t help that much) and give them our hearts, souls (Chelsea fans excluded, obviously, they don’t have them), our love and devotion. Unconditionally and forever. You can divorce your wife, you can abandon your kids, but your football team is forever. See how far I’ve come to become this reconstructed new man iconic figure?

Take yesterday’s results. Who is happy and who is sad?

Spurs lost. To West Ham. Because we were just pure shit, and even then only 10 shitty players instead of 11 following the sending off. Misery. West Ham should have been happy because they actually won a match, but they weren’t, they’re all angry at their manager for having the cheek to keep them in the Premiership for another season in a dull and drab manner, when they’d rather be playing ‘beautiful’ football in the Championship.

Manchester City won the most important match of their season, but are probably miserable because they haven’t won the title already, and Everton are unhappy because they lost and have given up any chance of Champions League and the only way Man City won’t win the league is if hated rivals Liverpool win it.

Liverpool are miserable because they threw away their title chances last Sunday against Chelsea, who are doubly miserable because they’re still not going to win the league and they were humiliated on Wednesday night by the awesome Athletico Madrid. In an effort to make Chelsea happy, their (moronic, horrible, wanky) little manager has taken to slagging off all their best players in public, blaming them all for his managerial shortcomings. Tosser.

Here’s some teams with nothing to be happy with at all: Cardiff, Fulham, Norwich (though that may change if they beat Chelsea today or if the world turns into a giant cream cake with cherries on top; each equally likely to happen), Stoke, Newcastle (even though they finally won a match), Manchester United (the Giggs effect lasted as long as a single dose of viagra) and Doncaster (who were relegated to division 1 at the end of a gruelling afternoon that saw Birmingham cling on).

Me mate Dave might be happy because QPR are in the playoffs, but so are 3 other teams and only one will win and get the right to have a horrible, disastrous, struggling season in the top flight.

So me, football, we’re finished. Over. Done and fucking dusted. Hate the game, hate the players, hate the managers, hate the fans. Its ice-dancing for me from now on. That and darts. Or darts on ice, once I’ve invented it and sorted out the inevitable dangers.

Happy fucking Sunday

A xxxx

Its that old ‘judging books by covers’ thing all over again. Rolph Harris is arrested for alleged crimes and I thought, ‘no way’, not Rolph, he’s a nice guy who would never abuse his didgereedoo, nor anyone else’s. His only real crime was ‘Two Little Boys’ and if you could be punished for awful songs then Abba would be serving life sentences and Gary Glitter would have been hanged. Which he should be anyway, but that’s for other crimes. See how complicated the law is?

But Max Clifford. The moment his name was mentioned along with ‘sex offences’ I though ‘good’ and ‘he’s guilty as fuck’. Even though that’s probably the most inappropriately appropriate way of expressing myself. See how complicated English language is?

Max Clifford is a fucking pig. I think that makes my feelings pretty well known. When he was accused I ‘knew’ he was guilty. When he was in court he acted like an arrogant piece of shit, and now he’s been sentenced for 8 years (though if he’s only going to serve 4 of them why not just call it ‘4 years’?) there is no-one that has any sympathy for him. Because he’s a horrible man who has consistently ‘served’ his clients, and himself, with a complete lack of any sympathy or empathy for those on the other end of his ‘work’. So he annihilates characters, he assassinates reputations, he ruins marriages, careers and even footballers. Without a thought nor a care other than how much shit he can spread and how much money his ‘kiss’n’tells’ can produce for him and his accomplices. He is bottom-feeding scum and now, a rapist and sex offender. Which oddly, raises his standing as a human from its former position. May he rot in jail.

The royal princes, not little Georgy Porgy, but Harry and Wills, are in Memphis Tennessee for the weekend. I thought, ahhh, must be an international convention of in-bred people; mid-westerners, European royals, people from Norfolk, all gathered together to compare extra toes and hare-lips. But no, the princes’ mate is marrying a Southern Belle. Elizabeth Wilson is just that, gorgeous babe. And an heiress too, to a billion dollar inheritance (once she kills off a few pesky relatives and siblings). Oddly though, for a fortune made in The South, this one is NOT made from moonshine or even the slave trade. That’s a shock. Her grand-daddy invented the Holiday Inn. Wow. Without him hotels would never have evolved into the crammage of as many tiny box-like rooms as you can squeeze into one small space. We’d have to suffer proper rooms and hallways and stuff; would be awful.

Like at the Dorchester. One of London’s finest hotels. No little boxes there, no sirree. Fucking great suites that sleep the Sheikh of wherever, most of his wives, half his children and several servants, eunuchs and still room for a camel or two. Its a wonderful hotel, with London’s biggest ballroom, in case you wondered. But all is not well in that part of Park Lane. Because the Dorchester is part of a group owned by the Sultan of Brunei. One of the world’s richest moustaches. Who has now changed the law in his native Brunei imposing full sharia rules. Including stoning to death of homosexuals, outlawing the preaching of any religion other than Islam, flogging women who have abortions (but it doesn’t say for how much), chopping off hands and feet for pretty much anything, the usual shtick. So gay people are boycotting the Dorchester. Quite rightly so. And for what its worth, I’m going to boycott it too. Well, I won’t be staying there this weekend at all. That’ll show that poxy Sultan of Brunei, hit him right where it hurts; in his moustache.

Its not a perfect world, just a rather nice sunny one today,

Happy saturday

A xxxx

Poor Nigel Farage was ‘egged’ yesterday in Nottingham. Poor man had a life and death experience with a chicken embryo and the embryo won as Nigel, having just got out of his car, jumped straight back in and was driven off. To the pub. Of course to the pub. Where else does he ever go? Four pints and half a pack of fags later he was restored to the cool, confident, slightly pissed, fag-smelling Nigel we all love.

Though this is ‘new Nigel’, this is ‘Nigel the bottler’. Who decided for numerous reasons, all of them good, viable, credible and solid, that he would NOT stand for the parliamentary seat of Newark, so recently vacated by Patrick Mercer, tory scumbag, slimeball and racist. The man who took money for asking questions in parliament. Then ‘manned up’ and ‘apologised’ and told of his ‘shame’ and ‘disgrace’ when resigning as a MP. One has to wonder if he’d have been quite so manly if he hadn’t been caught.

So Nigel is presented with his golden opportunity; a parliamentary seat to contest. The chance for his tin-pot party to actually have a member of parliament. Ahhh, but it will detract from UKIP’s high expectations in the European elections. And remember, European seats are really important for the future funding of their political party by fleecing money out of the endless cash-cow that is ‘Brussels expense accounts’, even though its against the rules.

But the real reason Nigel ‘bottled it’ and decided not to stand in Newark is because he couldn’t win. And Nigel, though many things to many men (most of them offensive or ignorant or just plain drunk) is not stupid. So he’d rather leave fighting the parliamentary seat to one of his colleagues in the party.

And that’s where the problem lies.

We live in the age of the sound byte. We adore ‘personalities’ and ‘celebrities’ and ‘characters’. And UKIP possess just one of those. Just one. Nigel. How many other UKIP members can you name? Errrrr, well there’s errrrr… that bloke who blamed the floods on God’s wrath and punishment for making gay marriage legal. There’s the one- sorry, the seven, who used to be part of the BNP, there’s that woman who no-one listens to and is just a puppet so they look more like a normal political party, or there’s that bloke with the swastika tattooed on his face, you know, the one who’s not a racist but supports West Ham anyway.

I can’t name one other UKIP member. So for most of the country, UKIP IS Nigel Farage. And if he doesn’t stand for parliamentary seats, then his sorry band of Daily Mail devotees won’t win seats. Which is good news for the rest of us. Good news for those who aren’t xenophobic, misogynistic, racist, chauvinist or just pissed. And for egg-throwers in general.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Sex tapes: wonderful memory of private and beautiful deeply personal intimacy shared? or a porn film with extra beer belly and cellulite that only lasts 2 minutes, 14 seconds and contains the essential words “oh bollocks, Harry, I got pins’n’needles in me frikking foot again”??

Social philosophers may ponder the reasons, the purpose and effects of ‘the sex tape’ for generations. And I can see the point, in a way, that it is a memory, a vanity, something to have. And as kids today are probably on their phones whilst having sex anyway, as they are whilst doing everything else in life, its only a flick away to tape the event. For posterity.

Back in the day we didn’t have phones with video facility; phones were tied to a wall in a room ten minutes walk away, only for those fortunate enough to have them. So the ‘selfie’ then involved arranging a portrait artist to come for several sittings. Making sex tapes a bit difficult. Especially if you suffered from premature illustration.

Now its a different kettle of fish-eyes lenses. Everyone has ‘the facility’, so when you find yourself with Paris Hilton on her knees in front of you (don’t you just hate it when that happens? all the bloody time…) let the cameras roll. So you can enjoy it together in that close and erotic way, for the five minutes the relationship is destined to last, then you can circulate it on YouPube for everyone else to see and cause shame and humiliation to all concerned.

Some guy published his ‘sex-tapes’ of an ex. And her brother, who was his flat mate (I hope you’re following this; do try to keep up), complained to him. So the guy stabbed him, then fired a harpoon gun in his neck. Guess he didn’t like to argue. Ok, the guy had psychological issues. No shit. He worked with Goldman Sacks and they almost insist upon it, or instil it as part of the basic training. And he (the murderer) was an actuary. So he could easily work out the probability of the harpoon causing damage. Errrr, 95% chance of puncturing, exit velocity of 261mph, throat versus steel… hmmm. The answer is 7!!!! I never said he was a good actuary.

I wonder if Harry and Cressida have sex tapes. They’ve never shown them to me. Because now they’ve split up and the world is in tatters. I’m organising a protest march and demonstration of our collective upset that another royal wedding won’t be forthcoming any time soon, giving us all a day off work. Royal Bummer.

I’ll miss Cressie. Which one was she? But look forward to seeing the film.

Ok, I’m off to bed; where’s my camera? And a director.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

I had an interesting conversation with Aussie Johnno last year as we traipsed round Ayers Rock together, all 12k of it, in about 45 degree heat. Maybe it was the excessive temperature doing funny things to his brain. But he always likes to be contrary, and always believes that there’s a solution to every problem, even if there isn’t really a problem in the first place. So his idea was that football fans should be made to support different teams every year. Forced to. By law. So the Bastard Squad come round, take away your Spurs season tickets and replace them with ones for Wigan. Or Stenhousemuir. Orient. Randomly. What a great idea!!!! Fans would no longer need to fight or abuse one another, because next year YOU might be a ‘Yid’ or a ‘Gooner Scumbag’ (heaven forbid) or even have your heart and soul surgically removed (without anaesthetic) and support Chelsea.

I never said he was bright. Just contrary. And I pointed out some obvious flaws to his otherwise logical (???) suggestion. Like what do I do with the full-face cockerel I have tattooed across my boatrace? What if I have to go and watch Shrewsbury Town and my kids get stuck with Burnley?? The family unit as it is in England would be broken beyond repair. And what about loyalty? And the feeling of continuity and fraternity you feel, deeply, when you go to see your team? Just before the riots start or you get food poisoning from a dodgy hot-dog??

Nick Hornby describes, in the wonderful Fever Pitch, how he became an Arsenal fan. Because it was the first game his father took him to. Even though they were shit. (Plus ca change). I have no such eureka moment in my memory. No light shone, no beacon lit, no I’VE SEEN THE LIGHT… AND ITS LILLYWHITE!!!! Nothing like that. I just don’t have any memories of not being a Spurs fan. Its older than my memory.

So I can only be fickle and disloyal in European football, because Spurs are seldom playing in that. And for years I courted Barcelona. Because they were (collectively, I hasten to add) beautiful. And joyful, and such a pleasure to watch. I even, for a while, threw my hat in with Bayern Munich (no, it was not a steel helmet with a swastika on the side), because we’d needed them to beat Chelsea that year, (though they didn’t) and I learned that they were a team who had once defied Hitler, bless ’em. And even though the team sheet read like the guard list from Auschwitz, they were cool and classy.

Yet now I’m just drawn to Real Madrid. With whom I’ve been in and out of love for years. I loved the Zidane/Figo years; hated the early Ronaldo days, but now I find them simply irresistible. Last night, as they destroyed Bayern, I was playing bridge, in a manner that Zizou would have admired, though I stopped short of head-butting my partner even when she went one down in a simple 4 spades. I just saw about 5 minutes of the match. The third goal. A thing of wonder and beauty. And power, pace and consummate skill.

But I’m a Spurs fan and therefore must be grateful for what we have. Which is… errrr… hmmmm… errrrr…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I don’t do Breakfast tv. Just wouldn’t ever think to turn on the tv in the morning. Mornings are for lying inert in bed trying to force myself to get to the shower. They’re for quiet. Peace. Gentle. Introspection. Thinking about how best not to get out of bed. They’re not for talking, not for being given lists of things that need doing over the next 7 months (Melissssssa!!!!), not for jabbering, chattering, whistling, singing, nuffink. As little as possible is what mornings are all about. And turning on the tv just doesn’t even cross my mind.

Unless there’s a tube strike. And then, (are you reading this: tv company people) I NEED INFORMATION. I want to know how or if tubes are running, how often, which lines, station closures, I need details. Everyone has been banging on for days about how awful this strike is, how massive, how devastating, oh the poor people of London, blah, blah, blah. Then the day comes and these same people don’t even consider that it may be of benefit to actually give these semi-stranded travellers the information we all need to best plan our contingency moves.

Breakfast tv is not about making plans. Its not about information. Not about anything useful. Its about the presenters. Chatting, giggling, flirting, anything but imparting any useful information. Its as rewarding as sex-above-the-waist-only. It is chewing gum, when you’re hungry. Its a photo of a glass of water to a man in the desert. Its like watching Spurs; nothing useful happens.

I’m really not interested in the ‘chemistry’ between Susanna Reid and some tosser with floppy hair. If I want chemistry I’ll go to the lab. Sex may sell, but there’s none on offer on Breakfast tv. At any price. Better off subscribing to the porn channel. Probably get more tube information there too.

I did learn that a teacher was killed by a student. In Leeds. Lucky it wasn’t Louisianna or it would have been 73 kids and teachers laid waste by machine guns. One teacher, one kid with a knife. We don’t do school killers properly here. Like we don’t do travel news.

And I had read that the aforementioned Susanna Reid was ‘poached’ from the BBC over to ITV because of her stunning personality and long legs, and because she came second in celebrity come dancing last year. That was her prize. A move to ITV to flirt with floppy-haired tosser boy, its what it says in her job description. I learned this because people were actually complaining that seating those wonderful legs behind a desk is a waste of her weekly salary; she should be on view. Well, just forget the ‘news’ bit then and you can employ some minimum wage leggy Lituanian ‘models’ to just stand there in their underwear for 3 hours. In fact, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll suggest it to the producers.

Ok, off to (not) get the tube.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Well this is exiting. This is cool. Just when you thought the season was over, that Liverpool had won the league (and if they don’t there will probably be several public inquiries, then several more and we’ll all have to wear black armbands for the next 25 years) up trot no-chance-Chelsea and bust it all wide open again. In fact Chelsea probably did a bigger favour to Manchester City than for themselves, but despite Morinho’s stupid protestations to the contrary, Chelsea have an outside chance if either City or Liverpool slip up, and if neither do then City win on goal difference. Again. Though Spurs still have a very outside chance, but nuclear armageddon has to happen (could happen; watch Ukraine) and the end of civilisation as we know it, and even then City’s goal difference is 58, Spurs is 4. So we need to score at least 30 goals in each of our last 2 games. Well, with our ‘strike force’ anything could happen. Yeah right. Morinho parked a series of buses at Anfield, which, to his credit, if not for the greater good of football generally, got the job done.

Everton slipped up, agaiaiaiain. Virtually gifting the coveted 4th slot to Arsenal. Who only have ‘easy’ matches left now. Really easy. Ridiculously easy. Only a bunch of tossers could possible drop even half a measly point against such pathetic opposition. No pressure at all then.

And then there’s ‘the other end’. The nether regions of the table, the shitty bit. Sunderland’s win yesterday took them out of the relegation zone for the first time in 6 years. Or so it feels to me. And to Gus Poyet. The ‘miracle’ he wished for seems to have started to happen and once again, goal difference becomes critical, with Sunderland’s much better than the other possible victims of the grim reaper’s scythe. Poor Fulham, conceding a last minute equaliser by Hull on Saturday did very little either for their mood or for their chances of a reprieve. You had to feel sorry for them. Unless you’re a Hull fan (one of the 7) in which case you’re over the frikkin moon, Brian.

Cardiff are almost gone and Norwich have a good chance of the drop too, with possibly Aston Villa if they really fuck up and those bottom teams start winning. It is statistically possible for West Ham to be relegated but then where would Spurs get their hatred from, and who’d be left to make gas chamber hissing noises at the Lane?

And those in-waiting to take their ‘rightful’ place at the toppest of top tables are Leicester, Burney (gawd help us) and… and…

Well, its always exiciting; the ‘and…’ Playoff bound. Most strenuous thing ever. Could be Reading. Could be QPR, again. Bringing Harry back to the scene of his former crimes. Who knows?

Very tense, exiting and… our season finished months ago.

Happy monday

A xxxx

So fickle Dutch fucker, Louis Van Gaal, is ‘all set to be new Manchester United manager’. Well may The Lord have mercy on him. And by ‘the Lord’, I mean Wayne Rooney here, there least likely ‘lord’ of all. Because the scummy Scouse striker and sometime granny-shagger has as good as admitted that he and a few others created ‘a lot of negativity’ during the Moyes months and must ‘accept the responsibility’. Damned right they should. Any player ‘under-performing’ due to some vague personality conflict with their manager, their boss, their superior, should lose their pay. Rooney gets the best part of 300 grand a week to play to the best of his ability. And in that rather simple contract, he failed miserably. Its not his place to question; he lacks the intellect, its not his role to make decisions about the management or anything else about the ‘club’ in general. His job is to kick a football. And kick it well, and preferably goal-wards. And he failed. Thus failing the fans, the club and obviously, the manager. Or ex-manager. And he failed intentionally. Which makes it all a bit sick.

So in strolls Giggsy, who has played for United since before he was born, the hero, the man of the club, and Rooney suddenly performs like an England striker once more. I love Ryan Giggs, he’s a class act. Except when he having an affair with his brother’s wife and took out a superinjunction rather than face the flack, which came along anyway. As the Daily Mail reminded us just the other day with its usual ‘forget the big picture here, let’s get reactionary about the irrelevant details’ approach. In which it almost declared Giggs unfit to manage a football club because of immoral behaviour in his past. By which logic they should just shut down the whole government right now and instil me as head of the nation, dictator, boss and tyrant as soon as I’ve gotten my Kim Jong Un haircut and piled on a few extra kilos round my belly.

But Van Gaal has been earmarked for Spurs. A proper team who treat managers with respect and patience. Unless they lose a few matches in which case they’re gone in 60 seconds. Yet suddenly, he’s Man United through and through. Or so he reckons. Because Carlo Ancelotti, miserable manager of Real Madrid and coaching superstar, has thrown his own hat into the ring at Old Trafford too. Which means that whatever happens Real will kick him out at the end of the season, for even thinking about leaving. Even though they generally have a bit of a managerial clearout at the end of each season anyway.

And so the merry-go-round keeps on its merry little circuits, with the few truly great managers getting rotated about the only clubs that can afford them.

The upshot being that ginger pairah Moyes may end up at Spurs. And I’d be glad to have him. The man has true quality and assuming that players are actually prepared to play for him, would be an asset anywhere. Except Man United, obviously.

Ok, lunch and LIverpool/Chelsea. My kind of menu.

Happy sunday

A xxxx

What’s the hardest job in the world? Manager of Manchester United? Culture Minister for Australia?? Head of tourism in Syria? PR agent for traffic wardens? Chief of morality at Chelsea Football Club?? What is it?

How about the job of making people think that Ed Milliband isn’t weird? Wow. That’s hard. And that’s the undertaking of David Axelrod, formerly head electioneer for Barak Obama, now tasked with the same job for New Labour and Ed. And number on his list: make Ed seem un-wierd. Easy as making air seem un-breathable. As making Kim Jong Un the poster-boy for free expression.

In fact for the general elections next year we have 3 imported ‘consultants’ charged with making the unelectable seem worthy. With making the voting public like objectionable losers.

We have a South African in charge of the LibDems. And good luck to him. We have our Aussie chap working on the Conseravtives and now its Axelrod the Yank for the Labourites.

My first thought about this entire practice is that if our leaders need to be turned into someone else before we’d be prepared to vote for them, then they’re not very good leaders to start with. And then why don’t we just get those someone else’s as leaders in the beginning? And in ‘changing the public’s perception’ of these party leaders, that is basically election speak for lying, cheating and fasle representation. The famous ‘pig in lipstick’ but taken well beyond the mere lipstick stage and up to the point where you make these people into seeming like something they’re patently not. Which is dishonest. And therefore not the best way to start getting people to trust you enough to vote you into a very powerful position indeed.

Whereas the head of the RMT trade union is also an elected post (though you probably only need 4% of the members to achieve a 51% majority because this is trade unions, not advanced maths) and Bob Crow died and there’s three really nice chaps eager to take that role. They also employ image consutants, but to make them look more horrible, more tough, more nasty, vicious, greedy and dirty. And unless talks this weekend bear fruit, the tube trains are going on strike on Monday night for 2 days, then again the following week for 3 days.

I believe in trade unions. I believe in the rights of the working man so that he’s not exploited. Unless he works for me. But I don’t believe in anyone’s right to bring London to a virtual stand-still, to cost the city millions and millions in lost productivity and to make my journey to work more difficult than it already is. Over an issue that will cost the union no jobs and no pay loss.

We should train up all our Bulgarians and Romanians recent arrivals as train operators. How long could it take? They learn quickly. It takes them 3 days to become a proficient pick-pocket so driving a train should be easy. And then just tell the union men not to bother coming back to work after their ‘days off’. What’s Rumanian for ‘mind the gap’??

Happy saturday

A xxxx

Japanese women live longer than all others. Fact. Scientists proved it. By, errr, counting how long they live. Probably. And they live longer than British women and even longer than the Italians, who are, apparently, ‘famously healthy’.

Maybe its to do with bound feet. Cutting off circulation at the ankles thus improving blood supply to other body parts. Maybe its all that nodding and bowing. A flexible neck is the path to long life. Isn’t that what they always say? No, actually they don’t. What they do say is, somewhat inevitably, ‘its down to diet’. All that raw fish, green tea and very low carbs and dairy in their food must therefore, increase their longevity.

Well that’s a lifestyle choice, and some of us would rather eat hamburgers and Easter eggs (not necessarily together, but now I think about it… hmmmm…) and die a little younger. With a smile on our faces. Rather than have your last words being ‘I’m fucking starving’. In fact I have no issue with Sushi, I quite like it. In a raw, fishy sort of way. But only as a precursor to a proper meal. A starter, an appetizer.

The Japanese eat about 25% less calories less a week than westerners; 96% less than Americans. Though they do a lot of karaoke. A hell of a lot. Therefore I think living longer has nothing to do with food, but singing really loudly, terribly out of tune, whilst sufficiently drunk to not be totally embarrassed by the abject misery you’re causing to others, may be more relevant.

Whereas my main concern is how Italians are described as ‘famously healhty’. They eat nothing but carbs and processed meats, heavy sauces, all washed down with pizzas the size of trampoulines and drink way too much. Yet Italian women lived second longest. Probably because most have murdered their husbands early in the marriage, or are Mafia widows, thus spend their lives enjoying stuff rather than looking after their men. Maybe its just that the Italian women look healthy; all gorgeously dark and olive-skinned and curvacious; all of them. Until they pass 30 and all that pasta comes back to haunt them and then they grow beards.

In an unrelated study, at Harvard, no less, they found that drinking 3 cups of coffee a day makes you 37% (and that is positively huuuuuuuuuge) less likely to develop type 2 diabetes. Amazing. I’ll never get diabetes because I drink at least 14 cups an hour. This study (sponsored by Starbucks… if only) didn’t mention whether ‘coffee’ included the high-fat, cholesterol-inducing, artery-clogging milk, that some people use, or whether the lack of diabetes is simply because this 37% of the subjects just died of coffee overdose thus, obviously, failed to become diabetic.

So the answer is: drink coffee with raw fish in it, instead of cream and sugar, and you’ll live to be 150.

Ok, that’s sorted, let’s just sort out Ukraine and Palestine and Bernie Ecclestone and we can all take the weekend off.

Happy, healthy, coffee-laden Friday

A xxxx