Andy's Glasses

We won, we won, we bloody won. There’s dancing in the streets all over the world today.

I love Villa Park (read: total shit-hole) and wish we could play there every week. I wasn’t there yesterday, though I’ve been there before and they stick away fans in a little cauldron under the ground and beat them with sticks and pour boiling scorn upon them, then you come out into a ground that was really something quite special in 1972 but now is so much faded Brummie wasteland ready for demolition. I suppose that’s why its still ‘Villa Park’ and hasn’t been gobbled up into the corporate marketing machine and re-branded as ‘The KFC’ or ‘Mothercare Park’ or even ‘The Bull Ring Balti Arena’.

So in strutted Spurs, all clean and white and weighing in at just about £657 million as half their new signings, the really expensive ones, weren’t playing. But those who were looked gorgeous and shiny and bright, whereas the Villa crew all had crooked black teeth and tattoos on their faces and prosthetic limbs. And they smelled funny. You could tell. Even on the tv. That’s really HD.

There were some serious questions asked during the game.

Are Spurs really G-d’s own team? I think that one was answered emphatically.

Does Andros Townsend really walk on water? And does that make drinking rather difficult? Or a bit dirty??

And best of all, from a nash-null perspective, England have finally, after 37 years, since Chris Waddle, since Nobby Wilkinshaw wore the number 11 in 1863, they’ve finally solved ‘that left side problem’. Converting Ryan Giggs to ‘English’ was never likely to happen and almost my entire adult life England have lacked a true left winger. And now, up steps Andros, fast, skilful and left-footed.

So what do they do? They play him on the right. Go figure.

And so the match wasn’t the prettiest. Villa weren’t good for much and Spurs, although having 98% of possession in the first half, really didn’t seem to know what to do with it. Like they’d won the lottery and didn’t know what to buy. Some brilliant passing moves, but mainly between the back four. So there are still ‘issues’ to resolve, still troublesome niggles that a better team than Villa would have exposed.

And yet…

and yet…

and yet…

we won. Free points is free points. No matter how, now matter where. Even in Birmingham. The end justifies the means. To the victor the spoils. A sleeping snake is more dangerous than a waking tiger (old Tai Chi philosophy that I just made up). The pen is mightier than the Range Rover. And much easier to write with.

So bring on Hull; bring ‘em all. I think we’re ready. Aren’t we??

At least Andros Townsend seems ready.

Happy monday

A xxxx

When you go to Melbourne they warn you: weather’s wierd, you get 4 seasons in one day. We had: summer, summer, summer and summer. All four. Most fab weather ever. Whingeing Aussies; they simply don’t appreciate what they’ve got.

Whereas here this morning we had almost four plagues. The first being flooding. Holy shit but did it rain. Woke me up. Torrential. That’s depressing. Outdoor tennis in the rain is not exactly one of life’s pleasures. In fact its not even played cos its horrid.

So I read the papers. And there was plague number 2. Arsenal beat Norwich City yesterday. And the reports were all aglow with superlatives and gushing in how even more beautiful than beautiful the game is when played in that manner. I almost threw up last night’s Indian. Saw a picture of Jack Wilshire, who seems to celebrate every day with a new tattoo. He’s running out of arms. Soon it’ll be his legs, neck, hands and eyeballs. He’s turning into Lydia (oh Lydia, that incyclopidia)  the tattooed lady. Or maybe just another Beckham. Without the style.

But then the rains stopped. Halleluyah. And the clouds parted. And then… and then… the sun shone. At 15 minutes to tennis.

I am truly blessed.

I may not be the world’s best tennis player. But I’m quick. No skill. Lots of speed. And it works. If you’re there early you can play any shot. Normally. But not today. I was sluggish. Arriving late, playing off balance. Not great. It was as if I was playing whilst filled with a curried lamb shank inside me, rice, naan bread, samosas, pakoras, several bhajis and half a gallon of Cobra beer.

Funny how that happens.

I’m very saddened by football. Its depressing. I haven’t got over the West Ham game and I don’t know that I ever will. And that it was consolidated by the two week hiatus. I hate international breaks.

Spurs currently lie 7th in the table. Frikkin 7th. When we were right up there at the pointed end sitting pretty and looking super. If we win today we overtake Southampton. That sentence alone is sufficient to send me to tears. If we win by 11 goals we go 4th. Arsenal are top. Chelsea won by cheating. Manchester City won because they’re horrible. Only Manchester United continue in indifferent form, drawing at home to (that same frikkin) Southampton. Liverpool don’t count. No-one else matters.

Though things appear to be looking up. I received a speeding ticket on Friday. From our weekend in Wales. I was amazed it was only 1. Though I may ask for numerous other crimes to be taken into account. They like that sort of thing. ‘Sorry I was going too fast, yer honour, I didn’t see the sign saying 50 because I’d spilled my can of lager and was rummaging for another’.

Happy sunday

but only if we win

Come on you Spurs

A xxxx

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