Andy's Glasses

In the latest in my long-running series entitled “5-minutes-randomly-selected-from-a-film-I-really-love-which-happens-to-come-on-after-the-news”, I chanced upon The Matrix last night. Not at the beginning, but quite near the end. Morpheus is held by the 3 ‘suits’ and Neo and Trinity want to save him. Trinity ‘phones a friend’ to get her a helicopter and he conjures one up on his (very dated) computer and it arrives in ‘Amazon-time’, even sooner, to enable the heroes to shoot the living fuck out of a 90-story building to release their spiritual leader from his shackles. Which they accomplish, amazingly killing no-one. Although merely ‘dying’ in The Matrix is way more complicated that ‘normal’, I appreciate that.

As a person opposed to guns, disgusted by America’s love and devotion to weapons of death in the hands of the mentally unstable, as happened on Monday at yet another school, and a lifelong pacifist; I love this machine gun. I want one. It’s the perfect solution to drivers with their main beams on. Cars hogging the middle of the road. People on their phones when the traffic lights turn green so they don’t ‘go’. I need to check with Greta Thunberg if it contravenes our ULEZ status were we to mount such a thing on the roof of the new, electric car. “SAVE THE PLANET: KILL ALL THE FUCKWITS IN IT!!!” will be stylishly inscribed on the doors.

And then I thought, as Neo grappled with a helicopter, holding it with his bare arms straining against the rope to prevent Trinity held within it from crashing, that “I AM THE ONE!!!” It was me all along. Keanu is just a wannabe. I AM THE ONE!!!

I’d hold a helicopter if it had Carrie-Anne Moss inside it, wearing those leather pants. I do tai chi. That’s almost ‘bullet time’. I just need the bullets to slow down to my level, how hard can that be? And most importantly, my mind is at most times in an alternative dimension of so-called ‘reality’. Mel always says so. And she could be the Yoda to my Neo, if that’s not crossing some line between fictions.

So that’s it. I AM THE ONE!!! Fuck off Keanu.

Happy Wednesday. May the whatever be with you.

A xxxx

Israel prides itself that it is the only democracy in the Middle East. Which, for the moment, is true. Egypt pays lip service to democracy whilst never quite getting there. The rest don’t really do ‘politics’ in any meaningfully democratic way. So Israel is tolerant, accepting, all sorts of wonderful things. Because it is a secular democracy. It is not and has never been a ‘religious state’. And it is very progressive. Has a massive ‘tech’ industry creating and making wonderfully innovative stuff, from iPhones to cancer medicines. When tossers like Roger Waters want to boycott Israel you don’t see them ditching their phones, nor forgoing half their life-enhancing drugs which were created there.

So what they got to protest about?

Israel, since its foundation in 1948, has never had a majority government. Only coalitions. Getting into bed with those whose values may differ. Something Netenyahu has always been rather slick and efficient at doing, from the helm of his centre/right Likud party. And the ‘right’ in Israel are not Nigel Farage and the BNP. They are the ‘religious’. And for ‘religious’, read, as in any context, ‘nutters’. Doesn’t matter if they’re Jews, Christians, Muslims or Hindus, the extreme end of any religion is a strange and dangerous place. And you wouldn’t want them running your country. Unless Iran or Afghanistan is your idea of perfect statehood. Or Tennessee.

At the last election, Bibi joined forces with a hard-right religious party to make his majority in parliament. And coalitions are always about negotiated acts of quid pro quo. We’ll vote with you for this, but only if you introduce that.

Israel has no ‘upper house’ to control laws and legislation. That’s done by the Supreme Court judges who get to vet and check everything before its set into the law. And although the judges are pretty much hated by everyone in the country, without them, there would be no checks on any government, who could then change anything it wished, for its own benefit, effectively turning the nation into a dictatorship. And this is basically what Bibi has been proposing.

He wants to kerb the judges power to veto laws. And because this comes from the extreme right wingers who have always wanted Israel to look like Iran but with chopped liver, this would be catastrophic. Already their currency has plummeted and shares in their companies dropping because a Jewish version of ‘sharia law’ would look pretty similar. With restrictions on women, certainly action against the LGBTs, restrictions on sabbath work & play and all the usual extremist shit.

So although I’m sitting here in (dank, damp, dark, dismal) London, my heart is in Tel Aviv, protesting to keep my favourite city free from horrible religious intrusion and restriction.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I found my self in such a desperate state yesterday afternoon that I watched England play Ukraine! Like, a whole weekend and no football? Its unthinkable. Well, no ‘proper’ football. There was a time when an international would fill me with patriotic joy and nationalistic excitement and then I’d get the cross of St George out, shave my head, put on my Doc Martens, iron my sta-prest (no irony there then… nor there) and go out to kick the shit out of someone. Nothing to do with football, its just what you did in 1972. But now, I’m out of love with internationals. Actually resent the ‘international breaks’ in my game. And view watching England with the same degree of condescension and snobbery as ‘watching the Football League’ or even stooping to… women’s football! But it was on and any football’s better than no football, right?

But Ukraine? We had to play Ukraine? Is it acceptable to beat them? I mean, haven’t they suffered enough, FFS? First Russia, now this?

It gave me a further opportunity to watch England’s all-time, bestest goal-scoring, superhero-type wonder-person and captain fantastic: Harry Kane. Who I love dearly. As much for his natural humility and out-and-out decent-blokiness as for his ability to score shit-loads of goals. Overtaking, as he has now done, Wayne Rooney to be our best ever everything. And this now, by a new law set in 2021, is how the conversation goes:

Wow, Harry Kane’s the leading goal scorer ever for England. Therefore he must leave Spurs.

Did you see that wonderful Harry Kane goal? He’s gotta leave Spurs now.

There’s so much more to Harry Kane than just goals, about time he went to Barcelona/Real Madrid/Manchester City…

No-one ever says:

Great goal by Saka; when’s he leaving Arsenal?
That player’s so good its about time he left his club.
Harry McGuire is so lumpen and lardish he should be playing for Plymouth.

Although they do now include Declan Rice in such conversations. He’s ‘too good for his club’.

As if any club other than one of the super-rich, Middle-East-backed, rule-breaking, financially-despicable, morally-vacuumed, tax-avoiding silverware-buyers-at-any-price, is just there as a breeding ground to provide them with their best players. (Or the Spanish equivalent. They manage all the above over there without Middle-East support).

Harry is loyal. Obviously, loyalty can be measured in how many barrels of crude oil it takes to buy that man’s soul, get that football club or obtain a World Cup. And if someone offered me 400 grand a week to help sanitise the image of a human-rights-abusing nation, even someone as morally high-grounded as MEEEEEE, would indeed have to think twice.

Ok, if North Korea offered me 20 quid I’d be there tomorrow.

Its all wrong.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I found a new pain. Just when I thought I’d logged virtually every muscle, tendon, ligament, ganglion and bone in my body as ‘sometimes painful’, I found a new one. My ‘Achilles’. That horrible little tendon which attaches your calf muscle to the heel of your foot. Possibly both feet. Never bothered me in my entire life, and then, ooohhh, that’s sore, upon certain movements. Ok, fairly extreme type movements but they’re the ones worth doing.

So I had a ‘consultation’ with a doctor first of all. Because we currently have one living in our house, so I got a discount. And she said ‘take Neurofen’. Always good advice, didn’t do a bloody thing for the problem, but never hurts to take an extra pill or two. Unless they get stuck in your throat.

Then I ‘consulted’ a physio. A really big one, one of my tai chi mates. And the 6 foot 3 Lithuanian recommended I find someone who does electro-shock something or other. That should cure it. And he gave me a few stretches to do. But 3 days later, its STILL giving me bother. Nothing debilitating, nor really very limiting. But that situation is only a matter of time, generally.

So I had my third ‘consultation’, with a true master of ‘anything below the ankle’. He used to be called a ‘chiropodist’ but one day morphed into a ‘podiatrist’. Anyone can ‘transition’. The appointment was unusual in that it involved dinner, and whiskey, but afterwards I was cured! Well, as good as. He gave me some shoe inserts because something’s happening down there (calves) which is putting strain on something else and so right HERE, where I’m just pressing my thumb with all my might, is painful; which is why you are screaming silently with tears rolling down your face and biting the back of your hand so hard its bleeding. Yeah, that’ll be the spot then.

And its feeling better already, just knowing that a drunk podiatrist cured me. Ok, early days, but I’m never going to see any other ‘quacks’ again. If I get a toothache, broken wrist, swollen testicles, its a podiatrist for me.

Happy cured (bit premature, but we’re working on it) Sunday

A xxxx

A geezer broke the skiing speed record. He traveled at 155 MILES per hour. None of yer rotten, keeelo-meters, no, proper miles. I reckon that’s fucking easy. But that’s because I’m fucking stupid. If you’ve traveled in a car at 120, 130, 140, it gets hairy. Very hairy. Scary. Out-of-controlly. And that’s with four big fat, grippy tyres underneath you and a ton of weight bearing down on them. On a pair of skis and nothing to protect you, I’m guessing you feel a touch more ‘vulnerable’.

I’ve skied at (according to someone’s app on his watch/phone/whatever it was) 70kph on a downhill ‘shuss’. I didn’t feel vulnerable so much as unbelievably exhilarated. I have all the ‘style’ whilst skiing that a shark might exhibit at a garden party but I just love speed. And skiing is all about finding your ‘comfort line’ between just in control and ‘oh fuck!’ And how close you want to be to that line.

When you ski fast your main worry is hitting… anything. A mogul, a lump of ice, a patch of ice, a bit of a tree broken off, a whole tree not broken at all. Whereas Mr Record Setter probably had a team of piste polishers out with dustpans and brushes, cleaning and smoothing the necessary kilometres of his run to ensure he didn’t hit lumps, bumps, ice, twigs or, worst of all, any Gwyneth Paltrows that might cause an obstruction.

Because Gwyneths are the worst possible thing a skier can face. Or, if Ms Gloop is to be believed, the worst thing a skier can rear into. Following her testimony yesterday, and guided by the nature of that man’s injuries, there is only one possibly explanation for what happened on the slopes of Sunny Valley, or Happy Valley or wherever it was. That Mr Retired Optometrist was carelessly and selfishly skiing much too fast, backwards, up a slope, at great speed, and collided with a completely innocent Gwynnie coming down. There’s no other way to reconcile her story with the known outcome. So that’s what happened. That opto-bastard! And a chancer to boot. When I first learned of this case my first thought was ‘but would he be taking someone not rich and famous to court?’ But then learning that although she ploughed into the back of him, she maintained that ‘a pair of skis came from behind her and slid outside her skis. Which puts him… well, basically, in her arse. And whilst there are worse places to be, this doesn’t coincide with witness statements or other testimony.

Yet, whoever did what to whom is really all secondary to the fact that following the collision, Gwynnie skied off without a pause. Which is against the rules (you ALWAYS stop after a collision on the slopes, unless its with a French person) and is contrary to any standard of decency.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Took this lovely pic this morning as I strolled through Embankment Gardens, the worlds best, and possibly smallest, park. And I thought: who’s the tosser in the yellow jacket ruining my photo???!!!! The only yellow thing you normally get there is tulips. Daffodils. Errrr… flowers. But not today. As I walked through, the presence of these hi-viz dudes and dudettes (yes, they have gels in the police too, ya know, otherwise who would you sexually assault in the coffee room?) increased with every step. Reaching its maximum saturation at the back doors of the Savoy hotel. But carried on all the way through the park and in the road behind it. I asked 2 young bobbies (sooooo fucking young, one of them wasn’t completely weaned yet and the other I’m sure had a dummy on his utility belt) what was going on and was told ‘its confidential; we can’t tell you’, or, presumably they’d have to shoot me but were unarmed so I need to speak to the gun squad.

And I thought. Hmmmmmm, is precisely what I thought. Who would warrant such a security operation that’s very very ‘overt’? Who’s coming to England to visit? Someone of an inflammatory and divisive nature or stature? Ahhhhhh: Bibi.

Binyamin Netenyahu is due (no pun) a visit this weekend to ‘discuss Iran’. Which probably means Rishi wants the opportunity to stop Bibi nuking it. And Netenyahu is a divisive character, for sure. Possibly the most divisive since Moses. And he only divided the sea, rather than opinion. Because about 9/10ths of the middle east simply hate him, ok, mainly on principle but more recently for more valid reasons. And now, approximately 53% of his own, fellow Israelis hate him too. The ones who don’t wear big black hats with lots of things dangling about; fringes, hair-locks. In fact it is possible that Bibi is the most hated head of state in the world, with the notable exception of Mnsr Macron. Who is only hated by the French, but all of them.

Freddie Flintoff, the man who single-handedly won the Ashes for us in… yeah, whenever, retired from cricket to become a car ‘expert’. Well, he can drive, can’t he? Loves cars? Therefore he’s as qualified as Lewis Hamilton to become Jeremy Clarkson. And Freddie has been wonderful on Top Gear for a few years now. And then… he crashed. Not catastrophic; scarred his face and broke a few ribs. Thus has now retired from Top Gear. His job on the show was ‘dare devil’.

Eddie the Eagle was a dare devil. Didn’t look as pretty as Freddie (nor really as pretty as Freddie’s dog), but he broke every bone in his body 19 times ski-jumping. Well, ski-crashing-off-the-jump-ing. Freddie’s predecessor on Top Gear, diddy Richard Hamilton nearly died in a car crash for the show. Back again as soon as the surgeries healed and his brain-swelling reduced sufficiently for him to remember who he was. That’s a dare-devil. Its a synonym for ‘schmuck who doesn’t learn’. NOT, one scratch and I’m gone. Sorry Freddie, bit disappointed.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

When is a party not a party?

When Boris Johnson is there. Simple. As soon as he arrives, amid the boozing, feasting, snogging, groping, dancing, human pyramids, orgies, spirits being poured down the throats of Special Parliamentary Advisors, tied to chairs, the party is suddenly, amid all the mayhem, NO LONGER A PARTY. Even though all that shit is still going on. Boris is the diametric opposite of John Belushi in Animal House. And that makes perfect sense.

To Boris.

Because Boris, as Gary Lineker, of all unworthy people, pointed out in his latest foray into the world outside of football, creates his own fantasy world of innocence. If he thinks something is so, it is so. End of.

But the inquiry today is not about whether he went to and organised parties, which he obviously did and has been fined by the police for doing so, its about whether he intentionally misled parliament. Oooooh, IN-TEN-SHEN-ALLY. Big word with big consequences. Because inadvertently is forgivable, intentional is very naughty.

The reality is that I don’t care. Find him guilty, suspend him from parliament, force him out of his seat, none of it will harm his ‘main career’ as a public speaker, which has earned him nearly 3 million quid in the last year, with his writing work. Whatever happens only adds to ‘the legend’. If he’s officially a ‘bad boy’ then even more people will want to hear him speak. It all gives him kudos and encourages him to keep fictionalising his reality, bless him.

Antonio Conte is leaving Spurs. No announcement yet but his ‘position’ is way more untenable than Boris’s. They’re apparently just ‘working out his compensation’. Whereas I would be working out how to dispose of the body. Because when any manager repeatedly states ‘it was not my fault’, then you know one thing for sure: It was all his fault. Vying with Boris for ‘tosser of the week’, though I think we can give the award to our ex-PM and find a more appropriate word for Mr Conte. Let me take inspiration from his name and think…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

‘Hands off her!!!’ is nothing to do with the police force. Not in this context anyway. Its actually plenty to do with our ‘sexist, racist, misogynist, homophobic’ police, who rape, molest and grope, apparently quite regularly, all of them, but that’s for another time.

This particular use of the expression is more figurative than literal. On the assumption that neither me no Sathnam Sanghera, from the Times, has ever laid a hand on Taylor Swift. Though probably not for want of trying. In either case.

But his article, entitled ‘my midlife crush on Taylor Swift’, is nothing short of emotional appropriation! I’m consulting lawyers as I write this. Although appreciate I may end up in court myself, even if only the court of woke public opinion on charges of ‘objectification’ and for persistently being an ancient, cis-male, middle-class, white, non-trans, lecherous bastard. Mea culpa.

Sathnam talks like he is the only ‘old-ish’ man to become a ‘fan’ of TS. Like he’s some kind of arriviste inspiration. Where there must be… well, there’s me, that’s one, me mate Ronnie, that’s two… thousands of old men who lust over the woman. And then justify it, or advertise it as ‘musical appreciation’.

I first became aware of the Ms Swift when she was really just a gel (can I say that???), on Jules Holland (thus she arrived with 100% musical validation), when her first ever single, Love Story, was released in 2008. It changed my life. Ok, not really, just figure of speech. But she was a fantastically talented songwriter and singer, writing precisely the songs that resonate completely with 15 year-old girls and middle-aged men. Since then she’s been prolific in her output. None of which I’ve ever bought or downloaded, if I’m totally honest, but that doesn’t mean I don’t listen to them. I just do it for free.

But if there’s one thing that elevates the merely ‘beautiful’ into the totally ‘must have’, that is intelligence. Not just mine. Hers. She’s clever, she’s witty, political and strong, taking no shit from no-one. Of course, if she looked like Hilda Ogden there’d be no amount of fantastic lyrics that would engage me. Does that make me a bad person? Yeah, probably does.

Basically, I’ve had a crush on Taylor (as I call her) for 15 years. I don’t need no trumped up, pervy journo trying to steal MY woman. Get yer own or I’ll cancel my subscription!!!!

Annoyed of NW11

xxxx

After a busy morning of tennis and saving the polar bears (which is I how I now call ‘driving’, in the electric vehicle, from my elevated driving position of ‘the moral high ground’, knowing that Greta Thunberg would smile at me as I tried to run her over, enjoying the silent smugness that only the fully electrically-vehicled can really appreciate) I found myself on the couch at about 5.30 with the tv showing me the second half of the FA Cup semi-final between Manchester United (boooo, baddies, rich, horrible, arrogant, petrol-driving) and Fulham (yaaaaaay, the good guys, lovely London low-key team with proper values and a stadium within the ULEZ). Surprisingly, at Old Trafford, over half the match was done and United hadn’t even been awarded one penalty. Unusual. Anyway, that soon changed. But before, Fulham scored.

They’d been pretty much all over United for the first 45 and always looked more likely to score. United looked like they hadn’t woken up properly. After a very long night of booze, rape and pillage. Usual for United players. But then…

Its kind’a why I love football. ‘What happened next???’

United were attacking, someone took a shot and little Willian arrived at the near post with his little Brazilian elbow stretched out to make the save. Oh dear. Handball. But, (and this is where it gets ‘good’), VAR has to intervene first. No-one can take a sip of water without VAR approval. And then the ref was called to watch the incident himself. At which point the Fulham manager hurled a torrent of abuse at the man in black, who promptly grabbed his red card and sent the Portugezer to the stands. He then returned to the pitch where he pointed to the penalty spot (there was never any question) and also waved his red card at Willian. Again, the ref had no choice, nearest to goal, prevents that goal, red card. So the Fulham players go ballistic. No idea why, it was all fairly obvious, but that’s why we love football. For the explosions of frustration, anger and the horrible realisation that you’re probably going to lose a match you’d been winning.

Aleksander Mitrovich, everyone’s favourite Serbian thug, grabbed hold of the ref to ‘remonstrate’. The posh term for GETTING IN HIS FUCKING FACE!!!!!! That went down well too as the ref showed him a red card as well. On the basis that there’s never a wrong time to send a Serb off the pitch.

And so United went on to beat 9-man Fulham.

That’s why I love football. Why I hate football is because, in the same way I wasn’t born the son of Bill Gates, Elon Musk or even a nice billionaire, I was ‘born’ as a Spurs fan. To suffer.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

After a truly wonderful evening at The Blonde and The Bastard’s house (‘wonderful’ in this context means the food was great, the whisky free and their company sufficiently engaging that neither Mel nor I fell asleep into our coffee cups), we went home, electrically, changed into our dressing gowns, amazingly, and made a cup of tea, obsessively, (‘making tea’ is that kind of deal). And turned on the tv.

Match of the Day is still banned in our house, in protest against Gary Lineker, but mainly because Spurs were shameful yesterday and I really had no desire to listen to our arrogant, aggressive manager bang on for 10 minutes blaming everyone at the club for his dismal failures. In case I damaged the tv. So I ‘found’ Women of Soul. Oooooh. And as I turned on there was Aretha, back in 1968, banging out ‘Say a little prayer’. It was a ‘live’ rendition, but everything in 1968 was either ‘live’ or ‘stoned’, even on Top of the Pops. And Aretha was just… she was… it was… simply, she was Aretha. I reckon, the best woman’s voice ever. And in the time it took to drink my tea, which was at least six or seven 3-minute tracks, I had no cause to change that view. And this was no mean cast of challengers. Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwick, Diana Ross, Randy Crawford, it was fantastic, but not Aretha. The only one who came close was Whitney. She of the angelic voice, the stunning beauty and the horrendous choice of partners and lifestyles. God rest her soul. And such Soul.

Then I went to bed. With the strains of ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ still ringing in my ears. It had stopped by this morning. But there’s always Alexa.

But Alexa won’t help me with Antonio Conte. She doesn’t do assassinations. He’s doing what all ex-Chelsea managers do: holding everyone else responsible for their own tragically malfunctioning shortcomings. Blaming the players lack of motivation is a bit rich. Considering he’s paid 15 million quid a year to do nothing else but ensure their commitment and cohesion. He’s a fuckwit Italian tosser and must go NOW.

Otherwise: happy Sunday

A xxxx