Andy's Glasses

The world’s at war. We’re joining in; slowly, reluctantly, obediently, and a bit pathetically. But war it is. Because the cause is so noble. Even though the people who started it can’t really put their fingers on the precise reasons for the war, the Orange One changes that particular goalpost every couple of days. Along with His view of the success. On Monday America ‘don’t need your fucking help! The war’s won already!!’, yet by Saturday he was demanding (he never merely ‘asks’) that Britain and France and China join him in the Straits of Hormuz to fight the enemy.

Even ‘the enemy’ has shape-shifted a bit. It was originally ‘Iran’, whereas now it is the price of gas at the pumps. Because that can seriously affect the results in mid-term elections in a way the nuclear potential of the Ayatollahs never could. And it’s this new enemy which has Trump calling for help in the water to try and get oil tankers moving safely through the Strait. An easy sentence to say. ‘Safely’. Because if you own an oil tanker, worth 100 million quid, and it has a cargo on board worth 20 million. And the insurance are not gonna pay you in the event of a war. Even without considering the crew, which, generally speaking, owners of oil tankers don’t, are you going to roll the dice on the US/British/Chinese defences stopping every single drone and missile attack from Iran?

Its war. So therefore I’m approaching ‘bunker mode’. Under my shed at the back of my garden is a bunker. I dug it myself. During the Cold War when we were just one John le Carre away from nuclear attack. I think the 270 tins of tuna may have now passed their sell-by and so probably have the potential to kill you quicker than a nuke, but I can re-stock. I’m buying bottles of water, all I can get in the car, before the panic-buyers take all the supermarket stocks. Because there’s nothing a panic-buyer hates more than panic-buyers. The problem is, the bunker’s not big. I only had my seaside spade to dig it with. So really, it’s more ‘large burial plot’ than a true ‘bunker’. There is room for 2 but only if we lie on top of each other, and move the tuna outside.

Actually, what I really did was fill up my car. When it was… half full!!! I never do that. I drive about 10 miles a week. And that’s a busy, rushing around week. So to fill up probably 3/4 weeks earlier than normal, I decided was ‘panic buying’. I’m not concerned that there won’t be petrol available, but the cost. Petrol has risen by… how can you even tell? They change the prices at the pumps every fucking day when there’s no oil-starvation war going on. Now it’s stupid. Soon they’ll hook up the pumps to computers with live feeds from the commodities exchange and the price will change constantly, as you’re filling up. But I don’t want to spend 1.57 a litre, which was what they wanted in Belsize Park, so I went to ‘downmarket’ Highgate and paid 1.43. A saving of such magnitude that I’m effectively getting free coffees for half the week!!!

Ed Milliband was on Laura Kuensberg this morning, and those profiteering, greedy, rip-off oil company executives better watch out. Because the man who showed just how difficult it is to eat a bacon sandwich, stated this morning, quite clearly and strongly, that errrr… well… errrr… this… errrrr… g-g-government will not st-st-stand for… errrrr… that… errrrr… sort of thing and we’ll… errrrr… probably… errrrr… do something about it… possibly. And you can’t get tougher than that!!! What a total tosser.

4.30. This afternoon. Anfield. Be there. Not so much a ‘must win’ as a ‘can’t possibly win under any circumstances imaginable or otherwise’. I might go to my bunker.

Happy Sunday (if fucking ONLY!!!!)

A xxxx

Sent from my iPad

So I only travel into town on my e-bike on ‘zero days’. Every hour on the BBC weather app marked zero chance of rain. If numbers appear. I take the tube.

Until today. There’s lots of rain forecast for this afternoon, but… the tube is suffering major fuckage. On the Northern Line. And, just to rub sulphuric acid in the wounds, at East Finchley. My station.

So I was left with a choice. Try and squeeze onto the trains which are running, once every 98 minutes, along with 42,000 other unwashed, garlic-eating sweaty bastards, or take the bike. And risk… getting wet!!!

I don’t have ‘weather gear’, its too pervy. I’d rather be soaked to the skin than look like a child molester. But I DO have a ‘kagool’, which no-one ever talks about these days. They are the clothing equivalent of Prince Andrew. And as I NEVER throw out old clothes, I went to the ‘pre-1997’ section of my wardrobe… ok, my whole wardrobe is ‘pre-1997’, except for the old stuff, and there it was. All shiny and waterproofy and only a fraction of the ‘deviance-appearance’ of other practical clothing.

And I’m praying for no rain.

There again, I prayed for a Spurs win on Tuesday night and where did that get me.

I’ll tell you where it got me. It got me thinking of the difference between being ‘humble’, being ‘humbled’ and being ‘humiliated’. I don’t know why, other than I love words. And they all come from the same root. Yet being humble is a good thing, being humbled, not quite so good, and being humiliated is what happens when you go to Madrid. It happened to us, then it happened again last night when Man City went there.

Its also what happens when you have a manager who is a wrong-un. We got Igor Tudor as a ‘short-term’ fixer. And we got a short-term fuck-up. Played 4, lost 4. And what he did to both our goalkeepers on Tuesday night was positively disgusting. Ok, neither of them did precisely what their job description states, but it was awful. And blaming the keeper when your defensive plan is inappropriate and ill-considered, is not a great way to ‘manage’.

Happy, hopefully dry Thursday

A xxxx

An algorithm is a device for solving problems. Finding solutions. It will follow a set of rules to find the best way to solve that problem. Simple. You wanna drive from Luton to Manchester (though no idea why you would want to), an algorithm will work out distances, the speed of the roads, factor in roadworks or accidents, if its sufficiently ‘live’ and come up with your answer. Probably ‘don’t bother; there’s nothing there’. Or creating a recipe so that every step is in the right order, maximising use of time.

That’s what Ronnie Algorithm invented them for, back in 1857 or 1972, possibly 1653.

What he didn’t envisage, when he created the first one, working out how to kill a Tyrannosaurus for dinner without getting killed, was that they’d be used by unscrupulous tech giant companies to lead our children towards suicide or our little boys towards… the manosphere!!!

Yet that’s what they do. Because if you take the algorithm to ‘make me as much money as you possibly can’ and hook it up to a supercomputer, you end up in the world we currently occupy. Well, in fact, not the world I occupy, but the one our children and their children do.

We all know about Molly Russell, the lovely little 14 year-old who killed herself after being bombarded with self-harm and suicide options on her phone. And now Mark Zukerberg is being sued by some parents because his social media platforms are addictive and destructive. And they have lost children too, like poor Molly’s dad. .

As professions go, this was not particularly an option when I was a kid, but there’s a geezer who plays video games online and monetises it by having over a million followers. That’s one million no-hope, brain-dead total fucking morons who spend their hours watching someone else kill aliens and monsters with the assorted weaponry he picks up along the way. I mean: really? But the point is that this ‘gamer’ dude, has now shut down. He makes millions and millions from it, but he’s disgusted that whilst watching him, the kids have to see adverts. Nothing’s free in this world. And those adverts are directed by YouTube’s algorithms for the target market. The young. Predominantly boys (girls are generally not as stupid and can find a better use for their time). And the ‘ads’, chosen by the algorithms, direct these ‘kids’ towards either porn sites or to the ‘manosphere’, that toxically misogynistic region filled with Andrew Tates and other muscle-bound ‘roid-monkeys pumped with testosterone who encourage these minors into the abuse of all women. Except their mums. Love yer mum, screw all the others, CONSENT NOT A REQUIREMENT. IT IS YOUR RIGHT!!! Just watch these porn movies and you’ll learn how women love to be strangled and tortured. LOVE IT!!!

The social media companies have the power to control their algorithms. And their advertisers. But for them its just an equation. Cost of potential law suits (few mil) vs the gain from toxic advertisers (loads of billions). Something needs to change. Kids are dying, FFS.

My football team’s dying too. In its death throes. I’m not sure what medical advances can save them, but it sure ain’t Igor Tudor. God help us.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

We all love that song. When the last night of the proms cries out ‘Rule Britannia!!!’, waving their little Union Jack flags, and holding their hearts, showing their collective pride in our national glory. Guaranteed to bring tears to the eyes of… well, certainly Nigel Farage, but to a lesser degree to the eyes of those who aren’t overtly nationalistic to the point extremism, xenophobic or out-and-out racist.

But they don’t sing it any more. For two reasons.

1. It offends people. No, I don’t get that either. If you can’t celebrate being British in Britain, something’s fucked, but the presence of all those flags upsets many jihadis, lots of communists, loyal to Moscow, a whole trough of hypersensitive ass-wipes, and Zac Polanski. Obviously.

2. It’s hard to ‘rule the waves’ when you have no boats. And currently, we have virtually none.

HMS Dragon is a fab and sophisticated Destroyer. But there’s a bit of a delay getting it over to protect the Cypriots from Iranian drones, so they’ll just have to manage for a couple of weeks whilst we finish the paintwork. No-one likes a shabby boat.

We have no 2 aircraft carriers, but they’re not ready. We have no battleships. Well, there’s one due for completion any time soon and another which isn’t working properly.

And then we’re sending our ‘armada’ over there to put the FEAR OF GOD!!!!, into those Iranians. HMS Dragon, plus the Cutty Sark, which is being readied right now, in Greenwich, even though it hasn’t sailed for 200 years and will take 3 weeks to get there. And they sending my mate, The Boatman, in his houseboat out there too. He’s got an arsenal of air rifles, pistols, crossbows and knives. So the Ministry of Defence asked him if he’d join the battle, for King and Country. He can be there, armed and ready, probably by June. July the latest.

We’ll show ‘em who rules the waves.

So why the dithering? Over everything. As someone pointed out, Starmer is more worried about the ‘process’ than the act. And we know he is a lawyer, so is obviously concerned about legal issues. And yet…

Britain is pretty much unable to defend itself from an attack. Not saying there’ll be one but hy-per-fett-ically, were we to come under attack, America would defend us. They’d have to. We are, in terms of our military ‘assets’, incapable of defending ourselves until the boats are finished and the aircraft updated in proper numbers. Ok, Europe and NATO are duty-bound to help us, but they are all a bunch of lily-livered Starmers, procrastinators and tossers.

America would have ‘our back’. We know they would. So when even an imbecilic US president like Trump calls to war; YOU FUCKING GO TO WAR. Especially when it was only the refuelling of US aircraft from our bases.

Starmer is shackled by his back benches, filled with former Corbynites who hate America, despise Israel and find themselves rather uncomfortably supporting the most toxic, evil, misogynistic, homophobic, repressive regime the world has ever known, just to defend their anti-Americanism and antisemitism. But Starmer needs these people. He needs their votes in parliament. So he’s always very measured in everything he does and says.

Tony Blair is right; when ‘they call’ you turn up.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

This beautiful picture shows a group of devout Christians, joined together as they harness the power of Jesus into their lives. Because Jesus died to save us. And if ever a group of people needed saving, you’re looking at ‘em. Because the alternative view of this photo is that it’s a group of hypocritical sycophants worshipping the Lord Trump. Himself a total fucking hypocrite unless you can reconcile ‘grabbing ‘em by the pussy’ with a life of adherence to the moral standards laid down in God’s laws.

I have no trouble with ‘true believers’ and their rights to pray. Whether that’s on your knees at bedtime, prostrating yourself towards Mecca 5 times a day, beating yourself with thorny sticks or tying little boxes on your arm and head when you wake up in the morning. Live and let live.

But what makes me cringe is a posed ‘pray in’. A photo-op for your Instagram page. Or Truth Central page. Why are they all holding Trump, FFS? As if he is the re-incarnation of Christ. Which he may believe, but no-one else does. Other than the suck-ups in the Oval Office. These are the people declaring wars all over our planet. Ok, I’m not necessarily opposed to any of those wars. But they can’t be about religion, or driven by prayer. Then it all becomes a ‘crusade’. And praying to God before, let’s face it, murdering lots of people, seems a bit desperate. It’s like Spurs fans praying to God for help, as we’re all currently doing. The difference is; we know He has abandoned us. And Pete Hegseth, for all his alleged devotion, looks like a man abandoned by God too. Maybe he’s a closet Spurs fan.

You wanna pray; be my guest. But I don’t think you need to show the world. We’re not impressed. It wreaks of insincerity. And HE will know. Amen.

So much has happened this week. War started, planes grounded, travel disrupted, football teams (almost) relegated. And yet, I went into work four days on my e-bike. That makes up for a shit-load of missiles dropped on Tehran. And I only prayed every time I rode a red light (praying that there were no police around) and every time I overtook a bus on the inside. Actually I don’t do that. I’m daft but not stupid.

And my prayers must have been answered in some way because it was just about dry enough for tennis this morning. So He looks after me, but not Trump. As it should be.

Happy Sabbath Day

A xxxx

You know when you hear something really horrible and it puts your mind in a total spin. Like someone’s disease; a tsunami in Rochdale; plague in Nairobi; stock market crash in Tangiers, war in Iran. At first you deny it could be possible, then you look for what can be done to make it right, or make it a bit better and, eventually, you just have to accept it for the tragedy it is.

And so it is with Spurs. I’ve reached acceptance that we ARE going down this season. I just can’t see any way we can possibly win a match. And thus I no longer care. Phah! Easy as that. Spurs are in the championship and I shall look forward to hosting Hull City and Swansea and Stoke and all the other third-rate mud-hoofers and brawlers who play in our ‘lower leagues’. We, obviously, don’t do ‘mud’ at the Lane, but maybe next year, we’ll rise to the occasion. If we can afford to buy some.

Because they reckon the net loss to Spurs if they go down will be about £250million. That’s all. TV rights, loss of gate receipts, merchandising, European stuff (unless we win the Champions League!!!), all manner of add-ons, or in fact ‘add-offs’ in this case. The players will be clamouring for the door. I’ll volunteer to carry their bags out and even pay for their Ubers out and away. There’s none I’d want to keep (other than Djed Spence and Archie Gray) but the problem will be one of ‘who will buy them?’ Who will pay their ridiculous salaries. When asked their qualifications they’ll answer: ‘well, I played total shite for 2 years under 3 managers, 2 owners and five captains’. Oh yes, they’ll say at Manchester City and Barcelona and Inter Milan; that’s just what we’re looking for; a worthless, talentless moron with 3 Range Rovers and a massive sense of entitlement.

Our next game is away at Liverpool. That’s surely 3 points in the bag.

So I’m ‘accepting’; doesn’t mean I can’t be fucking miserable.

Not quite Happy Friday

A xxxx

Listen, there’s only so much time and space and energy I can devote to international wars of potentially catastrophic consequences, to deaths, murders, tyrants and inept Prime Ministers unable to send our nation’s one and only boat over to save the Cypriots from invasion or devastation. It gets boring .And quite frankly, there are more important things than world wars.

There’s football.

Generally.

More specifically, there is the match tonight at White Hart Lane which will have more impact on the future of the world (well, my world) than all the bombs in Tehran. Than all the submarines in Sri Lanka. This match is more important than…

Jeffrey Epstein!!!

If you look at the league table, above, (well, the bottom third, the important bit), you will observe the following:

Wolves are gone. Recent change of fortunes may temporarily flatter, but only in the way that a fabulous manicure can flatter a great fat smelly ugly person. (Use of the word ‘bird’ was banned by this site in 1987).

Burnley the same. No hope. Much as I love Scotty Parker, they’ve sadly come up way short of the mark. Too little, too late.

So there’s one relegation slot up for grabs. And the contenders are: West Ham, the favourites, (well, ‘my’ favourites) to go down, but now level on points with Nottingham Forest. Last night the Hammers beat Fulham and Forest amazingly drew with Man City. Doing no-one any favours. Except Arsenal. And possibly Nottingham Forest.

One point above those two sit Spurs. I’d like to remind you all that Tottenham Hotspur are officially a ‘top 6 club’, even though they sit in the bottom 5. We are ‘Champions League, top 6’!!! That we are a ‘big club’, as defined by the size and quality of our stadium and the amazing amount of cash that we never spend on decent players. In any measure of dicks, we are hung like an elephant. Except if that measure includes success on the pitch.

Above Spurs, by just 2 points lie Leeds United. Who you simply have to hate, because they’re from Yorkshire. And three points above them are Crystal Palace. The team coming to Spurs tonight. And, tantalisingly, the last team Spurs actually beat. Back at Christmas. When Joey, Tory-boy and I watched it in Tenerife, celebrating like… like people celebrate when they are greatly relieved.

If we win, we rise to a lofty 15th place, above Leeds and four points clear of West Ham and Forest. But if we don’t…

Those two teams have both reached that place and time where they ‘have to play well’ (a condition that you would imagine ALL teams reach, ALL the fucking time) and have risen to their respective occasions. Whilst Spurs, on current form, are the worst team in the league. Not yet psychologically realising the nature of their situation to the extent that they’re playing like the grossly overpaid ‘superstars’ they were bought for. Rather than playing like fat, ugly birds with painted nails.

Without sounding too ‘west side story’: Its all about ‘tonight’. We win, or we’re fucked.

God help us. Even though he’s abandoned us for the last 2 years.

BIG Thursday,

A xxx

What does it mean when Donald Trump accuses Kier Starmer of being ‘no Churchill’? Does he mean he’s not a fat fucker smoking a cigar? Probably not. He’s referring to Churchill’s famous war-time leadership, strength and natural understanding of the bigger picture, rather than sweating over the minutiae, the legalities and the nonsense from his party members. I think it safe to say that Starmer is not even a Ghandi. Because although Mahatma was always anti-violence, at least he was clever and knew what was going on. Starmer’s more a ‘Macron’. Ineffectual, dilly-dallying procrastinator with an Oedipus complex, who won’t start his petit-dejeuner every morning until its been ratified by the Supreme Court. That’s Kier Starmer’s more comfortable position.

Because he’s an insecure introvert. And thus pairing him with Trump’s MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE; alpha-male, LOOK-AT-MEEEE, personality, the ‘special relationship’ (the term coined in fact by Churchill himself) was always deemed to be a little one-sided. Ok, Kier presented Don with a Royal invitation on his first visit to the White House, but that just solidified the nature of the deal. Starmer was always destined to be the nerdy little suck-up sycophant to Trump’s school playground bully. So when Starmer decides to ‘stand up and speak out’ over something like the invasion of Iran, Trump resorts to ‘name calling’. If it was a zoom call, he’d have stuck out his tongue.

Starmer’s problem is not to do with backing the ousting of the Ayatollah. Everyone is agreed on that. The difficulty our PM has is that half of his political party and ‘on the left of the middle’, and as such just have to be anti-American. If America does ‘it’, then ‘it’ MUST BE, ipso facto, wrong. Its ’empire building’, its ‘invasion’, its ‘only done for profit’. Which in many cases is true. But in this case, it ain’t. What Trump’s real motivation for attacking Iran NOW might be, we’ll probably never know. As the reasons he states tend to change daily. With all previous reasons then forgotten.

All Starmer had to do was back him. His ‘special relationship’ ally. His ‘brother’, in-arms. And Kier was found not so much lacking as contemplating his navel. Worrying about the legalities. Trying to work out new ways to define ‘defence’ which can accommodate re-fuelling planes which are going on the serious ‘offence’.

What we should all be concerned about is where it ends. Cos ‘they’ are not going to ‘give in’. But that shouldn’t stop where it begins.

Happy Wednesday

No Truss xxxx

I love contemplating my navel. I’m a ‘liberal’. I believe in negotiated peace in all worlds, wherever possible. And I’m a believer of ‘talking’.

Therefore I am the problem. Because I’m symptomatic of the British malaise, exemplified beautifully by our Prime Minister, in which problems are addressed by navel contemplation, by wishing for unrealistic outcomes, by assuming that everyone in the world can be negotiated with and worst of all, the presumption that ‘good will prevail’. But only after 13 judges have contemplated the ‘legal framework’.

That’s what we do. We talk. We debate. We have ‘conversations’. And nothing ever gets resolved.

So when Israel swore to eliminate Hamas from Gaza, everyone was in complete agreement. In theory. And in that theory, there was some kind of ‘negotiated settlement’, possibly? Or invitations to leave? Maybe force a few out but obviously as long as there was NO collateral damage. As I kept saying during the Gaza demolition: THIS IS WHAT DESTROYING HAMAS LOOKS LIKE.

Israel doesn’t do navel contemplation. It’s too small, too sensitive, too vulnerable. It can’t afford to make stupid presumptions of ‘good in all people’, when those people have just raped, tortured and murdered 1250 innocent civilians. So it ‘cuts to the chase’. And gets the job done. It’s not pretty, it’s certainly not popular, but they don’t care if it protects their population.

And now we have the ‘we need regime change in Iran but not ‘the American/Israeli way’’ brigade. This takes naivety way beyond normal levels of stupidity and elevates it to the ridiculous. The Iranian people tried the normal route of protesting, back in January, and 5000 of them were murdered, 50,000 still remain in jail. Will they ever be seen again? Possibly not if the IRGC are still in charge.

Regime change HAS to come from within. But getting rid of the old one, in this instance, HAD to come from without. From above. From outside. Because they would never otherwise go. Tyrannical rulers don’t just ‘leave’ because lots of people hate them. THIS IS WHAT REGIME CHANGE LOOKS LIKE. Or ‘starts like’ in this instance.

The Iranian people, the good ones, the civilised ones, do not want to ban religion. They want democracy. In which everyone is free to practice whatever devotion they wish. But aren’t forced to adhere to certain levels of a belief system they don’t wish to partake in. ‘The Regime’ forced an extreme form of Shia Islam on everybody. A new regime won’t remove the mosques, the imams, the beliefs. It will leave them to choice. And others so choosing will be allowed to listen to pop music, for instance. Wear clothes that a bunch of state-employed thugs might deem ‘immodest’. Women will get the freedoms that all women should be allowed. Education. Driving. LIVING.

I’m looking forward to this weekend’s protests over here. The ‘Free Palestine’ brigade now have another reason to hate and blame Israel (because these people never marched for any other world issue, regardless of how many ‘innocent civilians’ were dying) and America. So they’ll change their banners to ‘Free Iran’. But they won’t mean that phrase like we all mean it. We want to free the Iranian people. They want to free Iran from American and Israeli intervention, presumably consigning it to another few generations of horror and repression. And Zac Polanski will be leading it.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Today is not only beautiful and sunny, but is officially, the first ‘zero day’ of the year. That’s what I call days when the hourly weather forecast for north London (I really don’t care about the rest of it) is just a series of zeros in the rain column. And why do I care? Am I against the farmers, who apparently love rain? No, I don’t care about them either; I like frozen peas. A rain-free day means that I can roll the e-bike out of hibernation, charge it up and break various traffic laws 87 times before Kentish Town. It means fun has returned to my commute. It means… happiness. I had the bike serviced in October because I had no back brake. It had just got looser and looser and then, nothing. So I had it serviced. And then the rains came. For about 5 months, rain, rain and more rain. Until today. And the brakes are fine. Though I must admit, I don’t use them very much, because I DON’T STOP FOR ANYTHING!!! Certainly not for red lights, road works, traffic jams or fucking pedestrians (GET OFF MY FUCKING PAVEMENT!!!!). Every week in the papers I read of some journalist’s crusade ‘against the bikes’, which ‘terrorise her travel’, and I read the description of ‘the nightmare biker’ and it is me. Yet its really not my fault. The government (both national and local) have made driving the most horrible of experiences. Speed bumps, pot-holes, 20mph roads, cameras; its just a misery. So the last bastion of enjoyable travel is on 2 wheels, ‘assisted’ by some electric power. So I can still vote for the Greens, because there’s no petrol involved.

And I’m so Green that I now have to mourn the ‘passing’ of the Ayatollah. (I hate the term ‘passing’, which is why I’ve used it here. It implies an afterlife which I don’t believe in, it implies something voluntary and good, which it often isn’t. But particularly when it applies to someone who died by 30 rockets blowing up an entire compound in which he happened to be. That’s not a ‘passing’; that’s more a ‘hurling’).

I don’t know why ‘we’ are mourning him, he was an evil fucker, directly responsible for tens of thousands of deaths, and totally responsible for promoting a repressive, hateful, restrictive and violent regime. Which is what Zac (first name terms here) actually said, back in 2023. But now we’re on the side of the Ayatollahs. Its that easy to change. Just follow Zac. And the world will be under sharia law before you can say ‘save the whales’. I still can’t see the link but Zac will tell me why he’s abandoned the women of Iran in favour of the oppressors, I’m sure. Like when he abandoned his Jewishness in favour of the terrorists. When we become Green-land (no relation) all will be explained.

Happy e-bike Monday

A xxxx