Andy's Glasses

Gloria de Piero is a Labour MP. Not to be confused with Alessandro del Piero who was an Italian striker, diver and diva. As they all are. But Gloria was never any of those things. She was a breakfast tv bimbette now an MP for some godforsaken place somewhere in the wilds of Labourland. And its not a matter of her being drop dead gorgeous, cos she ain’t, but any woman in politics who just lacks good old-fashioned plain ugliness is always subjected to a series of terribly patronising question marks. So being on the more attractive side of the the continuum of female physical diversity, she has to justify being where she is. That she is worthy. Not just ‘window-dressing’, not shagging her way to the top, (shagging Ed Milliband? what an horrendous thought, even his wife agrees with that), nor making up the numbers in parliament to upset the Tories who always lack proportional female representation.

So Gloria, ironically the shadow minister for women and equalities, is doing alright.

Until someone found out that she had some photos taken when she was 15 years old and she was topless.

How the fuck did someone find that out? Its almost inconceivable that some scummy journo overheard, found out or dug deep enough to acquire such knowledge. How deep do you have to dig? So they’re now searching for these photos. Can you believe?

Yes, you can believe. Because anything that might possibly discredit any politician is automatically deemed ‘for the public good’. Even though the public (and I feel I can speak for us all on this point) don’t give two shits what Gloria did 25 years ago, nor really even what she did last week after dinner on tuesday.

Others have spoken out, saying how, as well as being illegal to publish such photos if she was only 15, that the whole thing lacks morality as well as any possible relevance. Other than the ‘crimes’ of the past being great ammunition in the tabloid war against any high profile personage who ever smoked a joint when they were 17, was overly friendly with classmates whilst at Eton or mugged a pensioner at gunpoint when being the MP for Stevenage.

No names have been mentioned with who is doing the searching but if I were to be so bold as to hazard a guess, I would be looking for a newspaper with no moral fibre whatsoever, with a rag so vile, so puerile and stupid that it knows no bounds to decency, and probably one that is on the right wing side of politics because its a lefty they’re trying to discredit.

So its the Daily Mail.

My only issue with the inappropriateness of this whole episode is that I’ve always felt that women’s breasts should always be in the public domain. As long as they’re nice ones. Its part of our constitution. Well, it might be if we had one.

Thus if newspapers will insist on meaningless titillation (ooops), and act immorally and pathetically, and stupidly and in a philistine, chauvinistic and immature manner to make a nothing point, can I have a look?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Last night was ‘gay night’ the whole world over. What; you didn’t know? Shameful. There was a choice. You could go and buy Morrissey’s autobiography which came out yesterday and learn all about the whining Mancunian’s sordid little life, all written in an horrendously nasal, adenoidy and northern way, or you could go and see Blue is the Warmest Colour at the Curzon Mayfair.

People often say about a movie; ‘its not as good as the book’, though normally, granted, that’ll be the book about the film, not about something other. Well watching a 3 hour long French movie, with subtitles (for those of ‘you’ insufficient in that beautiful language that you need them), you get both. Its long enough that you could read the bloody book, but movie enough that you’re actually doing both at once. Perfect.

Yet 3 hours. That’s a long film. That’s nearly half of Seven Samurai. Without any swords (literal or euphemistic, as it ‘appens). You really need to be a serious art-house junky or an up-market pervert. And I’m not prepared to be ‘labelled’ by you.

I’d like to state from the start that if I was a French woman I would definitely be a lesbian. French men (other than David Ginola; Spurs and L’Oriel’s finest) are a waste of time and space and are all Gallic and smelly. Whereas French women are divine. All of them.

The film is a love story. A very long and very loving story about a young girl unsure of her sexuality, thus confused, sad and, fortunately for us, prepared to experiment to find her true place in the world. Which was, for quite a long time, between the thighs of another young girl. I would say ‘both are totally babelicious’ but that trivialises it and might detract from the point of the film. It certainly did whilst watching it.

The film became famous because the actresses bemoaned the director for having them spend whole days on set naked, and for sex scenes which, if I’m honest (something I try never to be) transcend ‘plot’ and merge into ‘pornography’. As if that’s some sort of problem. The scenes are so long and so realistic you can actually smell the Gouloises. They don’t need subtitles for the sex scenes because there’s so much flesh on the screen they’d look like tattoos. Its filmed big. And close.

But they don’t show porn at fancy little independent cinemas filled with middle-class film buffs. So you’re safe.

And the movie is emotional. Really emotional. If the eskimos have 50 words for ‘snow’, the French must have 900 expressions for ‘emotion’. We Brits don’t, we have a nice cuppa tea instead. But them Frenchies, wow, do they emote? And in France snot is apparently a significant by-product of emotion.

The film is fantastic. Sadly no guns are involved, no shoot-ups or car chases and very few zombies. But it is very classy, very French, wonderfully elegant and powerfully watchable. Three hours goes by in… in… well, in about 3 hours. But a fantastically gripping 3 hours. The finest accolade for any movie is if Mel stays awake. And she did. Unlike in Pulp Fiction and so many others.

The film is released soon, last night was a London Film Festival gig. But it won’t be shown on Screen 1 of the local multiplex. If you live north of Stanmore it won’t be shown at all. They’ll ban it in Yorkshire altogether.

Its brilliant. And very naughty. And I’m not prepared to say which is more important.

Happy Friday, may your sexuality be assured and your thighs soft yet firm.

A xxxx

I must admit I was a bit upset at not being named Godfather to Prince George. I mean, I watched the wedding, didn’ I? I bought Pippa’s stupid party cookbook. Well, I googled it, same difference. They said it was ‘not fit for toilet paper’ so I saved my money. I’m a real royalist, love Wills and Harry, waved a flag at the telly during all those dreadful 60th anniversary celebrations last year. Well, the concert was alright, but all that sailing down the River in barges in the rain didn’t excite much. And yet not only was I snubbed in the New Year’s honours list, now this. Someone else named as Godfather to ‘our’ baby.

What I expected for my lifetime’s ‘service to the royalty’ was at least a peerage, if not to be given a vast estate with a castle, farmland and sufficient peasants to run the thing, from whom I can fleece taxes to my heart’s content whilst sitting on some kind of a throne in front of an 85” super hi-def LED monster screen flicking channels, being waited on by butlers and footmen and administering local ‘justice’. Floggings. Imprisonment in my own jail cells, hanging. Ahhhh but its not to be. Not this year anyway.

But the problem is that there’s no more proper peerages available. Even on ebay. And those that are there are floundering. Like Tottenham House. Home of the Savernakes, presided over by the Earl of Cardigan. Who is currently living on jobseeker’s allowance. Presumably, when asked what work he is seeking, would reply: “Lord of the Manor”. Ok, we’ll see what we have…

Life is not like Downton Abbey any longer. Not that I’ve ever seen that programme; I’m a Dowtonphobe. But I know what its like; yer regular ‘upstairs/downstairs’ gig with the rich and pompous up top, the cor-blimeys down below and they only meet in the middle for casual sex, maybe the odd rape and to provide excitement and improve tv ratings.

So poor Cardigan who’s wife left him, who’s kids won’t talk to him, can only be described as Royally Fucked. But probably in much more a literal sense than would apply to others.

I blame inbreeding. For decades the aristocracy looked for ‘suitable mates within their class’ to produce the next in line for the estate, the title and to carry the speech impediments down to future generations. So the Earl dies, long live the Earl, and the government take 40% of the value of the estate in death duties. Ahhh. But we only have the estate. No money. Well ya better sell it then, otherwise you’ll go to prison for tax evasion. Oh. But then how can I live there if sell it, I’ll be homeless. Not our problem, (Lord) sonny, you’ll have to get a job. Oh, what’s a ‘job’??

The aristocracy is crumbling. If it wasn’t for the National Trust all our stately homes would be scooped up by Galliard Homes and converted into brilliant, buy-to-let apartments (guaranteeing 14% yield!!!) or mult-storey car parks.

Sometimes its a blessing to be lower class scum.

‘ave an ever so ‘umble Fursday

A xxxx

There’s a picture in the paper today of Valerie Trierweiler, the First Lady of France, or perhaps the First Mistress, as she hasn’t actually married Monsieur le President, and is unlikely to because he’s a silly little homme. She’s in Soweto, patronising a bunch of local kids. Sorry, I mean ‘visiting’ a bunch of kids. Obviously. Just a slip of perception there. And she looks lovely. A very attractive woman indeed. And, according to wikepedia, she’s 48, which probably means she’s 54 (well you do get to edit wikepedia yourself, so why not?). Yet she has ‘that French way’ about her that is elegant and rather sexy. And somewhat natural. Unlike any American contemporary, Valerie will actually be seen in public with wrinkles round her eyes. The shame of it. She probably has unshaved armpits too. Which Americans can’t have because once all that ‘work’ gets underway the skin gets pulled around in such a way that it all starts to be dragged back north and last week’s underarms become todays sideburns. Which is not a great look sans shavage.

So the question is, are good looking women attracted to French presidents who don’t appear to have a lot going for them, (Sarkozy??) or do you just get given one with the job, the house, the car and all the other perks? Or is it compensation for France’s appalling recent record at international football?

Ok, Mnsr Prez, your team will not survive the first week of any major tournament but you get the babe of your choice?

The film that won the Palme D’or in Cannes this year was French. Its called Blue Lesbians. Well, that’s what I call it. Because the word blue is in the title somewhere and its famously about a lesbian love affair. And I’m going to see it tomorrow as its previewing as part of the London Film Festival. And its in French and I’m a pretentious fucker so that’s just about a perfect match. And the lesbians in question are rather gorgeous and rather French. I’ll keep you posted.

Syria, in case you’ve been asleep for 2 years, is a seriously fucked up place. Awful. Horrific. Whole towns are under government siege because they are ‘rebel held’ (if anyone other than Bashar Assad can work out who is on who’s side any more) and they’re running out of food. There’s no question of ‘compassion’ there. There is no word in Syrian for ‘compassion’. There’s a similar word but it actually translates as ‘gas the fuckers’. And because of Mulsim food restrictions, there’s less to eat than perhaps for other populations. So some clerics there have decided to lift the ban on non-halal meat, so the people can eat dogs and cats and donkeys. Which is otherwise known as ‘opening a kebab shop’. Not great news for the dogs, cats and donkeys, but you can’t starve a population of people. Apparently you can shoot them, bomb them and kill them with chemical weapons, but starvation is out of the question. I despair.

Happy Wednesday, we’re in the World Cup Finals.

A xxxx

I’m sleeping badly. Wake up with that NNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOO… thought in my head, which is aching. I’m listless, a bit shaky, disorientated, flustered, nervous, irritable. The world is a little off-axis. And there’s no cure.

Well, not until Saturday.

It always happens when there’s no ‘proper’ football. No Premiership football. Just poxy internationals. They’re not the same. They’re emphatically different. Even when I can bathe in the reflected glory of Andros Townsend’s new role as ‘national hero’, its just not right. Its lacking.

Oh, you say, that’s really childish and superficial and immature, to be so obsessed with a stupid game whilst the world is in crisis.

Well you can just fuck off. It may be a stupid game but its my stupid game and it needs to be played so I can enjoy or endure, so I can reach the highs of victory, the lows of defeat, the energy, the passion, the rivalry, the glory, and all the sweets I get to eat during games.

Internationals don’t do it for me. They used to. Then they let John Terry play for England when really he should have been the captain of Scumland, and it all went away.

I can get snippets of pleasure. A great goal, a fab performance by a Spurs player (for any country) or a nasty, horrid comment by Wojciech Szczesny, the Arsenal goalie who, when he represents (the absolute worst of) Poland and makes horrible anti-English comments, I’m actually allowed, on a national scale, to hate publicly.

Last weekend was hell.

I watched some amazing rugby, but it left me hollow. I turned on the NFL, in sheer desperation of needing to watch team sports involving balls, even weird shaped ones, I played tennis (right shaped balls, wrong size, insufficient player numbers). I even listened at one point to the Formula 1 on the radio. But its really not a great radio event. Sounds like this: VRRROOOOOOOMMMM… NEEEEYYYAAAAAAAAAHHHHH… really exciting. “AND VETTEL’S GONE ROUND THAT BEND… AND SO HAS HAMILTON…” They have to shout over all the vrooms.

So I read my book instead. Not so easy when you’re driving to the shops, I grant you, but on straight roads…

And the new Stephen King book eased my pain a little. Took me to another place temporarily. Ok, its a place with ghosts and ghouls and torture and horror, which in fact reminds me of Polish goalkeepers. And I think Spurs fans relate well to horror, because that’s generally what we get down The Lane. Horror. Well, we did last time we played there.

Much like Arsenal fans do well with terrorists and other types of evil people. Like Litvinenko’s murderer, who’d visited the Emirates and left traces of his radioactive isotopes for the other fans to enjoy. Osama bin Laden was a Gooner.

Whereas Chelsea fans eat babies. Commonly known fact.

So now we just have a few more days to wait. Just a few.

England play tonight and I wish I could get excited but it just won’t come. I’m internationally impotent. So I shall, instead of watching the game, go to Tai Chi and hit some people really hard with big sticks.

One takes pleasure where one can.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Twerking, in case you were wondering, is a form of artistic expression. Female artistic expression generally but I don’t think its one of those gender exclusive things like throwing a ball or parking a car or ironing a shirt or having a greater than 1 in 250 chance of chairing a Footsie 100 company. But as it involves the jiggling, gyrating, rotating, thrusting and wiggling of buttocks its generally not something most men are properly equipped for. Though we often have a family twerk after dinner on friday nights, in the kitchen. Just the family, maybe a couple of friends, and my dad comes over too so he’ll have a go too. Even though he’s 88 and retwired years ago. A twerkers collective.

Anyone can do it. Not just Miley fucking Cirus. Nor Rhianna.

And we don’t mind twerking. The Goddess Beyonce has been doing it for years and other than dribbling over the tv, its caused very little social unrest or civil wars. Its dancing. What’s the problem? Why all the fuss??

Because Annie Lennox, frosty Scottish tart with a voice like an angel, (playing with my heart; di do di do di do di dooooo diiiii dooo…) has criticised Miley for being a poor role model for her (Annie’s) children. She’s worried her 7 year old will start twerking up against little Billy Bashful’s groin in Quiet Time and have to sit in the Naughty Corner. Or the Twerky Corner, as its now referred.

But that’s because Annie was probably raised in that fiercely protestant Scottish Presbyterian manner which inhibited things like twerking. And smiling. And decent goalkeeping. Whereas now children aren’t raised by the church, they’re raised by tv. Worse in America than here. And the Disney channel has much to answer for.

Its called Britney Syndrome. In which a teeny star renowned for being cutesy and sacchariney and bunchy-haired and killer-smiley by aaaallllllll of America, reaches 16 and turns into a drug-crazed whore. Overnight. There is no cure. Even shaving their head can’t help the afflicted. One day its the Mickey Mouse Club the next its Hit me Baby one more Ti-ime. And the Toxic video in which she simulates shagging everyone on a flight. Great video. Sorry, disgraceful video.

From sweet starlet to sleazy harlot. The metamorphosis is complete.

Miley was Hannah Montana. A really sweet (sickening) little girl, feisty (precocious) and ‘smart’ (gobby). People loved her. Others wanted to wipe that perpetual grin off…

Anyway. Hannah was sweet, they’re all fucking sweet, and sang songs with her daddy and it was yet another American dream. Then she reached 18 and decided it was time to start sticking her ass out at every opportunity. Who can blame her? Its something all of us have wanted to do, Miley was just being honest with herself. Her twerky self. Oh, and taking her clothes off all the time as well.

Some call it pornography (that’d be Annie Lennox) others call it ‘empowerment’ and ‘control of their own bodies’ (that’d be the record companies desperate to sell more vinyl/downloads/cds, to which end any publicity is good publicity.)

To re-write an old joke just for Annie; (MUST be read in a scottish accent): what’s the difference between MTV and Walt Disney? MTV make pornographic videos and Walt Disney.

Happy twerking day

A xxxx

My body’s a temple. And by all rights should actually look like one. Squat, solid, hefty, round and bulbous. But it doesn’t. I look like a god. Or a dog. Or any anagram of those three letters. By virtue of fortuitous genes, a high metabolism or both. Or that the medical profession are a lying bunch of delusional scare-mongering pseudo-nutritionist tossers intent on depriving humanity of one of its very few true pleasures: food. Or, more precisely (of this week’s special health-scare offer): sugar.

Some Aussie (how fucking typical is that, then?) has written a book saying that sugar will kill ya. Yeah, if you hit someone over the head with a bag of it, sure. But he’s saying it’ll kill you by eating it. And if not exactly kill you outright, will ruin your life, adversely affect your children’s health, wellbeing, education, blah, blah, blah, and leave everyone fat slow and lethargic. As if that’s a bad thing. What better state for a generation intent on never looking any farther than the nearest screen (usually held in the hand for easy access and viewing) than to be rendered immobile. Keeps them focussed. Stops them wriggling round.

My first thought, when hearing of this heresy, and being a spiritual and G-d-fearing type, was ‘well, He wouldn’t have created sugar if it was bad for us, would He???’

Then I learned that He in fact didn’t. It was created in the 1970s by some farmers in Iowa or Kentucky or somewhere flat, cornish and so deadly boring that they have to invent stuff all the time just to keep from falling asleep. So they invented fructose syrup, from maize. God did the other one, glucose. But we love fructose because they put it in everything and we’re all addicted to it.

But the Aussie (bastard)’s point is not that we heap sugar in our tea (“yeah, 5 sugars in mine, ta very much”) or eat sugar in known things, like… er… sugar and cakes and sweets, but that this evil substance is in everything in vast quantities. Breakfast cereals are loaded with it, ketchup is full of it, salad dressings, bagels (of all things), and lots of stuff we regularly eat unaware that its massively laden with fructose.

And fructose is bad. Aussie Boy said so. Did lots of study and probably used lots of statistics to ‘prove’ that sugar is everywhere and very bad. Except in his house where there is absolutely none. So don’t bother going round there for tea.

You can prove anything with statistics. Well, you can 93% of the time. I’ve dabbled in the dark art of mathematical manipulation myself on occasion. The Andy Formula.

Football team supported x birthweight in kg x number of siblings called Mary/ proximity to Arsenal Football ground + (alchohol units consumed per week)squared = The bastard factor.

Anyway. We can’t eat fats any more. Well, poly-saturated unsaturated ones are ok, unsaturated-poly-saturated ones will kill you dead. So best be safe. And if they take away sugar as well then McDonalds will have nothing left to sell but salt.

You should do what I do and follow the Cadbury’s diet. It works. All the chocolate you can cram into your face every day and you’ll lead a healthy, happy life.

They’ll be telling us soon that exercise is bad for us. Or smoking, cocaine, crystal meth. Trust me, they know nothing but just make it up as they go along.

Slap a doctor today,

happy very very wet Sunday

A xxxx

“and now here is the weather, sponsored by Anne Summers…”

How can you sponsor the weather? What; do you arrange raindrops to land with ‘E-on’ logos on them, or shaped like Kellogs products? Wind that smells of Cadbury’s chocolate (ahhhh, if only), sunshine by RayBan.

Oh, they mean the weather ‘report’ that’s sponsored, oh, that’s different.

Though untrustworthy.

Because outside interests are at hand. The weather reporting is thus less reliable because those sponsors want their payback. Which is why bastard energy providers like E-on sponsor it. “There will be strong winds in Beckenham with temperatures dropping to…” The residents are already up, out the room and hiking the thermostat to ‘greenhouse, suffocation’ levels, like Mel does. Spewing extra heat out through the rafters to destroy the local trees and wildlife whilst condemning the ozone layer to more depletion as the power houses throw an extra lump of coal in the furnace and their accountants start looking through the new Jaguar brochures.

The BBC don’t have sponsored weather. They have real, old-fashioned, proper weather. Pre-war weather. Pea-soupers and ‘a bit icy for Mr Milkman in the morrow’ kind of weather. And I like it. I trust it. Independent weather. None of this ‘dildo-shaped’ sleet from Auntie Beeb. Just weather, like it is, like it will be. Which is why I always watch the news and weather on BBC.

Except last night. Due to unforeseen circumstances (a football match; Andros Townsend is the new God; all previous England number 7s to be wiped from memory as historical irrelevances) I watched the news on ITV. And the weather. Which said about Saturday morning: shit, wet, rain, total rubbish, no fucking tennis, black cloud, storms, rain and more rain.

Oh no, I thought, bummer.

Then I checked on the BBC website and its said: rain stopping by 7, brighter, bit cloudy.

This morning was wonderful. Sunny, bright and perfect for tennis.

So bollocks to the sponsors.

Meanwhile, great news for all men. Its here, what we’ve been waiting for all our lives. Man make-up. Brilliant. Surely we’ve had that before? Zero to total bankruptcy in 22 days. Rubbish idea.

Ahhh, but this is special, this is different, this is…

by Tom Ford!!!!

Wow.

Its not just the actual make up we don’t need, its more another process we can do without. Make up takes time. Trust me on that. Application of all that shit, slapping it on with a trowel, painting it all orange, it takes fucking ages. Ahhhh but this is different. This is Tom Ford. Its subtle. A discrete ‘cover-up’, moisturising lip balm, delicate eye shadow.

They’ve basically decided that although men need make up like women need more knuckle-dusters, its an untapped market. Which, if it can be created, will be worth trillions. So wheel in Tommy F, the straight-man’s gay man, and make it sound not only ‘must have’ but a bit butch.

I’m sorry, unless its in green and brown and used for the invasion of middle-east countries, make up on men is strictly for drag queens and new Romantics (if there’s a difference).

Happy cynical Caturday

A xxxx

Stephen King changed my life.

Though not necessarily in a good way. Depends what you mean by ‘good’ I suppose. If you mean scared of the dark, frightened of shadows, alarmed by noises at the windows, wetting the bed and freaking out when you hear the words ‘Here’s Johnny!!’, then its good. Otherwise, ‘paranoid neurotic’ may be a better expression to choose.

And yet… and yet… I am his biggest fan. Not like the woman in Misery was that character’s biggest fan. No. Not in a psychotic, murderous way, just in more of a, kind of, ‘I like his books’ sort of way. In a more Shawshank kind of a way, less of a Carrie.

Me mate Dom threw a book at me a  hundred years ago when I had nought to read. It was Firestarter by The King. And it rocked. And rolled. It made a shit film (in common with many big screen adaptations of his work) but was in fact quite brilliant. So I read more. And on, and on. And now, 30-some years later, he’s still writing ’em and I’m still readin’ ’em.

There’s very few authors that I’ll download onto my Kindle ‘in hardback’. The Kindle’s back is always hard. Until you drop it in the bath. That softened it for Mel. Or onto the platform at Farringdon station; wasn’t so hard then either. But downloading ‘hardbacks’ is folly. Its stupid. Its the same words, the same everything as when you download it once the paperback version arrives, but twice the price. Though much earlier, and for Stephen King, I don’t wait. Damn the expense. The extra £4.27p is worth it. I’ll eat less for a month.

After his early horror books, they changed. They kept their slightly psychic edge, their sometime supernaturally, paranormally unusualness but they lost the horror. When I read ‘Salem’s’ Lot’ I was a fucking wreck. But ‘vampires scratching their fingernails across a balconyless window 60 feet above’ ground will do that to a man. When Mel read Pet Semetery she spent three weeks in morbid fear of resurrected bunny rabbits. And although The Shining is widely accepted as a great movie, it was a way better book. The great man himself hated that movie because the characters lost all their warmth going from the page to the screen via Stanley Kubrick’s mind. Though most of the characters were ghosts, ghouls and undead anyway so ‘warm’ may be a slightly inappropriate adjective.

So when people hear ‘Stephen King’ they think horror and death, zombies and rabid dogs. Even though the aforementioned Shawshank and the wonderful Stand by Me (written as ‘The Body’) were not in that genre at all and are universally loved and highly rated, but mainly due to their movies.

Now the man has written a sequel to The Shining. Called Doctor Sleep. And its not only fantastic but its a return to the real chilly stuff. The stuff of nightmare stuff. And I’m reading it and its a little whoooooo and a touch wheeeey and is filled with such evil that a trip to Stamford Bridge would currently feel like a pleasant afternoon at a football match. But only in comparison to being eaten alive by monsters.

So have a good friday,

and DON’T TURN THE LIGHTS OUT!!!!

A xxxx

yeah, but will it win any football matches?

I suppose it depends what you consider as ‘English’.

Jack Wilshire, little English Bulldog, terrier-type Arsenal (so we should check for rabies) philosopher, summed it up rather succinctly when he stated that ‘only English people is English and to play for England ya gorra be English. Innit.’ Or words to that effect.

And he implied that only those born within this sceptered isle should be available for selection to the England football team.

Which is never really what this country is all about. We are multi-cultural, we have immigrants from everywhere, we have a rich and varied cultural blend and thus a team full of Johnny Cockneys would not really adequately represent this nation.

Personally, I don’t care where players were born, in terms of availability for England selection but more where they live now. Is someone from Yorkshire really English? From Chester? Norwich??? From Berkshire?? Is that even IN England?

So Adnan Januzaj (who no-one had ever heard of before he played on Saturday and scored 2 goals for Manchester United) is apparently eligible to play for my country. He was born in Kosovo, has Turkish-Albanian parents and the only two words he can speak in English are ‘Range’ and ‘Rover’.

But let’s look at it from a different perspective. If you need an extension building on your house, who do you call? Billy Bricklayer from Dagenham who’ll turn up three weeks late, then go off on his holidays, take 14 tea breaks a day and leave you with a pile of rubble after the works have all collapsed? Or Petr the Pole who is industrious, hard-working and does a top quality job for half the price?

If players are good we should not burden ourselves unnecessarily on minor details and technicalities. In case no-one had noticed, the England football team ain’t that bloody good.

The rugby team worked this out years ago. Which is why half the British Lions tour team which was so successful in Australia are from South Africa, Samoa and Fiji. Not that anyone would doubt the Englishness of Manu Tuilagi. Not to his face, anyway.

Our cricket team, so brilliant in the Ashes tests, is also prepared to stretch borders to increase the potential player pool. So why not football?

We should consult Tommy Robinson. The ex-head of the English Defence League. Not the one who sang ‘glad to be gay’. Or maybe its the same one? Who knows?? Anyway, Tommy has resigned his ‘prestigious’ post as top nazi in the land because of his former organisation’s ‘tendency towards right wing violence’. Like, Doh. A bit like Hitler resigning as German chancellor because it was a bit too Aryan. But Tommy had views about who is English and who is not and, now he’s left that group of vile thugs, should be consulted.

Lionel Messi should be kept prisoner here for 5 years. Then he could play for us.

You have to think outside the box. Rather than diving into it like a dying fucking swan.

Happy thursday

A xxxx