Andy's Glasses

There was never a doubt in my mind about yesterday’s game. I was brimming with confidence, I was cool and calm and relaxed in my confidence in team and especially, in our manager.

(Any impressions given yesterday to the contrary were typos).

Because ‘in Ange we trust’. Oh. My. God. But do we trust. Even after that most horrible of first halves, he kept on message. The Ange message. The only one he ever gives. ‘Attack!’ You’re playing Manchester City at the Etihad and half your team are missing: take a ridiculously high line and attack. And in a quite wonderful second half, it just all paid off. As our constant pressure, coupled with their somewhat diminished approach in that half, paid off not once but twice. It felt like a win at 3-3 and it also felt like a total vindication of Ange’s methodology, the one which is pretty much the stated envy of every manager in the league, Pep included.

But then. At the ‘death’ of the game, in the dying minutes of added time, as so often happens for us at Man City, God stepped in to ensure that His team came away with the point they so deserved. The point which every football lover wanted them to keep.

Haaland was fouled, City were in possession, in attack, so the ref, rightly, waved the game to play on. Haaland got up, played an amazing through ball which took out 3 Spurs defenders and left Slightly Obnoxious Jack Grealish free on goal with just the keeper to beat. And… and… and the ref then blew for the free-kick, stopping play.

Why?

I’ll tell you why. Because he’s a good person who believes in right and wrong and the sort of morality that doesn’t want Manchester City to win games. Particularly against Spurs. And he was prepared to prostrate himself before the brutal court of public opinion, which comprises ignorant pundits, ill-informed media-men and professionally complaining commentators, in order that God was served and the right result was achieved.

So yes, his decision was ‘wrong’, but only in, like, a ‘footballing’ sense. Only in a, sort of, ‘against all rules of football and logic’, way. In the ‘broader picture’ of life, the heavens, worldwide conflict and downright HUMAN DECENCY!!!, he was right on the money.

And we had a totally brilliant game of football, negligibly interruped by the dreaded, cursed VAR. You don’t get many like that.

I consider it an honour and privilege to have watched it and NOT castigated the referee.

Very happy, if slightly relieved, Monday

A xxxx

I’m writing this at 5.40 in the afternoon. Just after the restart of the Spurs match at Manchester City. Because my sense of impending doom, of foreboding, my sense that all is not quite right in the world, is massive. And is definitely not improved by watching the tv. In fact, it’s quite depressing. We’re 2-1 down but it could be so much worse. And I can’t help worrying that it’s going to get worse. So I’m writing this instead. To distract. To try and avoid the inevitable. Even though my eyes keep drifting over the screen.

The good news is that I managed to play 50 minutes of tennis before getting rained off the court, whereas according to the weather forecast, the chances of starting play were less than 10%. So one must only deduce that weather forecasts are total bollocks and speculation and thus must wonder why I put so much stock into what they say.

And then I look up at the screen and WE SCORE!!!! It’s 2 all. My spirits lift, football once again changes from being the cynical plaything of sports-washing Arab oil barons, to become the beautiful game, played by beautiful people, in a world full of flowers and baby lambs (like, frolicking, not in the kebab shop).

Otherwise I was going to abandon this and watch the new series of Slow Horses. On Apple TV. Firstly because the first two series are the best thing ever filmed (I’m a victim of hyperbole on occasion but this time I really mean it!!! Like every other time) and secondly because my free 6-months of Apple TV expire in 5 days time. And even though £6.99 for 6 or 8 episodes of Gary Oldman’s brilliance is a bargain, it still irks a bit. I mean, did those bastards at Apple wait specifically until one week before my time was up before screening the only thing I ever want to watch on their poxy channel? Other than Lessons in Chemistry, which is the second best thing ever filmed ever.

The problem being that I’m currently reading Slow Horses 4 and the tv one is 3. And if I start watching, I’ll get them confused. So I can’t really start watching until the book’s done.

Meanwhile, I glanced up again on for Jack fucking Grealish to put City 3-2 ahead. Just 10 minutes to go… what should I do… where should I go… Don’t make me watch it!!! It hurts.

– Sunday

A xxxx

I’m not sure what amuses me more; holding the COP 28 global warming summit in Dubai, or having the UN Human Rights convention in Iran. It’s like having a Love and Peace weekend in Millwall. Or a Michelin Star Meeting in McDonalds. A Stamp Out Money Laundering campaign at the Etihad. A World Transparency Event in Wuhan.

But that’s all part of the ‘inclusivity’ which cynical people, like YOU, view as some form of -washing. Trying to sanitise your evil practices by holding a meeting which condemns them. Carbon-washing by the UAE, morality-washing by the nation which murders young women for failing to tie a head scarf in the right place. Though the United Nations lost the plot many decades ago and, hopefully, will soon just become so un-funded that it will simply disappear up its own ridiculously prejudiced and biased brand of international insanity and hypocrisy.

Well that’s sorted the UN out.

Over here we have our own brand of stupidity. It’s called ‘the Covid Inquiry’ and is being held in a courtroom right near you! And is possibly the only venue around which produces more expletives per hundred words than I do. Because, as we all know, you can’t govern without profanity and when you’re governing during a pandemic, it all goes right through the fucking roof.

We’re all clever after the event. ‘Monday morning quaterbacking’ is never a good position to adopt. Basically, they’re paying a dozen top lawyers to ask one question: knowing what you know now, would you have done what you did then?

The answer to which is: whatever answer I give now, will it change what happened then?

What we already knew:
Boris Johnson is a tosser. Not news. But also, possibly, the absolutely worst kind of tosser to be in charge during a national disaster.
Dominic Cummings was and is a very dangerous, toxic and destructive person to have around, let alone to have in almost total power over events.
Matt Hancock is a hapless, hopeless lightweight, fit only for grabbing bums and eating slugs in jungles.
And the overriding fact that whatever course of action occurred in the pandemic was going to be ‘wrong’. It was wrong then and, in hindsight, it’s even more wrong.

Because there was no ‘right’. And if there was, we have no idea of knowing how ‘right’ it would have been. And is ‘right’ just judged in protecting from deaths? Or is ‘right’ also considering the economy and the mental health of the entire nation but especially the kids?

So why bother. The ridiculous cost of the inquiry could fund a hospital for a year. Could pay for 1000 one-way flights to Rwanda. Could buy Spurs another midfielder until Madison is fit again.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Things change. Evolve. Metamorphosise. Its the nature of things.

We used to have the dreaded Lyme’s Disease. Get bitten by a tic and you’ll suffer, bit like flu, bit of pain, and up to 6 months when you might have difficulty thinking. Which is why the condition evolved into Lime’s Disease. In which this lack of thinking causes sufferers to leave their electric rental bikes all over the fucking place. Blocking paths. Blocking pavements, roads, driveways, shopfronts, anywhere. Rent a Lime bike; dump it wherever you want. You’re struggling with thought processes, so just don’t bother. Such things like ‘decency’ and ‘consideration’ and ‘not being a total wanker’ are for people with less befuddled minds.

Then there’s miles. As I’ve mentioned previously, us drivers of electric vehicles, we smug, sneering planet savers who accuse COP28 of being ‘blah, blah, blah’ and who are allowed to criticise the chairman there of being a ‘fucking hypocritical nob!!’ just because he happens to be the chairman of an oil producing company too, when he’s not being an eco-warrior, we have a different concept of ‘miles’ to the rest of you dolphin-murdering petrol-heads. On Wednesday night our EV showed 140 miles. 24 hours later, having driven possibly 20 miles, it was showing 32 left. Which changed, as the temperature dropped, to 16. What? Your ‘miles’ don’t change with the thermometer??? You total dinosaur!! Anyway, plugged the car in and went to bed.

To find this morning, we had… 16 miles on the car and a ‘charge interrupted’ notice. Interrupted by whom? I wished to know but who would you ask? The car?? And the car wouldn’t charge. And what use is an electric vehicle which won’t electrify?

Never mind, Kamil’s coming to change the thermostat on the bath. The whole room was replaced 6 months ago and yet you can’t make the bathwater colder. Without a mallet and strong pair of pliers. So they sent a new thermostat, and our boy said, just 10 minutes and he’s turning off the water.

Though as it happened, not all of the water as, following the screams in Polish, I found him with both hands against the opening in the wall, from which Niagara Falls was coming, at the speed and force of my high pressure hose. And I’m guessing that’s not right.

5 minutes, 326 gallons of water, one wet Pole and three changes of clothes later and everything was great. Except the car, obviously, but can’t blame that on the bathroom.

Happy days

A xxxx

Last night I had the (thankfully) rare priviledge of putting Lila and Joey to bed. It wasn’t the plan. I was coming round so mum could pop out for an hour, after bedtime. She didn’t tell them because they’d get excited. Not because they’re seeing me, no one wants that, but because I would be the cause of their excitement. It’s what I do. What I’m supposed to do. Grandparental duty. Chase them round the lounge, dangle them by their feet and swing them, tickle them mercilessly, it’s all the ‘grandad handbook’. But, ok, not necessarily at bedtime. So I was a secret. Shhhhhh…

But as I crept in they were both at the top of the stairs waiting. However: I was warned: DON’T GET THEM EXCITED!!! My daughter’s always been much much stricter with me than I ever was with her. Though there’s a fair argument that I need it more.

Anyway, we played: oh so gently and quietly and still-ish. And we were calm and tranquil and we barely had any fights which involved screeching or excessive blood. So to bed. Lila jumps in with her t-shirts (one of mummy’s, one of daddy’s, I offered her one of mine and she said she’d use it to clean the windows), and a lovely soft, cuddly panda, and we kiss goodnight.

Joey clambers under the sheets, taking his essentials: about 14 muslins and… an axe. Ok, it’s plastic and only about 18 inches long with a bright orange head. But an axe? I mean, really?? I’m used to seeing Joey in bed with toy cranes, lorries, buses, dumper trucks and so much plastic (sorry, Greta) that there’s no room for his little body. But an axe is different. As he closes his eyes holding it closely, lovingly to his chest. An axe shows intent. It shows a mindset.

I checked online. The preferred bedtime toys of Fred West. Ted Bundy. Jack the Ripper. Peter Sutcliffe. All went to bed with axes. Probably.

This photo shows Lila exactly 6 years ago, according to whatever oh-so-clever phone or app or whatever reminds you of such things. But it’s so wonderful I had to use it.

Happy, slightly concerned Thursday

A xxxx

Is there anyone in the entire fucking world, other than Rishi Sunak and Kyriakos Mitsotakis (Greek PM) who really gives a shit about the Elgin Marbles? Or the Parthenon Porcelain or the Crumbling Concrete, or whatever you choose to call them? Because I don’t. But, I really don’t. And I have seen them. You can’t miss them when you go to the British Museum. Which generally you do to see something else and just kind of stumble across these most highly contentious old lumps of stone en route to the purpose of your visit.

Lord Elgin basically went to then Ottoman controlled Greece in 1807 and knew a ‘good little earner’ when he saw a bunch of old statues and stones in the Parthenon in Athens. So rather than wait for the marauding Turks to smash them in one of their drunken rages of rape and pillage, he basically stole them. Ok, he alleged that he had permission from the Turks to ship them to England ‘to protect them’, but there’s never been proof of that. They’ve held inquiries, they’ve done loads of research but the cctv in pre-Victorian Athens was really shit. In fact it was a man called Theasophelos who sat on the street corner with a sketch book. Thus did Lord Elgin shift about 4 tons of Greek stone relics to London. Not to ‘give to England to look after’, nor to ‘be viewed by all of our people’, but to house in his private collection. Which he later sold to the government. Who probably parted with some serious wedge to get a bunch of old rubble.

And the Greeks want them back. But for some reason, Rishi is rather unnaturally attached to the marbles. To such an extent that, knowing what the discussion was to be on Monday morning, he cancelled the scheduled visit by Mr Mitsotakis for ‘coffee and cake’ at 10 Downing Street. Which, in the world of diplomatic protocols, is a slap in the face. With a wet flannel. Mr Mitsotakis had to go to Starbucks and buy his own coffee and cake and was most unhappy that he had to fork out £7.47 from the Greek national purse, and the cake was a bit dry.

The obvious action is to ‘share’ the marbles, I mean shipping them back and forth is no trouble at all, I’ll drive. But our two fine (?) nations have no trust in each other that they’d ever get them back. Creating a bit of an impasse. So Rishi bottled out of facing the Greek demanding gifts, rather than bearing them. Although Kier Starmer is happy to let them go. Does he not realise what they mean to ME!!!!

There is death in the world. There are wars. There are serious economic issues at home. There needs to be a proper debate about VAR. And its fucking freezing. So to repeat:

WHO CARES ABOUT THE ELGIN FUCKING MARBLES???

(Today’s pic is there because it is wonderful. No ‘meaning’, no ‘message’, just a polar bear. Probably the one I saved when the electric car arrived)

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I don’t read the Daily Telegraph. Because I don’t wear a tie. Haven’t worn one since the elder daughter was married, 10 years ago. Might do a black tie if absolutely pressed, but it’ll stay on for the first 7 minutes only before I rip it off, gagging for breath. But you need to wear a tie to read the Telegraph. Men, obviously. (No-one who ‘identifies’ as anything whatsoever would ever pick up that paper). Women have to be wearing a twin set and their hair must be appropriately ‘neat and tidy’. Because the ‘Torygraph’ as it was once known, appeals to a certain demographic. You can’t even buy it north of Bedford, there’s just no market for it. It’s strictly the Home Counties and certain parts of London. They burn it in Islington, use it for wrapping chips only in Brixton, it makes good insulation for the children in Peckham, under their coats. And you’re not allowed to buy it without ID showing you’re over 80, either chronologically or ideologically.

But still, it’s a paper, an old one, a dignified one, and it is a bastion of the British White. Sorry, the British Right. Not, like ‘far right’, it’s not for the Tommy Robinsons of this world, if any of them can actually read. It’s for crusty middle class Tories of a certain vintage. It’s for people who drive Jaguars and Land Rovers (because Range Rovers are ‘vulgar’), it’s for people who fine dine and shop at Dalesford Farm. I hate to invoke stereotypes, but they’re not stereotypes without good reason.

Now the Telegraph is up for sale. The Barclay Brothers, stewards of that noble sheet for many a year, have descended into what Telegraph readers would never call ‘tits-ups-ville’. And thus new buyers for the paper are a bidding. And the best bid is from none other than Manchester City owner, Sheikh Mansoor. I’ll spare the rest of his name due to lack of space; there’s miles of it. And the Sheikh’s government of Abu Dhabi backed investment fund would like to buy the Telegraph. No problem there. They’d only be the ‘owners’. Not like they have editorial influence or control of content in any way. Hmmmmm.

As can be seen by just looking at any Manchester City accounts from the Etihad years, honesty, openness and transparency would be the last three words to spring to mind. Which is not a good advert for the credibility of a (once) noble newspaper. Furthermore, people who rule totalitarian states are not famous for self-criticism. They’re famous for beheadings. Stonings. Intolerance. And they are used to being obeyed. Totally. So would that compromise the editor’s ability to be harsh about an Emirate state? Or be nice about an enemy of an Emirate state?

In my humble opinion, Mansour owns enough. Let someone else buy the Telegraph. Just not Rupert Murdoch, obvs (read: ‘totalitarian leaders’, above)

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So there I was, marching for anti-semitism and yet, at precisely that time, Spurs were getting beaten by Aston Villa at White Hart Lane. That’s not right. Not in the spirit of the day. Morally and holy-ly wrong. Thus either Spurs are shit, or, more likely, Aston Villa are aligned with Hamas. There is no other explanation. They’ve been radicalised. And where was God while all this was going on? That’s what I want to know. As His very own team lost its third match in a row. We were top of the league and being happily smug as we peered down at the rabble squabbling for our scraps, and now THIS!!! In fact, not only ‘this’, but ‘that’ too!!! ‘That’ being that Arsenal have now taken over our place at the top. The doomsday scenario. And very upsetting.

So upsetting that I needed a ‘release’. I needed someone to take it out on. I needed catharsis!

And I had to call Sky tv for something. A small thing. But whenever you call them they need to ‘offer’ you stuff. Its what they do. And thus in the flash of 26 minutes which felt like 3 hours, I was offered a new contract. Amazingly, it is £16 a month cheaper than the old one!!!! Letting me know I’ve been paying way too much for years and will be for more years to come. The cost of football. But heh, 16 quid a month is worth saving. And as ‘my new best mate’ was rushing through the terms and conditions’ as they all have to do, he just slipped in about a one-off, £30, ‘admin charge’.

‘Sorry?? What was that?’
Oh, you know, a charge for… errrr… for admin.
‘You’re pushing a button whilst on a conversation which you instigated and I’m paying for the call. Where’s the fucking admin?’

You see, it all came flooding over me, Spurs losing, Arsenal winning, Man City and Liverpool drawing, United winning, Newcastle winning, plus the fact that in 2023 we have to march against anti-semitism in the country I was born in, fun though the march was. But it all washed over me and Asnil (or whatever) was the lucky beneficiary.

‘Ok!’ he cried out, ‘I’ll do it for 20 pounds’.
No you won’t, I’m not paying anything. Its dishonest, immoral (the definition of which is ‘charging me money’) and deceitful. Cancel the contract.
‘I can do it for 10 pounds’.
You can fuck right off, matey.
‘But everyone pays an admin fee’.
Everyone’s stupid.
Ok, I’ll waive the fee.

Oh no, I wanted to keep shouting, to keep arguing, I was really enjoying myself, and he’s spoilt my fun. But even though I was tempted to continue by demanding they pay me an ‘admin fee’, I decided to let it go. Take my meds, perform some tantric tai chi for half an hour, think of my happy place (Wembley, 1981) and say ‘ohhhhhhmmmmm’ unitil he’d finished the new ts and cs, the ones WITHOUT an admin fee.

Good Monday, if not a Happy one.

A xxxx

Well, as marches against anti-semitism go, this one must go down as a bit of a disappointment, on many levels. I’ll tell you why.

There was no food. I mean, how can you get a bunch of Jews together at lunchtime in a bagel-free zone?? Jews feed each other, even when we’re not hungry. So to gather (pick your own number between the estimated 60,000 to 105,000 people present) so many, with not a Danish in sight, was rather upsetting.

There was no flag-burning. No death threats. No screaming for others to be killed. A complete lack of violence. Even a bit of incitement to violence would have been welcomed, but no; nothing. Just peaceful people enjoying a day out in the… in the drizzle bonding and being happy just to make a point. And that’s tragically disappointing.

Tommy Robinson was arrested in a pub before the start of the march. I’m not sure why. As the leader of the British not-quite-nazi-skinhead League of thugs and football hooligans Party, he is, as of the time of writing this, fully in favour of all things Jewish. But better safe than sorry, so stick him in jail til it’s over.

If there were 100,000 present, that is remarkable. There are somewhere around 250,000 Jews in England. Although non-Jews were not just allowed but actively encouraged to attend. Because, generally, Jews are unlikely anti-semites so are unlikely to become pro-semites due to a rally.

However, the event was so successful that there is, as of 4.00pm today, absolutely no anti-semitism left in the entire nation. One little march through Westminster and its ‘job done’. The anti-semites have thrown away their ‘from the river to the sea’ posters and placards, finally understanding, in a fit of crowd-inspired remorse, that in fact it IS a very horrible and inflammatory message to send. As is ‘all Jews must DIE’, pictures of burning stars of David, concentration camp imagery and all the rest that’s pretty horrible too. Jeremy Corbyn went on the radio immediately afterwards to say how he is finally going to say that he’s ’opposed to anti-semitism’, rather than the usual ‘I’m opposed to discrimination of all kinds’, weazly, obfuscating, evasive bollocks he usually spouts. Kier Starmer is getting circumcised as soon as he can find someone with a small enough scalpel. And Gary Linneker is going to hang himself publicly for… well it doesn’t matter which of his many crimes really, long as the job gets done.

And people are no longer going to single out Israel for crimes which other nations commit but get by unmentioned.

So that was a complete success. We’ve stamped out anti-semitism in this country. Now we need to work on the UN. A much harder job.

Happy Marching Day

A xxxx

Tomorrow I’m going to march for anti-semitism. Its important. And I don’t like Jews, they’re small, smelly, money-grabbing, controlling, conspiring, money-laundering war-mongers, so I’m joining the march. And in case there’s any trouble, Joey’s coming with me. And there will be trouble, cos he’s bound to need a wee when we’re in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

Oh, it’s a march ‘against’ anti-semitism. Oh. I’ll do that then. Whatever. It’s my democratic right to protest, not really bothered about the details.

But first we must be eternally grateful those who have facilitated and organised the return of some of the hostages. Ok, it’s only a few but it’s a start. And it’s ALL down to the Red Cross and the state of Qatar.

The Red Cross actually drove the freed hostages across the border into Egypt. In vans. Like, made sure they were filled up, changed all the gears, and turned the steering wheels, wherever necessary. Well done Red Cross.

Ok, for seven weeks they have done, precisely, nothing. They haven’t checked the hostages, supplied medical aid to them, nothing. So they’ve really upped their game by supplying the vehicles. Bless ‘em.

As for the state of Qatar, they negotiated the entire thing. Well, they’re in the right position to do that as they, along with the Iranians, generally fund Hamas. And a few other terrorist organisations. That’s why they hosted the last World Cup, the really hot one. In the desert. In the stadiums built by 10,000 dead Sri Lankans. And who else could ‘negotiate’ with Hamas. Where would you find a Hamasian? You’d have to go to the tunnels. Other than the Hamas head office, which is conveniently located in Doha, Qatar. So well done those heroic peace-niks of Qatari government. They get to sponsor a jihadi death cult and then claim the international kudos of sorting out the release of hostages. We’ve had sportswashing, now it’s hostage-washing. Fuck ‘em all.

And thus, armed with my usual diplomatic, balanced and non-judgmental equanimity, I shall march with my people.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx