Andy's Glasses

We need to talk about Manchester United. No, we really do. I’m not one to gloat at others’ misfortunes nor use petty rivalries to mock the afflicted, and especially after just one match played so far in this new, fresh-start, begin-as-you-mean-to-go-on, state your intentions, football season.

Though many will find the situation rather amusing. Mainly Liverpool fans but we can all enjoy the schadenfreude as the ‘world’s biggest club’ carry on just where last season ended up for them, which is, sort of, mid-sewer to just around the u-bend.

I caught about 20 minutes of yesterday’s game against Brighton and had to admit that the ‘under new management’ sign hadn’t created any improvement in their play. Their new manager, Eric Ten Hag has only been there about 5 minutes so may need more time to turn a bunch of semi-worthless, uncommitted, lacklustre show-ponies into a cohesive and bonded super-team. Unfortunately, new managers only get 4 minutes in which to win a trophy or they have to go. If the board is prepared to give them longer, the fans aren’t. Or vice versa. Even Alex Ferguson (blessed be His Name) took a good few years for his new system and new players to start bearing fruit. But that was in 1986 when everything was more tolerant, more patient with less of the more modern ethos of ‘win now or FUCK OFF!!’ There is no tomorrow, no next year, no building things slowly, no more. The Glazers are going to have to dig deep to keep things in some kind of order. Something that they’ve consistently been reluctant to do. Unless its digging into the bank of Man United to help themselves.

The other Manchester rabble don’t exactly look worse for having unloaded three world class superstars from their ranks. The absence of Raheem Sterling, Zinchenko and Jesus has seamlessly been absorbed by the arrival of Erling Haaland.

And I know its early days but Spurs looked good on Saturday. Next weekend at Chelsea may prove more difficult but, so far, after a full 90 minutes (plus stoppage time) of the new season, I’m well on board.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The two most important days in the football league season are opening day and the closing day. So why is more importance given to the league table after the closing day than the first day? It’s wrong. It’s discriminatory, random, rude and not nice. Therefore I’m starting a petition to use the table from the first day, as above, as the absolute, ultimate and final assessment of greatness, victory and best-est-ness. And not just because we’re above Arsenal, but because we’re above EVERYBODY!!!!!

Amazon’s such a shit company. They’re never going to succeed. Ok, they sell a few bits and bobs, own half of the known universe (and are building rockets to sort out the rest), but they remain the most annoying of companies.

I had an awful realisation yesterday. I’d run out of tennis balls. Holy shit!!! I have hundreds and hundreds of them, and now, my cupboard is bare. And I need a new canister. Because playing at my standard, we need a “new balls” situation at least every 3 months. I googled them and up comes Amazon, first, cheapest, free-est delivery, fastest and fucking annoying-est. Ordered my few dozen and went to check out. Which is where the problem started.

YOU NEED AMAZON PRIME!!!! It told me.
Actually, I don’t. We have it on Mel’s account and I’d use that if I needed it now. So no, press the tiny little, afterthought button thingy that says ‘continue without Prime’, once you find it, way down low.

And it took me the checkout page which informed me I was on Prime, even though I wasn’t, and had to ‘find the way out’. Then, obviously, it could tell I was really interested so offered me the Prime credit card. The Prime t-shirt, coffee cups, underpants. Which I dutifully rejected. And went to ‘pay’.

Just in case I’d changed my mind and total attitude to Prime since the last time I rejected it, I was offered it another 6 times before my payment was accepted. And, rejecting each one as it was presented, I finally reached the ‘thank you for your order’ page. Eventually. That was too hard. Not ordering, that’s easy. Ordering without being kidnapped by Prime. But, phew!

I later checked my emails. The first one: ‘welcome to Amazon Prime!’

Noooooooooooo!!!!!

I immediately went and cancelled it, because its free, but only for a month. Cancelling is not easy. “Are you sure???” “These are the benefits you’ll LOSE!!!” “Don’t you just want a reminder before renewal???”

So a brief message to Jeff Bezos and Amazon Prime:

FUCK OFF, WILL YA?!!!!!!

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

As there’s no more Women’s football on, we’ll just have to make do with the start of the Premier League Season today. For men. A poor and second rate substitute for the ‘real thing’. We all love the game in which babes run round in sports bras bouncing up and down and the goalies are all broken. But that’s over. So we’ll just have to make do with the boy’s game today. Ok, Arsenal played last night but only because no-one cares about them. The real season starts today.

But my mind is troubled elsewhere. I mean, its in my head (I think?) but its on the verge of war. Which is troubling.

Whilst the Ukraine/Russia thing is still going on, we’ve all become inured to the senseless devastation perpetrated by the Ruskis to the point where its always a bit down the news now. It comes on after the heatwave, just before the Commonwealth Games bit, with Rishi and Liz commanding top slot now, followed by the hose-pipe bans.

Until Nancy Pelosi stepped off a plane in Taipei. And then the world shook.

The speaker of the House of Representatives decided, pretty unilaterally as it turns out because no-one else wanted her to go, to visit Taiwan. Where all her fridges have been built. Most of her radios. All her silicon chips and a few cuddly toys she bought for grandchildren (the ones filled with nails and broken glass).

But she underestimated the scale of her decision. Because she is the third most biggest big-thing in America, after useless Joe and his VP, this is seen as a ‘trip by America’ to Taiwan. And although Taiwan enjoys a sort of democratic independence, it transpires that that is a mere illusion, verging on delusion. Taiwan may pretend independence and democracy but, according to China, IT IS AS CHINESE AS CHOW FUCKING MEIN!! And belongs totally and absolutely to China and no-where else.

Nancy went where no other world leader or even Speaker of other Houses has been for decades because to visit Taiwan is to acknowledge it as independent. Which will piss China off royally. As it has done. To the extent that they’re bringing all their toys into play. The missiles, the bombs, the warheads, the whole, quite literally, ‘shooting match’. A match they would probably win, it must be said.

I’m not saying that making a point of a solid stance with Taiwan is not a good ideological point, it emphatically is, I’m just saying that you don’t poke the bear. Unless you’re so old that you don’t really care about the consequences of your actions. Like Nancy. Or you’re a bit dim and didn’t appreciate the furore it was likely to cause. Like Nancy.

And now its my problem.

Come on Spurs!!!!

A xxxx

I used to eat a lot of McDonalds. Food mainly. Cheeseburgers particularly, but not exclusively. And by ‘a lot’, I mean by my standards of ‘a lot’, not yours. I mean ‘a lot’ starting at a baseline of ‘way too much’ and working up to ‘a lot’ from there. Because of my fortunate metabolism (bless you, Father) I don’t put on weight. So I never have to do that most awful of things, ‘resist temptation’. Don’t think I could. I wannit, I eat it. End of. So if you didn’t hate me before, and I’ve given you so much opportunity, you should do now. And thus, due to the sheer convenience and addictive value of McDonalds, I would pig out 2 or 3 times for lunch every week, and always a trip with the girls at the weekend.

And then they invented ‘cholesterol’. Bastards. And ‘my life changed’. It wasn’t ‘that high’ but a little and so I adopted a lifestyle change and went cold turkey on Maccy-Ds. In fact if they offered cold turkey that would have saved me, but they don’t. There’s not sufficient fat in it to find a home under the Golden Arches. So I stopped. Pretty much altogether. (The McDonalds in Fleet Street has since closed forever, and I feel in some way responsible. Just not a very big way.) Other than ice cream. Because their ice cream is simply wonderful and can’t be that high in fat, can it? I don’t know, don’t care, never researched it. And about once every 3 years Mel & I will be in some far away land, hungry, hot and Google translate can’t cope with that dialect of Hindi, or Eastern Japanese and we need the comfort of knowing its all safe and clean-ish and doesn’t need thinking about. And we succumb.

Yesterday we took Lila and Joey to see a kid’s ‘show’ at a theatre in Leicester Square. So we went for lunch. And thought… ‘hmmmm, what about McDonalds?’ So we had to contact their parents to ask permission, check with social services, consult three doctors and an obesity clinic and get everything signed off with lawyers before you can actually enter one of ‘those places!!!’ Did they like it? To a degree. Loved the nuggets, disappointed with the ‘toy’. Did I like it? Never a doubt.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

There’s a new league table about. It’s the ‘most abused football players on social media’. The fact that this kind of abuse is posted by morons is highlighted by the fact that Harry Kane is in the Top 10. I have no idea why anyone would want to abuse a lovely man who is the captain of England. Unless they’re not English, would be a possibility. So there’s a conspiracy by rogue nations and my Harry is being taunted by a scummy bunch of Russian hackers, Chinese troublemakers, Chechen extremists and Scottish people. Jack Grealish also makes the cut so its not all a bad thing. The other 8 members of this most undesirable of top 10s all play for Manchester United. At the top, in number one slot, obviously, is Christiano Ronaldo, for a million different reasons, all fully justified. Ronaldo even beat Harry Maguire, so its not based on merit. And you can bet that about 99% of the abuse comes from Man United fans. Because their team had a shitty season. Win a trophy? They barely won a match. Ironically, without Ronaldo, they’d probably have been relegated. But the north-west of England is a footballing land filled with the greatest sense of entitlement found outside of a Royal dynasty. Obviously I’m not talking about Burnley here, nor Tranmere Rovers. Just the ‘big 3’ from that part of the world. It used to just be 2 of them who felt entitled, then Abu Dhabi rolled in and made it 3.

So COME ON!!! We don’t want Manchester United topping any table. Abuse your own players NOW!!!

This morning, not at all opportunistically, I received an email. From Spurs. Telling me how tickets for the Tottenham women’s games are now on sale. So we can all go and support the Cockerelesses. The Chickens. Chicks? Hens? Whatever. And the matches are being played at Stadium Hotspur, the (quite literally) finest stadium in the world. Especially when its full. With only 3,000 people in the 62,000 seats it won’t be so… buzzy. And for 7 quid a ticket? Could I go? Should I go? Just wear a balaclava and become part of ‘the legacy’.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

England beat Germany in the gel’s (sexist term, patronising) football final on Sunday, in case you missed that. Little blonde, (more sexism, bit of blondism), Chloe Kelly celebrated her winning goal by taking off her shirt and running round in her sports bra (bookable offence, even for boys, the shirt thing, not the bra). Which in fact was a replication of one of Chloe’s heroine’s goal celebrations way back when you could do such a thing. And no-one cared because it was a magical moment for all the women supporters, and boy supporters have long been advocates of ‘GET YER KIT OFF!!!’ (Disgustingly sexist and overtly #metoo thing to think) so everyone was happy. Gary Linneker tweeted: “The Lionesses have only gone and done it, and Kelly is England’s heroine, bra none”.

Which is a statement worthy of capital punishment. An offence to all women, to all those who identify as women, to all people who wear bras, men or women, or both, some, either, bit of each. Gary quite rightly deleted the tweet after a storm of complaints from offended… people.

And I’d like to know who these ‘people’ are. I need to know what, exactly, so offended them in Linneker’s simple, amusing, play-on-words, pun. I’d like to talk to them to find where the ‘barriers’ are, exactly, in a world proud of ‘free speech’. I’d like to engage with them, possibly suggest various therapies to help them, and then beat them with baseball bats. Really badly. Possibly fatally. If not then they need to be locked up and taken completely off any form of media contact so they can’t fuck up something so simple and pleasurable as innocent humour.

I’m tolerant to everything except intolerance.

Meanwhile, whilst our papers are hailing the Lionesses for their achievement, the German papers are taking a different approach. Which, to a degree, you’d expect. But they’re accusing us of ‘fraudulently’ winning the match. Because they should have had a penalty when Leah Williamson handled the ball. Which was examined by VAR and shown to be not the case. And then, amazingly, comparing it to Geoff Hurst’s third goal in the 1966 World Cup Final when the ball did or possibly didn’t, cross the goal line. I mean, really? This is some 56-year conspiracy reserved for when England play Germany in any final? Was the ref on Sunday the great grand-daughter of the one in 1966???? I mean… I mean… oh just fuck off! (Rude, insulting, racism, xenophobic, nationalistic… but so worthy)

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

OMG, them Lionesses did it!!! Beat the Hun! Stole victory!!! Became champions of all the women in all of Europe. At football. Not, kind’a, ‘football-football’, but wimmin’s football. The next best thing. The last English-person to lift a trophy worth lifting was Bobby Moore in 1966. And he was a boy. So, cynicism, snobbery, misogyny and any sense of male-ism aside, this is just a brilliant thing. It will inspire an entire generation of young women to emulate the effects that the World Cup win had on boys. So look forward in 10 years time to the ‘new women’. Who’ll be immensely fat, covered in tattoos, drink 15 pints a day/night, eat total shitty food start fights with anyone, but watch loads of football on tv. The ‘legacy’. Well done gels.

Joe Biden has finally found something he’s really good at. Not being president, don’t be silly, not standing up straight for protracted periods (4 minutes), he’s too old, not getting anything actually done nor making speeches which anyone would ever believe. No. But he’s brilliant at getting Covid. A true ‘world leader’. Twice in 2 weeks is positively outstanding.

A disaster was averted this morning in my house. I went to gather the 34 items required for me to construct ‘the sandwich’ and found that my fridge was completely tomato-free. Oh no! Tomatoes, a ‘superfood’, actually represent the only one of my ‘5 a day’ present in ‘the sandwich’. Even though hummus is made from chickpeas, a vegetable kind’a thing, that doesn’t count. Chillies are good too, but not when just an ingredient of ‘piri piri mayonnaise’, I reckon. Gerkins are veggie-ish but not when pickled within an inch of their little lives. But don’t panic! I am post-modern, mid-save-the-planet Man, I grow my own food!!! So I went into the garden, past the fields of wheat, across from the orchard and olive groves, turned right at the vineyards, left at the lamb’s paddock (eeeuuuuwww) and chicken huts and there, in their little pot, was the ‘tomato crop’. Ripe and ready. And totally fucking ‘organic’! I’ve seen the foxes piss on them myself, can’t get more ‘organic’ than that.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

There’s going to be 87,000 football fans at Wembley tonight to watch England play Germany in the Euro final. I didn’t know there was 87,000 people prepared to watch women’s football but I’m pleased there are. Because it makes up for the almost unforgivable but completely understandable indifference of most of YOU, so-called ‘football fans’! COME ON ING-LUND!!! (It’s the Germans FFS, that’s gotta be worth a shout even if it was tiddly-winks).

The Truss/Sunak conundrum continues apace. Though not a conundrum for us mere mortals to solve, only for those exalted ‘members of the Conservative Party’, the retired colonels, hospital matrons in Oxfordshire, Hampshire and Surrey, blue-rinsed twin-set wearers from various market towns, anyone who belongs to ‘a hunt’ and even, so I’m led to believe, one or two ‘young people’ (I’m thinking a juvenile Jacob Rees Mog here, or that revoltingly precocious version of William Hague, the image of which, as he addressed ‘his’ party, aged about 14, still gives me nightmares on occasion to the point I always have a bucket next to my bed).

Rishi has now… errrr… has now… ‘amended’ his previous stance to allow for the possibility of taking vat off of fuel bills. Stating, quite rightly, that ‘this is not a reduction in the tax which I’ve been banging on about since I stabbed Boris in the back to start this whole debacle’, its just… pragmatic). So its not a u-turn at all. He’s still opposed to any reduction in taxation whilst the covid debt is so high, but is prepared to make concessions because of the tragedy facing so many people. Which may look like a tax reduction but only to the uninitiated.

And I realised that I know virtually nothing about Liz Truss. With Rishi, we’ve seen his bank statements (very, very large) and his and his wife’s tax returns (very, very, very small) for the last 20 years. Even though they’ve only known each other for 12. But Lizzy? Is she married? Children? We know she went to a comprehensive in Leeds because that has become a rod for posh kid Rishi’s back. But we need to know the dirt. We really do. How can we not-vote for someone about whom we know so little???

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I love this picture. Ok, I love all photos of ‘the kids’, as you may have, kind’a, noticed. But this represents a dramatic (?) reconstruction of the famous ‘Lord and Lady Muck’ situation in which they’re sitting at opposite ends of a massive, stately-home dining table and one asks t’other for the marmalade. Neither of my grandchildren eat marmalade, and certainly not a dinner time (we have standards!!!), though Joey might spread some on his sausages, just because… its what kids do. Our ‘stately home’ has a west facing garden. So by the end of the day, the sunlight pours in. And seriously affects the picture quality of cartoons on an iPad. Thus they HAVE to sit in shaded regions. Because too many reflections on Peppa Pig is simply unacceptable. So now ya know. We only separate them otherwise to avoid bloodshed.

The Commonwealth Games opened last night. For the first time ever, there are more women’s events than men’s. Which I’m hoping just means more beach volleyball. Or perhaps the men should just start identifying as women and get more medals. But if they do, they’ll no longer be able to use the Tavistock Clinic for their gender reassignment. They’ve been shut down. Ok, not exactly ‘shut down’, they still do lots of good work for troubled kids, but they no longer have exclusive rights to pander to the whims of slightly confused pre-pubescents (and find me one’o them who ain’t confused and I’ll buy you a jock-strap with matching bra) and ‘some might say’, almost encourage them to consider gender dysmorphia and possibly transitioning into something that more suits Sir or Madam or both’s feelings at the moment, perhaps?

It’s not like the Tavistock actively advertised for troubled kids and gave them puberty-delaying meds and actively encouraged them to think that just because you were born with testicles does NOT mean you have to live your life as a mere man. It’s just that the whole ethos of the place did emit a whole vibe of encouragement and appeasement rather than more impartiality in its suggestions to a really vulnerable group of permanently confused individuals. And thus, the clinic has lost its total monopoly of gender problematic kids. In fact its lost its right to treat them totally, in favour of many other options. Which must be a good thing.

For the rest of the Commonwealth Games, the theme is ‘Birmingham’. Strangulated, drawn-out vowel-sounds are the way forward as Lenny Henry, Simon le-fuckin-Bon and half of Black Sabbath were wheeled out to show that, as well as a history ripe with heavy industry, they have a cultural side too. Not that you’d know that by listening to Duran Simon last night, but trust me, they have.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We can’t put it off any longer. We NEED to have the women’s football conversation. England have now reached the final, beating Sweden last night in a wipeout 4-nil win over the pretty hot favourites (that’s ‘pretty’ as in ‘fairly’, rather than ‘cute’, although some of them were) to win the tournament. Therefore we need to take this seriously. Something that, for reasons we might (or might not) get to, has proven somewhat difficult for me during the preceding rounds of the tournament.

I even watched some of last night’s match. Ok, the last 10 minutes, but its not a duration competition, FFS, I actually watched some of a match and it was pretty (?) good.

I emphatically love football and I totally love women. So what’s the problem? Well, I love red wine and I love gardening too, but I wouldn’t necessarily mix those either, although thinking about it… Sorry. Women’s football. Focus.

Devotees of the Premier League are privileged to watch the best football in the world. Week after week, year after year. And the league is full of amazing skills and fabulous movement between players and all manner of great things, wonderful things. Unless you’re an Arsenal fan, obviously. But it becomes the norm, raises the bar and creates an unrealistic expectation, even among those of us who played the game for years, to not quite such a high standard, that ‘all football must look like that’.

Then you turn on in a moment of weakness to watch Luton Town play Shrewsbury on a Tuesday night in February and you suddenly appreciate how brilliant, how elegant, how non-industrial our Premier League really is. And the women’s football is no doubt skilful and delightful but its simply not ‘at that level’. Not yet. Possibly never, depending on whether you’re a gender judgmentalist cave-man or a equal opportunity unrealist.

So I have to enter a different mind-set when I watch (as I will on Sunday for the final) women’s football. Turn off the ‘premier expectation’ app and hit the ‘other games’ module instead. And then you’ll be able to appreciate the woman’s game, not for what it isn’t, which is the man’s game, but for what it is on its own terms. Which is 22 fairly fit and gorgeous babes bouncing round in shorts and tight shirts waggling their pony tails. Obviously I mean that in the most non-objectifying way possible.

Why do they all have pony-tails? Is it a league requirement? And why are they all dyed blonde? Zlatan Ibrahimovic never dyed his. I think they need to get a bit more creative, hair-wise and channel their inner Jack Grealish. He knows more about hair adornments than MichaelJohn.

So now I’m on board. England in a final. Any England. Any sport. Gotta be worth a roar.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx