Andy's Glasses

I’m still intrigued by the couple who won’t tell anyone, including their own parents, the gender of their baby. They want it to be ‘neutral’. Which is really nice and thoughtful. If you’re a vegan tree-hugger who likes seriously fucked up children who’ll need a lifetime’s therapy. Otherwise it is basically, using their child as an experiment. Testing some pseudo-socio-scientific hypotheses that if you DON’T gender stereotype your child then it will… errrrr… then as it grows… hmmmm… then by the time ‘it’ is 10…

It will be fucked up. Possibly not quite as much as its parents because they have a choice. And it will NEVER wear blue or pink. Only yellow. Like Ali-G.

The implication is that all gender characteristics are learned. That there is nothing innate, genetic, hereditary or ‘natural’. Therefore, deprived of the usual biased input (soldiers for boys, dollies for gels, etc), the child will ‘grow into its own person!’ It will ‘choose the gender it prefers from the 17 now available to it!’ Because it won’t be taught how to be a boy or a girl. Just a… a what? A person? A weirdo? A dog?

It’s true that a lot of child behaviour, producing the adult it will eventually become, is programmed. Learned. But you can’t learn a nob. It’s just kind’a there. Or not. You can’t learn a pair of tits.

And with sexual characteristics comes responsibility. Or lack of it, if its the nob option.

So whilst we’re using children as case studies, I’ll mention my little Joey. Who is (dare I say?) a boy!! And he IS a boy. He’s more physical than Lila was. Perhaps that’s due more to being a second child and hence being loved to the point of bruising by the first child. By being dragged around the floor. Or maybe, even though I haven’t bought him his first gun yet (only a matter of time) he is just ‘a boy’. Possibly the genes that have evolved since homo erectus had his first erection predispose boys to be proto-hunter/gatherer/protectors and girls to be nurturing/maternalistic to better mother the children they might one day have. Who knows?

Bulgarians have a different way of learning. They learn to be hateful, spiteful, nasty, nazi and racist. So for the England match last night in Sofia FIFA had decided that in punishment for their previous obnoxious behaviour, they’d leave half the stadium empty. And I think what happened was that they shut the wrong half. So all the nice, decent, pleasant, liberal-minded and tolerant Bulgarians (an assumption that is proving a ‘big ask’) were the ones they shut out by mistake. Leaving just all the horrible, vile thugs who shouted racist abuse at the England players from the first minute. And without wishing to be seen as too reactionary, the answer is simple. Any country in which racist abuse, or any other, is heard, endured, exhibited, is just banned from the tournament with immediate effect. That would either shut the muthafuckas up or ensure that there is no Eastern European representation in any major sporting event.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Real men play tennis in the rain. FACT. Ok, maybe ‘in the drizzle’ because if balls get soggy, heavy, nasty, that ain’t no fun and the ground gets slippery so even my super K-Swiss, cross-tread, super-grip, climb-up-a-fucking-wall-like-Spiderman!!!! tennis shoes can’t really cope and that could spell disaster. At my age.

But what about rugby? Holy shit, that’s the most manly of manliest games. They play in ANYTHING. Those boys are superhuman. Bullets bounce off them. Meteorites turn round and go back when they see a flanker in the way. Rain???

But a typhoon is a bit different. In fact Typhoon Hagibis is a bit nasty and 30 people have already been killed during its tenure at the Rugby World Cup. So the England game was cancelled. Against France. Which, in terms of affecting any of the group positions or qualifications, was academic. But obviously way less ‘academic’ for the thousands of fans who managed to get a ticket for ‘last group game!!!!!’ at great expense, took time off work, booked an exorbitant flight, checked into a Love Hotel, had a row with the wife, abandoned the kids and has already blown the monthly nappy budget on beer and chicken yakatori.

Then came the Scotland game. Or not. Depending on typhoons (no-one mentions the earthquakes enjoyed in Tokyo on Thursday, they’re nothing). And this was a different kettle of haggis altogether. Because Scotland needed a win to progress to the quarter finals. And if abandoned, the rule is ‘2 points each’. Enough for the victorious Japs to move onwards in the tournament, but pitifully insufficient for the Scots for whom victory and only victory would prevent them from flying home. In shame.

They spoke of abandoning the game, the Scots said ‘they’d sue!!’ Who, exactly, and on what grounds, I’m not sure. Above my pay-grade. But sue they would. Probably sue God as it was one of his ‘acts’. But amazingly, the game was played. Safely and securely and it even looked quite pleasant out there.

But the Japs hadn’t read the script, which was written in Scottish, so pretty much no-one could understand it. And the Japanese, ever more impressive with each game they battle with every grain of rice in their very souls. They fight like the Samurai, they compete like Ninjas, they scrimmage like Sumo and eat, like, sushi.

I can never forget Andy Murray, the ‘typical Scotsman’, when he said: “whoever is playing against England I will support”. And thus I was thrilled with a win for Japan. Mel was upset, not that she loves rugby but because her father was born in Edinburgh. Enough that she could qualify for playing rugby for Scotland, like Michael Leitch is ‘Japanse’. And I just love the spirit in which the Japs play the game. It is heart-warming and admirable. Until they play England, then I may change my views.

Happy stormy Monday

A xxxx

About 5 years ago there was always a ‘Driving’ supplement in the Sunday Times. Only 8/10 pages, but its own thing, separate from the rest. So Jeremy Clarkson could wax lyrical about the latest hypercar that no-one reading the paper was ever going to afford and even if they could, there’s only 17 being produced and Jay Leno’s bought the lot. But you don’t read Clarkson because you’re looking to buy a car, you read him because he’s the last of the politically-very-incorrect dinosaurs not yet serving time in prison. There were other writers, some even offering more practical advice if you’re looking for a cheap run-a-round but have 7 children and four dogs, kind of stuff. And all sorts of other ‘car things’.

Then they decided to incorporate the driving section into the main Magazine. And it immediately reduced to about 4 smaller pages. And now its sometimes just 2 pages and and and and…

Writing about the sort of cars that I want to read about is about as zeitgeist as reading reviews on the best cigarettes, comparisons of ‘how many burgers you can buy for a fiver’, or recipes for cooking dogs.

Greta Thunberg don’t read driving sections. Extinction Rebellion would burn them but don’t want to increase carbon levels so they drown them instead. And with the move towards climate protectionism I can actually see how unfashionable it is for Clarkson to review today the new Aston Martin. A car that burns fossil fuels in Brontosaurus quantities. A car that emits… stuff on a massive scale. A car that is noisy, brash, brutal and so fast that there is nowhere other than a race track where you could even begin to appreciate that fastness. But its so pretty and sleek and… Aston Martinish and James Bondy and… and… its only 250k for the convertible, even though the hood mechanisms apparently a bit dodgy (you have to pay more for a good one) and I want it. I want them all. The more impractical the better. The bigger, the faster, the more uneconomical, the most polluting, the least electric, the most V-numbers you can think of, everything.

But try telling that to the kids of today. Phah!

I kind of appreciate that the kind of ‘driving’ things I love to read about represents the Book of Satan to most people, but so what? It’s not like I’m going to buy a car like that. Ok, maybe just one or two, but why can’t I read about them. Car porn. The Mail on Sunday, which I only read for annoyance anyway, annoys me more now because they’ve abandoned ‘Driving’ altogether. Which used to be written by Chris Evans and there’s no-one more annoying that him.

So I’m going to bring out a car magazine of my own. Nothing electric will ever be mentioned. Every week we’ll burn a different hybrid and compare the smoke patterns. Only cars in excess of 956 carbons per 20 yards will feature and every photo will have a non-objectified, post-feminist egalitarian draped over a bonnet wearing a bikini, or less. A really stacked one.

Happy reading.

A xxxx

It’s over. All the Brexit bollocks has finally reached an end, a conclusion, the pound’s recovered (a bit), the future looks rosy and everything is good again in the Kingdom.

We have a deal!

Ok, we have the basis of the fundamentals of the possibility of a mere chance of a deal, but even that is way more than we’ve had before. Enough to raise Stirling a lofty 2% against the dollar. But the numbers are insignificant; its the direction of travel that’s critical. The pound moved UPWARDS. Holy shit.

Now ALL we have to do is finalise the details, all of them, get them accepted by Brussels (how hard can that be?) and then seek parliamentary approval (how hard can THAT be???) next Saturday and we’re home and dry.

NEXT SATURDAY!!!!!

Yeah, how long does it take, FFS? Week is ample. Boris may take this weekend off to sunbathe in Texas with Jennifer Arcuri as part of an ongoing mission to promote tech start-ups with no strings attached or abuse of position, squandering of public funds or sleazy sex involved. Then he can start refreshed on Tuesday. Loads’a time.

And here’s the thing. Remainers, among who I used to count myself until they started acting a bit free with the project fearisms and the hyperbole and the doomsday scenarios, they use terms like ‘off the edge of a cliff’ and ‘catastrophic’ and painting all the doom and gloom. So although I still don’t want to leave, I’ve reached the point of ANYTHING BUT MORE OF THIS SHIT in my life. Somewhat reassured by Boris and the Brexit brigade constantly telling us that even with no deal, all will be fine. No really. Fine. No worries.

And then up pipe Nissan. The car company. Who aren’t remainers or Brexiteers, though you’d kind’a think they’re more the former than the latter because they built a massive, fuck-off factory in Sunderland decades ago just so they could export easily to Europe. Which they do with 70% of the cars made there. Where 6,000 good, honest (as honest as anyone from the north-east) workers earn their crusts. And Nissan said that if we ‘crash out’ without a deal, they will PROBABLY (elevated from ‘possibly’) have to close the plant.

And that struck a chord with me. This wasn’t Dominic Grieve getting distraught, it wasn’t Gina Miller doing her bit for democracy and the Queen, wasn’t overly reactionary posturing from any of the countless remain morons. This was a Japanese company which employs thousands of our people telling it like it is. And that says way more than a hundred speeches in Parliament. Because its not mere speculation, baseless hypothesising, wishful thinking or scare mongering. It’s reality.

Too wet for tennis, there’s no fucking football, the rugby’s been cancelled, I might as well join Extinction Rebellion for the day and superglue myself to Nelson’s Column with everyone else. Or go for brunch with Lila and Joey…

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So it was Lila-day and everything was… was Lila. The entire day revolves around this tiny little two-and-a-half (almost) year old bundle of manic enthusiasm. It is brilliant, it is endlessly funny and it is totally exhausting. And we have a rule in our house, as far as Lila is concerned, which is this: THERE ARE NO RULES. Ok, there are a few boundaries, but I think they’re more to control me than Lila. Because we love Lila exploring and undoing and digging around. Kids are naturally inquisitive and that’s gotta be good. Right?

So we were having lunch and Lila picked up my phone which was sitting on the table. It lives in a case. Little leather one. Blue. And YES I know phone covers are tacky and a bit eeeuuuuwww and no-one born since 1990 would ever use one other than in irony. But I’m a klutz. It’s natural. No lessons, no sessions with a professional, I’m just blessed with the ability to break/drop/destroy virtually anything. You can’t teach that. So a phone cover is essential. And I don’t have a wallet, because they’re sissy, girly- sorry, because I would loose it along with all my worldly possessions kept therein, on a weekly basis, plus; they’re bulky and bothersome and I hate encumbrance. So I keep the 2 credit cards which I most use in my phone case. Always have my phone, always need to have a card (Amex; hence-)or two with me, so that’s where they live. Tucked inside where they can’t fall out. Like the last card did.

But little fingers love to explore. I actually remember (vaguely) seeing those little fingers tinkering in the phone case but thought no more of it. Until I went to get my card out much later. And it was DON!!!

Not ‘gone’ because this was definitely Lila and she says ‘don’. Both cards, AWOL. Holy shit. We searched, we ripped everything apart, we did all those fruitless and futile things you do when trying to think inside a two-and-a-half year old’s head but effectively, you are denied access to such a place. Have been for 61 years now.

So I phoned Virgin to get a new one. And failed fucking security. How can I? When I am definitely and unambiguously ME. I passed sufficiently to cancel the old card but not to get a new one. So I called again, logging in online first to have sufficient information to prove my worthiness, and was told a new card would be here in 7-10 days.

Then I called Amex. And after just two minutes chat to the most pleasantly nice person ever I was told my new card would be here Monday.

It’s the little things. That both cause the trouble and sort it out far less traumatically. I love Amex. Perfect company for serial losers/destroyers/misplacers of cards.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I don’t really do religion. It’s just not my thing. I do Kultcheral religious stuff, because its part of our Kultcha, innit, and allows me to eat chopped liver and challah, the foods of the gods. But actual prayin’?? Naaaah. Praying in English, most of which I understand, always seems like total nonsense. Praying in Hebrew, which I really don’t understand, is therefore meaningless nonsense that the masses recite, en masse and although some of the tunes are quite moving, most of the voices singing them aren’t, so I just generally don’t. Which is no problem really as I don’t spend much time in a prayerful environment.

Except yesterday. Yom Kippur. The holiest of holy days for Jewish people. Because then I HAVE to go to the synagogue, as a kind of cultural imperative. And I know its a bit of a cop out, enjoyed by most ‘secular Jews’ who don’t do much in the way of prayer at all. So we do Yom Kippur and the preceding week we ‘do’ the New Year (Hebrew new year, lunar calendar, don’t ask) and we’re kind’a ‘done for the year’. Boxes ticked; I’m a ‘good Jew’.

And even when I go to synagogue, I generally find any reason not to join the praying. Not because I think ‘it’s all bollocks’ because that would be too subjective an analysis to impose onto people for whom it, presumably, has a much more profound meaning.

So I take as many turns on the security rota as I can take, strolling through the park in my stab-vest, hi-viz and radio in my ear is a great way to while away 27 prayers, even when its pitch black and there’s a 30mph wind blowing. And instead of going to the main prayer services, I go to the explanatory service. Where prayer is minimalised, its mainly taken in English and its fascinating on a philosophical/theological level which is even… INTERESTING!!!

So I grew up, as do all Jews, almost fearing Yom Kippur, because it is ‘translated’ as The Day of Atonement!!! Kind of Judgment Day!!!! Where we ‘atone’ for our ‘sins’ in the preceding year. And you have to starve yourself for 25 hours to ‘purify’ yourself, or ‘punish’ yourself, in the process. Safe to say, no-one corrects this at all when you’re young and impressionable, and the rabbis nurture that fear because they’ll do anything to get people into prayer.

And because we’re English speaking our entire vocabulary is based on Christian values. And therefore the nuance and the actual meanings of the ancient Hebrew gets ‘Anglicised’ for convenience.

So we are not ‘atoning’. What we’re doing is adding up our errors (the Hebrew word means ‘to miss a target’ but is translated as ‘sin’ because Christians love sins and punishments and flagellation and redemption) so that next year we can do better. Not financially (though it wouldn’t hurt) but as a person. And we don’t ‘starve’ as punishment. We simply pray so hard (ok, but stay with me on this) that we simply choose to ignore our bodily demands as simply unimportant on the spiritual plane we have ascended to. We are almost ‘angels’ (another impoverished translation error which does emphatically NOT mean little cherubs with fucking wings and tutus, but a higher mental state). And angels don’t eat, don’t shit… but that is, in fact allowed, don’t drink, don’t fornicate, don’t nuffink. And that is an aspiration for that day, not a punishment.

And I love that theory. The practice I can take or leave, but I love the idea that if people believe in a God then its a forgiving type of God, who understands that we’re not perfect and just says: ‘ok, so you fucked things up, try harder next time, phah!’ God becomes your best mate rather than a solemn bearded geezer with a whip and a dagger.

The things you learn if you stop talking to your mates for 10 minutes and concentrate.

Happy Next Day

A xxxx

And sometimes you just have to work. As it is written. And all that rushing round, getting into the City early, being busy busy, can be a bad thing. Ok, it may have its rewards (in one life or other) but it can prevent me from finding my ‘happy place’ and contemplating the world in order to make it better.

So having sorted out Boris, who may or may not have had a ‘relationship’ with tubby blond Yank, but it DOESN’T MATTER and is no-one’s business at all. Because essentially paying someone 135 grand of public money so he can shag his latest is no compromise of anyone’s standards. Sorted.

Rugby? Sorted. Athletics? Sorted. Dina Asher-Smith is wonderful and edible. Donald Trump? Sorted. Unless you’re a Kurd or any other type of decent, responsible human being. Brexit? Ok, not everything is quite so binary. And then there’s football. This year’s taboo subject. The unmentionable. The game that shan’t be named.

Because its all gone, in the parlance, ‘tits up’. The glory days are over. If they really ever began in earnest. The joy, the pleasure, the delight, the… the… the everything has just been sucked down some horrible sewage pipe into a steaming great heap of total fuckage. As we enter ‘international week’ on the back of last week. Which ended: Played 2, lost 2, goals for, 2, goals against, 10. Players performing well, none, players you’d like to kill or maim, 9, manager you love… jury’s out.

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY FOOTBALL TEAM????

A cry that can be just as loudly heard all over Manchester. As United underperform to a ridiculously high (low?) standard. And City lose at home to Wolves. Which is no big shame or tragedy; its just not Manchester City. As we know and hate them. Chelsea are winning, which is a surprise to everybody, especially Frank Lampard and Arsenal hit a ‘seam of form’, winning a massive 2 consecutive games. Liverpool keep on winning. But as very few people care about them, that’s scant compensation for the clusterfuck that has been the start of this season.

I’m already wishing it was next season. The only consolation is that our goalie has broken his arm and won’t be able to give away ridiculous and unnecessary goals until January at the earliest.

Spurs have destabilised. Our defenders can no longer defend, our attackers suffer attacks and our midfielders just don’t. There’s no spirit, there’s no cohesion, there’s no love. Whether this is down to the manager ‘losing the dressing room’, as has been alleged, or due to players who wanted to leave not actually doing so, or whether its down to the rumours of lovely Jan Vertongen being not quite so lovely as he ‘does a Boris’ with Christian Eriksen’s wife. That’ll cause upset.

The result is that we are just rubbish. Which started at the end of last season but was somewhat disguised by our league position and champions league appearance. Now the disguise is over, the facade is gone, we are just shit.

Time to pray. Well it is yom kippur tomorrow; what better time?

Fast well
A xxxx

These latest allegations against Boris (though you really REALLY have to be specific when allegations against Boris are concerned because there are just so many flying around at any time) are grossly unfair! The ones about the Mayor and the Blonde Tart. Sorry, Jennifer Arcuri wasn’t the Mayor. But we don’t know the story. Boris has denied any allegations of wrong doing and I think we have to believe him. Because… because… Ok, I’ll try again: WHY THE FUCK WOULD ANYONE BELIEVE ANYTHING BORIS SAYS PARTICULARLY WHEN AFFAIRS OF HIS TESTICLES ARE IN QUESTION??
That’s better.

The situation was thus:

Boris was Mayor of London and accepted that responsibility with all due care and consideration and… and responsibility. And if you think that some brassy blonde slapper could make him somehow just lose his judgment and act in a stupid, moronic, negligent or even, dare I say, ‘horny’ way as a consequence of her mere slappery brassiness, then YOU DON’T KNOW OUR MAYOR/PM VERY WELL.

He’s a man of honour and integrity and honesty and trustworthiness and extreme loyalty to the institution of marriage. I’m not saying he’s infallible. Who among us can cast that ‘first stone’??? Eh???

I’m just saying that in moments of extreme weakness, but, like REALLY extreme, Boris could, possibly, potentially, hypothetically, theoretically, allow himself to compromise his ‘head’ for his ‘penis’. I’m not saying it happened, I’m not saying it was even on the cards, I’m just, kind’a, throwin’ it out there. Like a Devil’s Avocado. But less green.

Boris simply offered a woman (see; equal opportunity, blah, blah) the chance to run a government quango about online entrepreneurs. Of which she was definitely one because she had a smart phone. She applied for the post through normal channels and was summarily rejected as being ridiculously unqualified. They didn’t go so far as to say she’d be better suited as a glamour model, but its there between the lines. Boris merely intervened, because HE HAD THE FORESIGHT TO RECOGNISE HER IMMENSE POTENTIAL. He was thinking outside the box. Just not necessarily thinking outside her ‘box’. And so he gave her the 100k a year salaried job. A job she did really really… well, we have no idea.

There is absolutely no suggestion that Boris was motivated in this strictly ‘London’ decision, based on ‘business acumen and ability’ by any promise of cheap and sleazy sex. None at all.

Furthermore, according to Ms Acuri (the current bidding for ‘her story’ is at $225k), another honourable and honest person, men simply ‘fall in love with her in 2 minutes’. I forgot to mention her ‘modesty’. In all its meanings.

So this is a story, an almost tragic story, of nothing more that the assumptions made by Boris haters based on their prejudices and without any substantial evidence whatsoever. Ok, the ‘circumstantial’ evidence is in sufficient quantity to possibly bring back hanging, but it is JUST that; circumstantial. And thus we need to leave Boris alone until the ‘truth’ emerges. And doubtlessly proves his innocence.

Now click your heels three times and think of Kansas.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We all love a ‘loophole’. That’s what makes tax avoidance such fun, its why shutting down parliament was such a hoot, loopholes are just neat and canny way of sidestepping rules. And thus they cause consternation and upset among the very conservative types as they perceive the whole loopholey thing as ‘cheating’. But what when the conservative types need their own loopholes? What happens then??
You can’t get more conservative than the Shia Muslims of Iraq. They’re really strict. Adherent to their rules as laid down by all those holy of holies who spend their days restricting everyone’s lives. In the name of God, obvs. And yet some ‘clerics’ have devised a cunning plan to help people… errrr… well, to help men… to… have sex with women. Outside marriage, sleazy and dirty, effectively prostitution but that is TOTALLY ILLEGAL under Sharia law and thus would NEVER be even entertained as a thought. Ish. Except by men. Who often think of little else.

The clerics use a tool (no pun) called a ‘temporary marriage’. And it is beyond the merely loophole and enters the realms of total hypocrisy. Its called a ‘temporary marriage’. Presumably this only works in places where polygamy is allowed, like Iraq, Utah. And the ‘cleric’ not only issues you with a marriage certificate for this temporary arrangement, lasting as little as just 1 hour, but also provides you with a ‘bride’ too. I mean that’s a service any religion can be proud of. Though any other religion might prefer to use the word ‘pimp’, rather than ‘cleric’.

The tragedy of all this really is that these vile men will provide girls as young as 9 for this ‘temporary marriage’. These ‘clerics’. But its a problem the imams and the big-wigs are familiar with and are trying to, blah, blah, blah, usual bollocks.

The problem is not with the loophole. The problem is with the law which creates the need for these ridiculous measures to become necessary. I’m not saying ‘all men are rapists’ but if you assume they are then banning them from visiting prostitutes, or probably, in this case, issuing death sentences or similar on anything approaching ‘sex trade’ does not make the problem disappear. Only from sight. Which, like banning drugs, like the Prohibition, like banning most things, just sends it underground. Or creates the need for stupid, ridiculous, hypocritical, transparent abuses. In this case of women. And young girls.

Ban all laws which ban anything!! Its the only way forward.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

China is 70 years old this week. Happy fucking birthday. But its not like, ‘old China’, nice China, full of Ming Dynasties and Terracotta Warriors and inventing glasses and fireworks and all those great things they did when the women had bound feet and the men very long moustaches. No, this is 70 years of the People’s Republic of China. Since Mao Tse Tung ousted the old warlords and feudal rulers and replaced them with… with… with communism! And that is well worth a celebration in anyone’s money. The communists arrived and ‘liberated’ the entire population. Well, not exactly ‘entire’. They started with 7 of them. Counting Mao. They were ‘liberated first’. To make sure the path was safe for the other 800 million (probably; at that time). Not so they could implement the communist infrastructure, but more so they might hoover up a few national assets before the rush. But then they realised they didn’t have many assets. Just liabilities. 800 million of ’em. So they leveled the field, gave everyone a title and started the ‘cultural revolution’. Which certainly worked, as a tool for population reduction as about 3 million people disappeared and were never seen again. It involved neighbours reporting neighbours for absolutely anything that might have been ‘against the revolutionary ideals’, brothers reported sisters, no-one was safe. It was a case of ‘report or be reported’. And this was seen a ‘progress’. A vast number of the population who didn’t ‘disappear’ died of starvation in the years of famine. As the new leaders fed them political ideology instead of rice.

Fast forward and here we are. With China Nouveau. The biggest, richest, loudest, most… Chinese-est country in the world. It owns debt from virtually every major nation on the planet and you wouldn’t trust them as far as you could throw them. And their leader still looks bored. Blessed with a permanent expression of total indifference, President Xi rules the nation with an iron fist. During the celebrations in Tienanmen Square (don’t mention the deaths, they’ve been air-brushed out of history), they marched about 20 million soldiers, 100,000 tanks, they had missiles, artillery, planes, boats and bombs. All in celebration.

Which is funny. Cos you’d think a nation would choose to celebrate the good shit, the history, the achievements, the children. Rather than merely displaying its rather awesome military potential. It represents the greatest “you want some a diss???” in the history of armed warfare. It was a message to Trump. It was a note to the good citizens of Hong Kong. It was probably a hint to Russia too that there’s other big players in the game.

So we have the most populous nation on Earth run by a tyrannical Elvis-impersonator. And the most powerful nation on Earth run by a gun-crazed, half-witted Boris-impersonator. What else could we ever need.

Happy Thursday
A xxxx