Andy's Glasses

the following contains scenes of violence and brutality and there’s bad language from the start.

We’re all used to such warnings before news reports and tv programmes. They’re all over the tv. 20 years ago you’d have work out all by yourself that a report from Syria in the wake of a bombing would probably include wounded, bleeding people. Or that ‘flash photography’ may be present on the screen, causing epileptic episodes in millions of viewers, leaving the lounges of Britain full of flapping, thrashing people, writhing around like landed goldfish.
Its all part of the nanny state set up by that nice Mr Blair. Leave nothing to chance, everyone must know what’s going to happen up front. ‘Diary of a Call Girl’ “may contain sex scenes”. I should bloody well hope so.

But unusual to get such a warning before a football match.

But last night it was rather appropriate. Bad language is a given in football and, even though you can’t hear most of it, advanced lip reading skills are seldom required to interpret remarks made at referees. But violence and assault? There were Somalian pirates curled up behind the sofa, scared to look at Arsenal play Chelsea because it was so violent. It was the Reservoir Dogs of football matches. It was Kill Bill part 2. Sadly without Uma Thurman.

And yet without those battlefield scenes it was the dullest match ever played.

So much hope. So much hype. The Battle for the Top. The Pride of London.

Yet what evolved was the slickest, smoothest team in the land and the (2nd) most potent attacking force (even with Torres) decided to re-enact Saturday’s Tai Chi class when we were all kicking the merry shit out of each other. But the footballers did it at full speed.

Unbelievable that only 3 yellow cards were shown and no-one was sent off in a match that degenerated into a virtual brawl after countless episodes of tackles so high that ears got damaged.

A truly awful game.

A better man than me would have gone and done something different, or changed the tv channel. Yet it was, in a way, a mesmerising contest of two battle-weary generals rallying their troops on suicide missions. And in such terrible weather conditions that Arsenal couldn’t really be Arsenal and Chelsea thrived on becoming Morinho’s parked bus.

Spurs have a new manager. His name is Tim Sherwood and he’s a fucking Arsenal fan. He has no managerial experience whatsoever, doesn’t even possess his ‘pro-badge’, was the worst midfielder Spurs ever had and he loves Arsenal.
I’m right behind the new boss. Has my full support.

Like I have a choice.

Happy Christmas Eve

A xxxx

previously on THFC Blue…

After Gareth went ran off to Spain to be with Christiana, Daniel was bereft and Andrea the Very Beautiful was trying everything to make him happy once more. She brought in loads of hopeful replacements but it just wasn’t having the desired effect and Daniel became miserable. Ok, even more miserable than usual.
Daniel threw Andrea out, telling her never to return, and ‘take that poxy four-and-a-half million quid’ with you when you leave! And that was the end of Daniel’s 14th marriage in 8 months.
Little Timmy moved into the big house, eager to please Danny, but a whole gang of chirpy cockney shitheads came over and ruined the honeymoon.
Would Timmy last the weekend?
Will Daniel miss AVB and call her back (bringing her cash with her)?
Will Danny ever find true happiness…

During the Swansea/Everton match Gary Neville made an interesting comment following Swansea’s last substitution. He said (translated directly from the original ‘northern’): Laudrup’s changing to 4-4-2; that seems to be the default setting when you need a goal.

So tell me, precisely, when a team doesn’t need a goal? When they have too many? When they don’t really want to score??
Thus did Tim Sherwood go into the darkest recesses of the Spurs storeroom and dust off Adebayor, the Tempermental Togon.
And its been so long since he’s worn a Spurs shirt that he must have thought he was playing for a new club and thus went into ‘impress mode’. A condition he’s only ever used in 3-month bursts. But yesterday it was used to great effect in a true man-of-the-match performance, alongside Soldado who was so much more comfortable with the big guy beside him.

More importantly Spurs looked, for the first time this season, like a proper Spurs team. Attacking with speed and movement, creating opportunities and dominating possession. Against a high-flying Southampton team who themselves look pretty good and have quite a little wealth of talent. Not as expensive as our talent, of course, but few are.

I’m still not happy with the AVB sacking but we were not privy to the atmosphere, the discord and the negativity that his presence may have been causing. And we never will be. Nor can we do much about it.

Liverpool beat Cardiff and yet Malky Mackay is still in charge of the Welsh team there, to everyone’s surprise, especially Tam Vincent, the horrible Cardiff boss. Thus Liverpool went to of the table.

Later on Man City used one of their 2nd 11s to beat poor Fulham and went second in the table.

Manchester United beat West Ham but that was never much of a question as they quieted that fucking chirping.

So tonight. What a game. Arsenal against Chelsea. If Arsenal lose they can have made the plummet from top to 4th in one weekend, and Chelsea go 2nd. If the Arse win they return to top slot. Its all very exciting. Its all very close.

Spurs can still win the league.
And Santa Claus IS real.

Happy monday; joyful, delirious, delightful, victorious monday

A xxxx

Here’s an interesting fact (may be true, may be fabricated, you’ll never know). For Mandela’s funeral and ensuing festivities, ITV sent 17 people over to South Africa to cover the event.
The BBC sent 120.
What the f–???

Because they don’t care. Because its public money (my frikkin money, let the truth be told) and they’re happy pissing it away on ridiculous golden handshakes to parastical ex-executives, and on sending a batallion out for Mandela week. Its what they do.

But what they also do is make better tv than anyone else. Much better tv. Particularly documentaries. Which are free from over-sensationalisation, free from hype, free from adverts, free from all the other bollocks that we have to put up with on other channels.

So when I find myself in front of a tv at midnight on a saturday, that screen will often find iteslf showing BBC4. Virtually always about music. And last night it was about ‘albums’. Those great big, clumsy, flimsly things we used to play but who’s real purpose was to provide the perfect surface for rolling a joint. Which was, as I found out last night, almost essential for the progress of the development of albums. How wonderfully circular was that? And circular were they.

Until the mid-60s everything was about singles. Get 2.5 minutes of the catchiest, sing-along-est, chirpy, happy rubbish and it will sell. More importantly it will be played on the radio. They didn’t do ‘long’ on the radio, particularly American radio before FM.

So last night I learned the wonderful tale of evolution in music.

Whilst singles told quick, fast-food, sound-byte tales of love and break-up and dead dogs, albums allowed proper stories to be told, allowed for a high degree of self-indulgence by the musicians but the freedom paved the way for progressive rock and longer tracks linking together to provide a continuous narrative.

But before that could happen, there had to be a vehicle for album tracks to be heard, and one FM station in San Francisco did just that, playing long, intricate tracks into the night when only the stoners were awake (or, what passes for ‘awake’) to listen. Soon radio stations all over the musical world were doing similar, including our own pirate radio ships where John Peel was introducing my generation to album tracks.

Sergeant Peppers’ was one of the first albums to tell a continuous story, followed by albums by all and sundry, from the Stones to Jimi Hendrix to everyone, playing proper, head-banging, psychedelic type music. Thus drugs weren’t invented by Nigella, but came about to provide the catalyst for proper music to be developed; to enhance the reception by the music listening public.

Led Zeppelin made their eponymous first album and became the biggest band in the world by NOT releasing singles.
Dark Side of the Moon came out and was yet another game changer.
Carole King’s Tapestry album paved the way for singer-songwriters to join the domain of the progressive rockers.
Deep Purple, Yes, Jethro Tull, Emerson Lake & Palmer, The Small Faces, all album bands, all long tracks. Even King Crimson. They played 21st Century Schitzoid Man on the programme and I was transported back in time.

Mike Oldfield had written an album. 2 sides. 2 tracks. No-one would produce it. Until he found a record shop owner called Richard Branson. Who set up a production company and the rest, for both Oldfield and Branson, was history.
Thus if it wasn’t for Tubular Bells we’d all be paying much more for transatlantic travel.

What goes around comes around.

Happy Sunday, even though its nearly finished.

A xxxx

Oh my lord, Nigella’s going to go to jail! She lost the court case. So now, instead of serving pig’s belly wrapped in a chocolate jus, with crustacean sauce, snail-shells and lark’s vomit, she’ll serve 3 to 5 for… for… for…

No, wait a minute, she wasn’t actually on trial. Not at all. She was merely a witness. Phew. What a relief to all concerned. Particularly to Nigella, probably.

Yet it felt like she was on trial. For drug abuse, for smoking, toking, snorting, spliffing, ingesting, powdering, inhaling and drugging herself up to those gorgeous, dark eyeballs (though agreed; not quite so gorgeous when all red and slitty), being a wanton woman, an unfit mother, a total slapper, a crack whore, gutter slag, child abuser, necrophiliac, pornographer, thief, carjacker, mugger, racist and Tory voter. Everything except being a Chelsea fan. So there’s hope for everyone, however low they may appear to have fallen.

There’s winners and losers in everything. And the real winners in this case are the Grillo sisters, who’s life became one big lottery win after another, every week, as they spent hundreds of thousands of Saachi’s money. And the courts said; fine, take all ya want.

Yet in a way Nigella emerges in a very odd way, a winner too. Because in the battle of the public image and support we stood by her. The fucking Prime Minister stood by her, even though it was a stupid thing for him to do. Not that he’s a stranger to ‘stupid’. He works with Nick Clegg, for god’s sake.

The moment Charles Saachi’s evil, dirty, hooked, wrinkled, claw-like, gnarled hands wrapped round Nigella’s soft, delicate little throat, she won our hearts and he became The Evil One, the Devil, Beelzebub, Fagin but with more money, Quasimodo without the French accent, Elephant Man without the trunk, pathos and sympathy. He is The Bastard. Who, having failed at murdering his (then) wife, set out to destroy her in the court of public opinion. And that failed massively.

Because we all still love Nigella. Even when she’s high on skunk with white powder all over he noise that definitely is NOT icing sugar.

Who reads biographies? Or worse still, autobiographies?? Justin (fucking) Bieber has published his second memoir and he is 18 years old and has done precisely nothing of any merit except having lots of tatoos and buying a shit-load of expensive cars, showing that you can indeed take the boy out of the trailer park but…

I’m not a big fan of the entire biographical genre, but if I have to read a bio, it will probably be a sporting one. And now, it would appear, I’m not alone in this.

Alex Ferguson’s autobigraphy (yeah, I’m sure he wrote it all by himself, right) sold 560 thousand copies. Maggie Thatcher’s sold 25 thousand. Mo Farrah’s 30 thousand and Salmon Rushdie’s just 14 hundred. For a man who lived 10 years in hiding under a ‘fatwa’ and married four times. How fucking boring is that?

Piers Morgan’s autobiography was definitely self-written and is described as ‘not a book but a boast’. How uncharacteristic of the world’s biggest and most annoyingly moronic ego. Who happens to be an Arsenal fan. Apropos of nothing.

Almost 2000 people bought it. Or He bought 2000 himself to outdo Rushdie.

So before I write my own memoir (volume 1, of 19), I’m going to play some more tennis. If it ever stops raining. Then it can be a sporting memoir.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

oh dear, what a faux pas de deux. What a blatant act of sexism loosely disguised as a compliment. Quel damage. Pauvre Lauren Blanc, the latest of a bunch of neanderthal Frenchmen to fall foul of the finikity feminist footballing fraternity. (Ok, it should be ‘sorority’ but the alliteration was simply irresistable). (And I didn’t even use a ‘fucking’ to enhance it.)

Manager of Paris St Germain and World Cup winning Frog, Lauren (I know; issa gel’s name but in France, because they’re all a bunch’a poofs, they use gel’s names for boys, like Michel and… er… Lauren) was being interviewed by seriously gorgeous journalist Swedish babe Johanna Whatever and when she commented that he’d changed his team line-up from 4-4-2 to 4-3-3, he commented that it was fantastic she knew what it meant and he found it beautiful.

I’d have actually made a mess in my underpants myself, but self control was never my thing.

Beautiful woman talking proper football; the dream. If she’d been swilling warm, cheap lager out of the can at the same time and belching, you’re talking ulitmate fantasy.

But the always hypersensitive French liberal-lefty, Hollande-ish press attacked Monsieur Blanc for being caught out as a sexist.

Whereas last time he spoke out loud it was actually to be a racist, suggesting quotas from immigrant populations in their football league. So Lauren is not exactly a champion of equality.

And it all comes about because football is ‘a man’s game’. According to Pierre Menes, the John Motson of French football broadcasting, who said ‘women footballers were fat turkeys to ugly to go to nightclubs on a saturday night’. He really really said that.

But its not about playing the game, its about understanding it, enjoying it, loving it, getting into the politics, the tactics, the nitty gritty of every facet of (my) national obsession. Hence my daughters knew the offside rule before they could even walk. Whilst Mel obsessed about meaningless trivia like ‘education’ and ‘study’, I drilled those girls about sitting midfielders, wing-backs, 3-at-the-back, diamond formations, so that they became more ’rounded’, though heaven forbid in any literal sense. I taught them how to kick the ball, how to ‘bend it like Beckham’, how to consume alchohol, swear like a faaaarrrkin’ trouper and insult referees. And I schooled them to hate Arsenal, dispise Chelsea, sneer at anyone from Manchester.

So yes, Lauren, in civilised countries being a bit of a babe is not incompatible with a comprehensive knowledge of football. It doesn’t make them lesbians. Otherwise they’d be rugby fans.

Bloody sexist stereotyping, its soooo French.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

I’ve found the answer.
Not sure precisely what the question is, but the answer is painfully obvioius, simple, elegant and achieved by a laterality of thinking that would make Edward de Bono proud.

London is the centre of the world. Well, certainly of my world. And, according to reports, of many other people’s too. So many of them in fact that we can’t get them here and then home again efficiently enough. So we need increased airport capacity for flights. I’m particularly concerned that there are sufficient flights available to deport all the Albanian and Rumanian shoplifters due for arrival here next year. And that drug mules can land here when they arrive back from Peru and Columbia with 7 kilos of Nigella’s finest.

We need more runways. They are the limiting factor. You can build as many terminals at Heathrow as you like but unless you can get more planes on and off the ground all you’re doing is creating shopping malls. Really cold, sterile ones with shoddy restaurants disguised as ‘fine dining and out within 12 minutes’.

Whereas building a new runway increases the number of flights. So Beijing has 9 runways, Germany has a shit load, all civilised countries have seemingly dozens of the things, but at Gatwick and Heathrow combined we currently have just 3. And personally I don’t count Gatwick as ‘London’, more as ‘Hell’.

So Boris Johnson wants to build an Island, Boris Island (vain git), in the Thames Estuary, that can house loads of runways. But its basically North Kent which suffers from Gatwick Syndrome in that most important Londoners live in the north of the city, often the western reaches thereof, and Kent is a royal pain to get to. You’d basically want to fly there. From Heathrow.

There’s also the minor problem that building this proposed ‘island’ would cost 112 billion of your English pounds. So double that for a more realistic estimate (including paint, toilet rolls, etc) and that’s a quarter of a trillion quid.

Whereas putting a new runway at Heathrow or Gatwick is ‘easy’. You get those Irish guys who build you a driveway for 500 quid and just tell them to make it a bit longer than usual. Won’t last long but its cheap. Though several small villiages need to be removed to accommodate the new build. So what? We have thousands of small villiages, they’re a bloody nuisance, that’s why G-d invented bulldozers.

Then there’s the noise. Well I’m sorry, you can’t be an international super-Country jetting in millions of world leaders in commerce and artistry if the sound of 28 superjets a minute flying over your house bothers you a little bit. Don’t be so fucking selfish. Why’s it always about YOU???

Anyway, runways, jets, noise, compulsory purchase, mass demolition, the ruination of the countryside, Boris Johnson; its all a big problem.

The answer is verticle take-off. Like the old Harrier jump-jet, bless it. Then you simply don’t need runways. You can take off and land anywhere. Your holiday would end when the pilot asks your address so he can land in your garden. Your mother-in-law can do the customs bit. Get rid of St Paul’s Cathedral and turn the plot into a jet-landing site right in The City itself. Brilliant.

Where’s Boris’s phone number?

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

So here’s what you do:
you get a manager to run your football team and you give him massisve power over finances, over training, over development and recruitment and you pay him a small fortune, the turnover of several small companies, to do his job. And then, after a relatively short period of time, you sack him, pay him off for the remainder of his contract and hire another.
And that’s ‘good management’ by the board. That’s how to ensure stability and long-term success at the football club. Never mind that the immediate effects on all and sundry are simply devastating and destabilising.

Particularly for me.

Because the fans have to have confidence in their team’s manager. Even if we don’t like the guy, he’s our commander-in-chief and its a given that ‘in the manager we trust’. He is a god, on so many levels. So we invest in him. Emotionally, intellectually (not you, obviously), on every level we simply have to believe that he’s good and on the right track and moving us where we want to be.

And then they pull that rug right out from under our feet.

Actually, he’s a wanker, we lost to Liverpool, so kick him out, pay him his 4.5 million quid and send him packing.
And the next contestant; come on down to the Lane.

Fuck me its depressing. Sunday’s loss was bad. I read no texts yesterday, didn’t answer the phone, steered clear of emails. Wore a mask on the street, hat pulled low and generally hid. To avoid the flack over the Sunday result. But the humiliation of that one game, however horrible, is nothing compared to being part of a club who seem to have no vision, no long-term plan, who bumble and stumble from manager to manager, employ useless ‘directors of football’, and seem merely to just ‘throw money at the problem’, whatever that particular problem may be, without any thought of the farther consequence of their actions.

So from now until the summer we have Tim Sherwood running the team. Well, him and two dozen assorted coaches, directors, technical advisors, freeloaders, jobsworths and tossers. Whilst we search out the (next) perfect manager. Great.

I’d rather have Glen Hoddle in for the short term. At least I love him and he has a managerial record. (No, not ‘diamond lights’, that was just a mistake; a big mistake).
Then we’ll get a new ‘proper’ manager.

The advert will read: come and manage Spurs; you won’t stay long but you’ll never have to work again anyway. And whatever happens, you can’t fuck it up any worse than the last guy.

Chelsea use a ‘rotating-door’ managerial policy, as do Manchester City. Both horrible, hateful organisations which amazingly succeed because they have massive squads of superstars whose combined brilliance generally exceeds any managerial shortcomings. Spurs don’t. We have a new team that hasn’t gelled, we’re mired in a cycle of disappointment and hope and we’re shit. So losing the manager won’t do any favours to anyone.

And who’d want that poison challice that is the management job at Spurs? We can’t offer champions league football, nor yet a massive stadium with corresponding revenue. Just the hollow promise that ‘we’re a big club’. In all but results.

I fucking hate football. Its darts for me from now on. At least fat, toothless drunks don’t need managers.

Happy tuesday, farewell AVB.

A xxxx

I had to attend a funeral yesterday afternoon. It was a horrible day, wet, cold and bleak. And standing on some little patch of desolate countryside in the northern reaches of the borough of Enfield as poor Uncle Charlie was laid to rest, all was fairly miserable and gloomy.

Then I came home and watched Spurs and it was much much worse. It was the burial of hope. It was the funeral of any remaining aspirations. The death of any chance we may have had to delude ourselves that we were in some way contenders.

It was serious reminder of our deficiencies as a team. All of our deficiencies. Which may take up so much space and time to list it may run to several volumes over a few months. Though it can all be summed up really in just two words: Totally and Depressing. Furthermore it doesn’t matter how you arrange those two words; works both ways. And if you separate those words into their component letters they form the anagram: ‘dire fucking incompetent rubbish’. I was never much cop at anagrams.

But to help Andre Villas Boas, as he obviously needs loads of help, there are three main areas which he needs to address:

1. We are shit
2. We are shit
3 We are more shit.

Once he can resolve these fundamental issues the surely it won’t be long before we’re threatening for a top place.

We have an awful defense, hence 5 goals against us. Yes we have injuries in that department but having spent 115 million quid on players this summer we should have sufficient cover.

We cannot score goals. Suarez has scored more goals than Spurs in the league this season. And he’s foreign. Our foreigners simply cannot score. Nor our Brits. Yesterday, not one attempt on target. Not one. 93 minutes of football by zillion pound players and no-one could make the goalie work.
Our midfield is slow, predictable and unimaginative. Otherwise they’re great. We lack the pace that you need and the one-touch passing game that is simply essential in the modern game. A three touch passing game sounds much better but in fact it isn’t. Especially when the third of those touches generally gives the ball back to the opposition.

Perhaps worst of all, there’s no excitement in our game; none whatsoever. Just funereal depression.
I can’t even enjoy Arsenal’s defeat at Manchester City; its that bad.
Ok, well just a little.

Positives we can take from yesterday…
hmmm…
errrrr…

Well, amazingly we’re still only 2 wins off a top four place, that’s positive.
We can’t hit a barn door from 3 yards, that’s good for the barn door.
And… errrr… of course… there’s always… hmmm…

Worst of all is that horrible feeling of wasted opportunity. We cashed in on Gareth Bale, a massive windfall, and apparently have squandered the lot, like Nigella’s assistants.

But fear not; all is not lost. Just when you thought there was nothing in the world to ever make you happy again, Christian Ronaldo, that epitome of modesty and humility, has opened a museum in his native Madeira, The Museum of Christiano Ronaldo. And it looks brilliant. There’s pictures of Ronaldo, waxworks of Ronaldo, tributes to Ronaldo and all his trophies. You can buy toilet paper that he has actually used, get a framed empty hair-gel tube, its brilliant. Can’t wait to go.

Happy fucking Monday

A xxxx

Can you imagine going to see a movie, in which there was some post-apocalyptic dystopia, a nightmare world, like in Mad Max or Escape from New York, some place where there are no dentists, where teeth are all black and crooked and drunks and wild men roam the streets, shouting, screaming, pissing everywhere, fighting, all dark and disfuncional, and yeuch? Can you imagine that. And then, at the end of the movie you emerge into Golders Green, or Stamford Hill, maybe Hendon or Brooklyn, and find it filled with ultra-orthodox Jews in black hats and long side curls?
Well last night I had the exact opposite of that. I watched a film about chassidic jews in Jerusalem, the rather brilliant ‘Into the Void’ and came out into the post-apocalyptic dystopia that is Kilburn High Road.
Drunks pissing in doorways, winos shouting their unintelligible rubbish at innocent (that’d be me then) passers by, all was darkness and a nihilistic hellhole of a shitworthily dysfunctional wasteland.
We are quite blessed in my part of London with lovely little art-housy independent movie-houses (because there’s so many pretentious fuckers like me around here who would ‘die for a sub-title’). But sometimes you have to venture a little further out to find what you want to see. And then you have to ask:
What the fuck has happened to Kilburn High Road. Ok, it was never Bond Street, never aspired to Knightsbridge status, but it has just degenerated into the underworld. What they need is a Starbucks; the key to civilisation. The impoverished riff-raff aren’t prepared to spend £9.30 on a super-skinny-soya-latte-mocha-vomichino-with-extra-decaf-shot-and-caramel-zucherinos, even if they knew what the fuck one was. And the yuppies would come flooding to this beacon of yuppiedom and force up house prices so the rabble have to move to… well, probably south London or somewhere befittingly evil.
Anyway, yes, the movie.
Wonderful study of orthodox jewry which is charming, funny, weird, bizarre, odd and heart-warming. Its a kind of un-love story that makes you happy. And I’ll say no more as you’ll all be flooding to Kilburn to see it soon to see it for yourselves. Very soon cos its hardly gonna rival The Frikkin Hobit in the multiplexes.

Ok, off to a funeral.

Not very happy sunday

A xxxx

See that bloke over there? In the gutter? Vomit down his tie; stupid grin stuck on his face; unable to stand; bottle of Asda Special Reserve Vodka (£3.26/litre) in his hand???
Fucking clever that bloke. Really brilliant. Frikkin genius. A psychologist told me.

Because test have shown (yep, more bloody tests, its like the scientific world has nothing better to do… hmmm…) that intelligent people are more likely to be big drinkers than dimbos, dunces, morons or Mormons (don’t drink, do they?). Apparently its because intelligent people are less conservative (where does that leave David Cameron?) and therefore more keen to test new experiences, push the limits of reality, get off their faces totally.

Same with drugs apparently. The bigger stoner you are, the more likely you are to be a genius. Presumably once you’ve stopped watching raindrops roll down the windows for 3 hours, marvelling at the wonders of nature and how everything’s so greeeeen.

So Nigella was right to give her kids cannabis, to force spirits down their teenage throats, to keep them totally fucking wasted at all times, because then they’ll be clever.

So whilst I’m out buying some more wine, I’m going to look for a Christmas present for Kim Jong Un. Last year his uncle bought him a pair of really dodgy socks so Kim had him shot yesterday.

I’m gonna get him an ipad air, a Porsche and a Russian sex slave (slaves-are-Us; special pre-christmas buy-one-get-one-free offer this weekend) and hope that’s sufficient to get his approval. Jesus but that guy is touchy. There’s lots of touchy, over-sensitive, marginally paranoid people around but fortunately most don’t have an army of a million people and the rule of the land behind them.

How can that trumped up fat little shit have the power to have people executed just because he doesn’t like them any more? Fall from favour, eat a bullet. Its just wrong. There again, North Korea is just wrong. All of it. So when esteemed leader and holy one, Kim Jong The Latest decides you’re trying to orchestrate a military coup, you are fucking dead. There’s no trial, no court, no appeal, just a firing squad. After they torture you, apparently. Nice.

Ok, Arsenal play Manchester City in 5 minutes, Spurs face Liverpool tomorrow and neither are being played in Korea. But there is a really good case for giving the players ‘happy hour’ before the game.

Happy (hic) Saturday

A xxxx