Andy's Glasses

What is going on in our Mad Mad Mad World of Football??? Its cccccrrrrrr-azy!!!!

And my use of the flippant and childish tone along with loads of inappropriate punctuation is to accentuate the childishness of the whole thing. Honest, Dad, cross me heart…

Alan Pardew is a 50 year old man. He manages (on some level) Newcastle United. Thus, his job, as an elder statesman and respect figure (along with Mike Ashley… hmmm…) is to do far more than merely train and coach his bunch of children/players. His job is to give them a sense of responsibility, to show them appropriate behaviour, both on and off the pitch, and to provide some kind of moral leadership. To a bunch of ridiculously overpaid semi-moronic (the ‘semi’ there giving loads of benefit of the doubt) super-egos who believe the hype they read, who are under the impression that their shit don’t stink, who can’t spell ‘Maserati’ but happily drive them and who consider that money compensates for acting like a total asshole at every possible opportunity.

So how does Alan do this? He headbutts an opposing player on the sidelines during a match. To further add to the stupidity, he had to stretch on tippy-toes to reach the face of a man about 6 inches taller, 25 years younger and 85 times fitter and stronger.

Although this is the second issue of this nature for Pardew this season and the third in 2 years. He needs anger management. Though he does win my ‘tosser of the week’ award, if not ‘tosser of the season’. A high accolade with so much competition for the title.

Like Sol Campbell.

The latest in a long line of ‘footballers who make stupid, ridiculous, possibly defamatory claims in their autobiographies’. Roy Keane’s was the best where he described in detail over an entire chapter how he planned and perpetrated an act of actual bodily harm on Alfie Haarland.

But Sol’s gripe is that he was racially discriminated against by not being made England captain for 10 years. Not short of over-valuing his worth then. Yet Sol was indeed discriminated against. Not because he was black. But because he was gay. And I don’t think the world was ready at that time for such a revelation. Rio Ferdinand managed to captain his nation… before the minor drug problem reared its ugly head. Whereas Sol’s ugly head was clean in that respect. Though perhaps his aspirations were hindered by moving to Arsenal, which rendered him a little mercenary, as those old enough can remember that time when the Arse actually won a few things.

Arsene Wenger hates Stoke City. And they hate him. They really hate him. Surely the best ‘revenge’ Arsenal could take would be to beat the Potters in a way the imagined ‘gulf’ between the two teams’ style and quality would perhaps demand. Yet they don’t. And they didn’t. Arsene has never believed in a ‘plan B’ and yet stumbles against very physical and inhibiting teams. Even when, like Stoke, they aren’t particularly ‘good’ in any conventional sense. As my Stoke mate texted me yesterday: ‘they don’t like it up ’em’. And its true. They don’t.

Happy Sunday. But only if we beat Cardiff.

A xxxx

Its Oscars time again. Tomorrow night, in Hollywood, the finest talent Tinseltown can find will parade along to collectively pat themselves on the back for looking so fucking gorgeous, for wearing the most unaffordable clothes the ridiculous world of ‘haute couture’ has begged to give them for nothing and to congratulate themselves on how much jewellery, accessories and toot has been thrust into their stylists’ hands on the offchance that it might be seen in their golden presence. On ‘the night’. The irony being that these are some of the highest paid, ultra-wealthy people in the world. The only ones who could actually afford to pay $127,000 for a ‘frock’ and yet they get them free. In the hope that other people looking on, poor people, McDonalds staff, mechanics apprentices, bus drivers, art students, will look at this finery and immediately go and buy their own. Even if that Tiffany necklace costs more than the house in which they currently rent a room. The Oscars has become an obscene and vulgar showcase for the purveyors of overpriced and generally vile and pretentious clothing and accompanying shit. The whole evening is an advert for all that is excessive, tasteless and horrible. You might as well go the Croisette in Courchevel if that’s what you want. They do rich and tasteless so well they can even spell it in Russian.

Which is why I never go.
Its a statement. A stand. Someone’s gotta do it, to make the point. I was offered a modelling contract for Marks & Spencer ‘Pringle lookalike’ golfing sweaters and a free pair of Tesco Turn-Ups jeans with matching Anorak. I turned it down as being a prostitution of my values, an abrogation of my responsibility to the Common Man. Tatooed and semi-literate scumbag that he normally is.

Ok, and they’ve never invited me to go. My family don’t even invite me to watch the hi-lights programme with them on Monday night.

Though I don’t want hi-lights, I want the entire 17 hours. I want the pre-show telling us which dresses may possibly be worn, and by whom… probably. I want analysis, I want gossip, I want to know who won the special award for 3rd Grip, who won the best supporting role by a man with a crane, the most smug grimace by a producer knowing his $15 million loss in a movie just saved him $27 million in tax this year.

And I want to see Jennifer Lawrence. Standing, sitting, falling up the stairs, whatever. She does it all so well, so beautifully, so ‘naturally’ and with such star quality. They should just give her all the Oscars and don’t bother for the next decade.

So here’s my vote: (not that anyone asked me)

Best use of the whip: 12 Years a Redneck
Best cleavage: Jennifer Lawrence (American Hustle; not that its even relevant)
Best movie that does virtually nothing: Inside Llewyn Davies
Best weight loss: Matthew McConnaughey in Dallas Buyers Club
Biggest disappoitment: Blue Jasmine
Best 20-minute lesbian love scene: Blue is the Warmest Colour

I’m off to the bookies; I’m going to put an accumulator on: Best Film: Philomena and Spurs to win 4-0 against Cardiff. 325 to 1.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The delightful-(ly stupid and frankly ridiculous) Kim Kardashian has insured her arse. For $21 million. Wow. That’s some arse. Which was never in doubt, but 21 mil??? As the rather lovely Ms K. does nothing, works at nothing, plays no significant part in society other than being herself all over the fucking tv, this insurance renders her simply as ‘a life support system for her backside’. Which in some circles is definitely a ‘career’.

But is it insured for loss? Against theft?? How could you lose something that big? Particularly when its kind of attached in that way that body parts have. Maybe its insured against damage. If it has a crash. Can you insure against cellulite? Drooping? Sagging?? What about third party coverage, for damage her bum does to others?

Kylie famously insured her pert little bum after it was displayed in hotpants on her album (no pun) cover. For £3million. So do they insure bottoms by weight? And do people who’s names don’t begin with ‘K’ insure theirs too? Otherwise that could be deemed alphabetist. Which is illegal under the European Court of Human Rights. If it was done on a weight basis, how would really obese people afford the premiums?

Spurs won last night. Massive game. Immense result. The biggest of the year. 3 goals to 1, (3-2 on aggregate), one fall, two submissions and a knockout. I missed it. Was out at Tai Chi. Which in fact is all about harnessing energy. One of the words, errrr, Tai, or, errr Chi, means ‘energy’, the other doesn’t. That would be needless repetition. And we harness the energy to hurt people very badly. Not Kim Kardashian and certainly not her bottom; I couldn’t afford the excess, but bad people, nasty people, those who wish us harm, those who mean to hurt and those we really don’t like very much, especially if they’re small and frail. So evil people beware! Arsenal fans take note! Look over your shoulder, George Osbourne! Because I’m learning my martial art and will be an officially dangerous person by about 2022, maybe 2024. In time for the Quatar World Cup debacle for sure. I’m turning into a lethal cross between Bruce Lee and Woody Allen.

So football, yes, football. We won, we go marching on. Emmanuel Adebayor is our saviour, our hero, our god. In the next round of the European Whatever It is Cup we play Benfica. A team some people have actually heard of. Which is the holy grail in that competition. All the Latvian part-timers and Bosnian bakers have been eliminated and its just the ‘cream’ of European Royalty that remains.

And thus comes the next dabate. Do we effectively ‘sacrifice’ the quest for a 4th place finish in the league and go all out to win this (poxy) cup? Or do we send out the kids to face Portugal’s finest and concentrate on our Premiership fixtures?? The radio debate was heated last night over that very subject.

The problem is, or perhaps the fact is, we won’t finish 4th. Its already virtually impossible. So I say, go for the silverware. Go for the glory or winning a cup that so many pretentious fucking teams deem so far beneath them. I don’t care what anyone thinks of it, its a major European trophy (well, there’s only two, so its a minor major) and I want to add it to my trophy cabinet. Well, mine’s a metaphorical trophy cabinet, like they have at the Emirates, but to me its real.

Happy dreaming-of-glory Friday

A xxxx

Harriet Harman, the deputy leader of the Labour Party, or Ed Milliband’s oily rag, as the role may be deemed, is a paedophile!!!! How outrageous, how dire, dasterdly, desperate and disastrous. Diabolical. Disgusting.

Well, I suppose she’s not really a child-abuser herself (though you’d think she was if you read the Daily Mail) but she was involved in an organisation in the 70s called the National Council for Civil Liberties, which is now known as just plain old ‘Liberty’.

But back in the day it was your standard left-wing ‘fumin rights’ type organisation, seeking out injustices wherever it reared their ugly, and generally grey and Tory, head, and putting them right. As in ‘correct’. And doing it in a very 70s, beardy, tree-huggy, loon-panty, afghan coaty type of way. Probably in a wine bar near a rain forest smoking a few joints. Though not necessarily inhaling, of course.

So the NCCL defended anti-war propagandists, they promoted women’s rights, gay rights, they defended most of the pretty well indefensible, they spouted the good cause for freedom and liberty. Hence their name. In case you missed that bit. Try to keep up.

And somehow, along with protecting one-legged dwarf teenage mothers and pro-actively promoting civil liberties in the age of ‘free love’ (cheap sex) and human rights for all groups (cheap sex) and other noble causes, the NCCL became somehow affiliated with a group called PIE. The Paedophile Information Exchange. And they wanted their freedom too.

Unfortunately PIE’s definition of ‘freedom’ involved the abuse of children by really creepy men with really creepy beards and dirty raincoats. Because they too wanted their piece of this ‘freedom’ cake. And eat it too. They considered themselves ‘a group’, even though most normal people considered them a disease, an abomination, devils incarnate, vile, abusive bottom-feeding scum who should be castrated publicly and left to burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, starting long before the Devil is even aware of them. I’ve got the matches, what are we waiting for?

But somehow, in the quest for ‘liberty’ for all types, creeds, religions, professions, self-help-groups, minority causes and all the other totally wasters, users, free-loaders and freaks, the damned paedos got in there and found a temporary ally. Which was a little bit like the Serial Killers Association demanding the freedom to murder, but it all got swept along in a love-in of perceived repression and ‘what-about-us’-es.

I think Harriet Harman should be taken out and publicly flogged, like some extra from 12 Years a Slave, then made to perform group sex acts with the Transport and General Workers Union, like some extra from ‘Nymphomaniac’, then sold long, like some extra from ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’. We must make the punishment fit the crime and the crime fit the zeitgeist, and its Oscars week.

Happy thursday. No snow in London, couldn’t ski to work, had to take the frikkin tube. Bummer.

A xxxx

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