Andy's Glasses

Certain things excite me. Spurs playing Manchester City tonight is ‘fairly’ exciting. In a bit of a scary way. Lila stringing a few words together excites me much more than it really should do. But something that has always given me the biggest ‘frill’ is speed. Particularly, acceleration. I like driving fast, I like cycling fast and I like skiing fast. But to reach that level of frisson, to reach that ‘whooooo’ moment, you need to be just a smidgen beyond comfortable control. Some might say that’s dangerous. Whatever. It is what it is. I love the acceleration of planes just before take-off. Jet engines have even more horse power than a Porsche. But I never got to go on Concord. Even though I wanted to. Stow away even. But didn’t happen.

But Concorde is history. Our only commercial supersonic plane could never afford to pay for its fuel with its relatively meagre pay-load so was more a spectacular vanity project. To show the world that Britain is great and even though the French really aren’t, they can chip in at times for something worthwhile.

Now we’re talking ‘hypersonic’. Ooooooohhh. Hyper; that’s big. Which is defined as speeds over Mach 13. Thirteen times the speed of sound. Sound travels at 1235km/hour. So Mach 13 is… fucking quick. In fact, should many things happen well, (standard caveat for ‘don’t hold yer breath), they’re looking at a… plane? rocket?? thing that is possible to fly at Mach 25. Holy Moly. 30,000 km/hr!

Might be a bit noisy. I mean Concorde, at Mach 2, stopped the traffic flying 200 miles away and you couldn’t even see it. So within our atmosphere this new thing (as yet unnamed) will travel at Mach 3.3. And arrive in New York in less than 1 hour. Los Angeles in under 2. Southend in 47 seconds.

They haven’t named ‘it’ yet because ‘it’ is not really the problem. The problem is the engines. So they’ve given them a name instead. SABRE. It’s an acronym. Synergic air-breathing rocket engine. And, should they work as expected/hoped/dreamed they will be the key. Because the problem with all rocket propelled flight is that it all tends to get a bit warm up there. Oxygen has to be forced into the fuel and the pressure creates massive heat. So some fairly bright people have invented a game-changing ‘pre-cooler’ which is so clever that it can cool air from 1000 degrees to about 20 in one twentieth of a second. Heat is lost in proportion to surface area. If you increase that you cool down. So this pre-cooler uses thousands of tubes, each finer than a human hair and filled with liquid helium, creating a massive effective surface area to keep things cool.

How very exciting.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

If you look in the dictionary they sell in the shiny new Spurs Shop (the biggest in the world, largest in Europe, shiniest ANYWHERE, bestest, grandest, most magnificentest…) and find the word ‘Schadenfreude’, the definition that comes up is: “Everton 1, Arsenal 0”. Furthermore, for the full effect, for the uber-schadenfreude, taking it to the next level and beyond, just sprinkle in a temper tantrum by Mezut Ozil, throwing his coat around, because there were no toys in his pram.

The German national who loves President Erdogan has always been controversial. He alternates between ‘midfield maestro’ and ‘the biggest waste of 350 grand a week there has ever been’, depending on the fortunes of his club at any particular time. He is emphatically not a player you bring on when you’re losing, to try and turn the tide. That’s not Ozil. He’s a player who excels when his team are totally dominant, running rampage and already 4-0 up. At home. Obviously. Arsenal can’t play away matches and have requested such things be banned next season. In the interest of fairness.

Meanwhile, everyone’s favourite pundit, funny man, wry Scotsman and ginger-haired commentator, Gordon Strachan, has caused something of a shitstorm and lost his job on Sky Sports in the process. The latest in a long line of (2) Scottish ex-strikers to fall foul of the network for inappropriate comments.

Gordon was misunderstood. In that hypersensitive, ultra-pc way that anyone in the media must stand scrutiny. He said that Adam Johnson would be pillaried by the fans if he came back to football following his release from prison for sex offences. That’s the unquestionable bit. Because footy fans just luuuurve a sex offender. The more contentious part when he followed it with: ‘but should we treat the abusive fans in the same way we deal wilth racist abuse?’.

Oh my. What a thing to say. What a… what a… well, in fact, what the fuck?? He’s right. Obviously he’s not comparing being black to being a statutory rapist, nor claiming the same rights for both groups. All he’s saying is: “abuse is abuse; whoever its directed at and needs to be stopped”.But you can’t compare ANYTHING to racism, the current curse of the game. Even tangentially. Even by implication. Like you can never question ANYTHING about Grenfell Tower. The PC red lines are as bigoted as everyone else’s.

He’ll get over it. So rather than worry, this is possibly my favourite ever Lila picture, certainly my favourite from yesterday, at least. A moment of total ‘connection’ that looks as wonderful as it really was.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

When you go and see a play because a friends’ daughter is starring in it, the last thing you expect is to actually like it. Be impressed by it. Even moved greatly by it. But you book it. In part for support and in part because its great to visit one of the many ‘new’ fringe theatres that pop up quite regularly, always in really fab old and interesting spaces. This one called ‘The Pleasance’ in the not-quite-so-nice end of Islington. It’s not in the bit where all the Labour Party big-wigs have to live, its in the slightly rougher, as yet still un-gentrified bit by the Caledonian Road.

We booked it weeks ago. And thought, let’s grab a quick bite to eat on the way. So we booked one of the 117 restaurants that come up on Upper Street when you google it. Ok, a few are cafes and bakeries, some are in fact nowhere near Upper Street, but fuck me, 117! That’s a lot. But 116 are completely irrelevant. Because they’ve opened a ‘Meat Liquor’ there. Holy shit. Which elevates to Holy Grail when you learn that unlike its original sister in the West End, where they queue six miles just to eat a Dead Hippy Burger, this one takes reservations!! Well, in theory, as ours was lost, despite the email confirmation, but hey-ho.

And I finally found what all the fuss is about. OMG they make fab burgers.

But first, having our first ‘Isling-centro’ night for a long time, we learned that the epicentre of our evening, Highbury & Islington Corner, was ‘closed for roadworks’. For those unfamiliar with what looks like a fairly nondescript roundabout linking the shitty end of the Holloway Road with the duff bit of Upper Street that has no restaurants, it is in fact a major junction on the A1. That should be a clue. It’s the first road they ever built. The Romans probably built it so they could go to Ottolenghi. If they fancied a change from ‘what more pasta???’ or eating raw babies, like Caligula. Anyway, Waze earned its keep last night, let me tell you.

The play was called Ali & Dahlia. He’s a Palestinian, she’s an Israeli. He’s arrested, she is his counsel. But they have a history. From childhood. They had been lovers. Oh My! It tells the story of them, but coming back to his present predicament, about to stand trial. It is very powerful. Very real. And best of all, it does what Tarantino did for hit men in Pulp Fiction and gave a much maligned and stereotyped class of person, ie terrorists, a personality away from the riots and insurgence. It gave him a context. A life. A family. A lover. Away from the suicide vests and the rock throwing there’s a real boy-becoming-man in there, growing up with his own perspective, which is totally valid.

It is quite a remarkable 3… er, person production.

Happy avoid-Islington Sunday

A xxxx

What is the link between Black Sabbath and The Charlie Daniels Band? Plus Christina Aguilera and Neil Young. Miles Cirus. Foreigner. And the Kinks. The link is easy. Me. Me and fucking YouTube. It’s music porn for the addictive personality. It’s a simple waste of time and (no) energy. Yet its so good that once you’re ‘in there’ there is simply no escape until you run out of music (good luck with that) or someone shouts at you to GET A FUCKING GRIP!!!

I have no grip. And last night as I was just going to bed… Sky Arts, Legends of the Canyon. Not about mountaineering or there’d be no story. But Laurel Canyon and the music that came from within. Joni Mitchell, a host of others and Crosby Stills & Nash.

That was bed done with then. I love(d) CSN, even with Y when Neil Young joined them for protracted periods. And so after an entire class this morning of tai chi with Judy Blue Eyes and rising blocks accompanied by Teach your children Well, I went to YouTube. ‘Just for a minute’. To rid the ear worms.

An hour later and I’d rediscovered so much. It’s like hooking up with the girlfriends of your youth. But they hadn’t got any older. And then I saw, in the ‘next suggestions’ column, put there by the devil of lethargy personally, I found ‘the 10 best guitar riffs’. Well, what could I do? I’m a sucker for a guitar riff. Otherwise I wouldn’t be wasting my time on YouTube. But I realised there are good riffs, Voodoo Chile, Paranoid, Whole Lotta Love, and there are the ones that make the hairs on your neck rise. Like Layla. Like Smoke on the Water. Like… Iron Man.

But then I drifted in the virtual but inescapable hell and found Adele, whose every not sends shivers down my spine. Christina similarly, but smaller. Lady D’Arbanville by Cat sodding Stevens; I mean…

And then there was You Really Got Me by the Kinks. The first ever ‘rock’ riff for which Dave Davies partially destroyed his speaker to get that ‘fuzz’ sound which would become ubiquitous forever after. The first ‘power chords’ which in turn gave rise to big hair when they were translated into snake-hipped American.

Ahhhh, and it went on. And on. And on…

That’s what happens when tennis gets cancelled. Something has to fill the void.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Last night at midnight was the deadline for posting gender pay gap figures for the year. For big companies. Failure to comply would result in directors having a compulsory night out at Hooters. And the figures are… unequivocal. Generally, ‘men get paid more than women’. Some companies have ‘reduced their gender pay gap’ whilst others have either, probably, increased it or it remains the same. Guessing that cos I’m no statistician. Some airlines have pay gaps of over 40%. And that would really deserve a massive ‘!!!!!!!!’ if the numbers weren’t such a load of bollocks. Or ovaries, maybe.

The ‘pay gap’ is calculated by listing all the men’s salaries, in rank order, and all the women’s and comparing just the central or median of each group. So, depending on how many employees you have at each level, you might be comparing a cleaner with an office manager. Or a pilot with an window cleaner. Or a stripper with a barman (not including tips).

So its pretty meaningless. I bet that method of analysis was created by a woman. They’re shit with numbers.

Until they can work out how to compare gender salaries for those doing the same or equivalent jobs, spare us the banner headlines which create more of the problem rather than any nod to a solution.

But I am, as you know, a feminist, in all but my testicles. (Men CAN be feminists, you know, it is allowed). And, with 2 daughters, both working for ‘big companies’ and one granddaughter working for… well, working very hard, I have a vested interest in equality and female empowerment.

Thus was interested to read that a feminist of the female variety has instructed women to wear the shortest mini-skirts they can find. Because a massive proportion of young men (I’m thinking on the streets of Cardiff, Sunderland, Birmingham, 3am on a Sunday, beer cans in hand, singing drunkenly post-pub/bar/club looking for a shag or a fight, not fussed either way) think that women who wear short skirts and drink are basically ‘begging for it’. Thus in protest, in the interest of ‘empowerment’ women must take control, at least of their wardrobes, and wear micro-mini. That’ll fucking show them. And I agree. And for even more female empowerment, might as well get yer tits out. Just sayin’… errrr… to my ‘sisters’.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Spurs new stadium, new White Hart Lane,
Brilliant, impregnable, we’ve never lost a game.

Hundred percent record there, that’s no mean feat
So praise the Lord, give thanks, for the team that is to beat.

The whole thing, beer an’all, only cost one measly billion
Whereas Lucas Moura, whom we love, he’s just a bloody Brazillian.

The show, the lights, the razzmatazz, a ceremony for the event
To host Crystal Palace whose home is a sarf Lundun tent.

But Spurs had come home, with a massive point to prove
After some terrible results of late, something had to move

We simply had to beat Palace, had to make them run
I mean, after all, they’re only SE25 scum

But we started with nerves, understandable in the moment
the expectations of the multitudes adding to our torment

Who would be the first to score a goal at Tottenham New?
As the game moved on that question grew and grew

And then with great relief to the 60,000 there amassed
the goal was ours, a reflection of glories past.

Except for the deflection, of course, but for that who gives a shit??
We had our first goal, Son the man, keeper could do nought about… it.

Then to sew things up, to bring more cheers, to raise the fucking roof
Ericsen scored a second. Less kick, more of a hoof

But who cares about anything, other than Spurs had then won?
Time to shout, time to drink, time to have some fun.

Because at da enna da day, is about booze and filling all them glasses
which we can do so amazingly quick, who cares about how many passes?

Very happy Thursday

A xxxx

In the 1950s there was the ‘cold war’. Russia and America, building up nuclear arms, spying, dastardly deeds, McCarthy witch-hunts and the yanks lived in mortal fear of ‘reds under the bed’. A metaphor for either Americans who were really communists, or ‘they hear what we say!’ Nothing to do with Arsenal fans. But this was the 50s and 60s. If you wanted to ‘spy’ remotely on someone you had to put a microphone in the room. A big, furry one like the BBC use in outside broadcasts. And it needed wire. So you needed a transmitter to be plugged in, maybe behind the tv and a receiver, quite nearby, probably in a van outside the door, a black one with “QUIET PLEASE; SURVEILLANCE IN PROGRESS” written on the side. Because solid state electronics didn’t really start minifying things until the 60s and 70s. So if you needed electrical equipment, it was gonna be big.

The tech revolution has found one of its many welcome homes in the espionage and criminal world. Spy shit is so small you can track 17 people with one (seemingly) human hair and monitor everything they do, say or think on your phone. And although Russia is still a kind of political no-go land (whereas for tourism its wonderful), the new enemy in the Even Colder War, is China. Different reds. Smaller ones. You can get more under the bed. They’re so small they can get stuck in your teeth. If that ever happened with the KGB then it was much more than a mere dental problem.

And if you extrapolate the whole espionage and spying thing to its logical evolutionary current status, adding in all the wows and amaaaazings that nano-technology can provide, you end up with a Huawei phone or computer that simply allows direct access to President Xi. Or you use Alexa which is the same thing. The bitch! Just a modern Mata Hari. Listening in to me and Mel talking about Lila and using it to influence the global power struggle!!

The actually found a ‘window’ in all Huawei computers that allows remote access. Its buried, its disguised but its there. Damned Yanks found it. And this’ll surprise you: Huawei deny any knowledge of it and have no idea how it got there. Bloody gremlins.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m not sure which is a greater catastrophe; the failure of MPs to accept any possible Brexit scenario or Arsenal winning last night to overtake Spurs.

On a personal level, the Arsenal situation hurts more, will definitely create more anguish, taunting, depression and possibly reactive violence, but on a national level David Cameron’s ‘gift’ of Brexit to this fine nation is The Disaster of Disasters.

And that sums up the problem. Man vs Society. The ego or the collective. Personal ambitions vs the good of the nation.

Because if the world was a league table, England would have been demoted to the George at Asda Bathroom Products League 4 (North) in January and would now be appealing total enforced liquidation on the grounds of incompetence. This government is unfit to play on Hackney Marshes in the rain.

The ‘government’ is no longer in a position to govern. With Theresa May ‘leaving soon’ its all about posturing to ensure the best possible position for the 84 people intent on replacing her. They have forsaken the nation’s needs, the people’s requirements, for their own political ambitions.

Labour yesterday whipped their MPs to vote for a proposal that was in direct contradiction to one of their major election manifesto promises. ‘Ah’ they said, ‘but it won’t win, probably, but its more important to destabilise the government than to vote honestly’. The ‘bigger picture’. So fucking big that no-one is looking at the lesser pictures of a nation in chaos. At the political parties riven (great word, hardly ever get to use that one) and torn, to the extent where all confidence in the entire parliamentary process is totally shattered.

A general election won’t help. Because if Corbyn should ascend to power; God help us all. And Labour is just as divided as the Conservatives, just with shabbier shoes. So the answer (and we’re all way beyond even knowing what the fucking question is any longer) is that May steps down and we get a new PM. But we don’t have time… Aaaggghhhhh…

And for Arsenal to have all their foreign players deported in a pre-emptive Brexit move.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

It’s Lila’s birthday. Today. Why its not an official bank and public holiday, with street parties and processions, possibly a carnival, free parking everywhere, all speed cameras turned off for the day, speech by the Queen, 21-gun salute over the Tower at noon… I’ll just never know. In my mind its all that and more. But try telling that to the government!!

That’s why I’ve posted a pic from ‘when she was little’. Just so you remember where she started from. I know you care.

Her mummy and daddy made her a party yesterday. It was… messy. Loads of kids there, that was the problem. All eating stuff and spreading the joy around. And we had a-nentertainer. Times have changed. 25 years ago you called up Smartie Artie and they sent you ‘number 3’ or ‘number 7 is really good with 1-year-olds’ or basically, whichever one wasn’t locked up for child sex offences on that particular week. Because in a clown costume, most 50 year-old men look rather dubious. Now we had a babe. Safe. Nice. And she enthralled the children in one room so I could eat all their food in another. But again, times change.

Jelly and ice cream is the 2019 equivalent of offering a child heroin. Sugar is pretty much out of the equation altogether, so I s’posed I wouldn’t be getting a ‘party bag’ laden with Smarties and Buttons and Jelly Tots. Damn. How are these kids, these tiny tots, ever going to develop proper levels of obesity and type 2 diabetes if they’re not fed properly?

And then, once the nentertainer had packed up her shit and left a dozen two-year olds and various others to their own devices (read: ‘cake’), some of us just had a peek at the afternoon’s football. With cake, obvs.

Mistake. Big fucking mistake. Should have just sat there getting rid of the ‘wind the bobbin up’ ear worms another way. Could have been the wheels on the bus. But, for Spurs fans, the wheels fell off in the 90th minute, oddly at a time when we had parked our bus to defend a corner. Having, in the previous 10 minutes, had not one, not two, but THREE wonderful chances to take the lead. For Spurs. For England. For God. For LILA!!!! But all tragically squandered and then the indignity of catastrophic indignities, an own goal to finish off our chances. And hopes. And dreams. And virtually everything else worth living for except granddaughters.

Fortunately for Lila, kids can’t get officially depressed-by-football until they’re 5. Ask any psychologist. So at a mere ‘choo’ (as she so adorably says; whilst holding up 7 fingers to stress the point) she was blessedly spared our suffering. Rightly so. She has years to learn the joys of being a Spurs fan.

Happy Birthday to the most wonderful little person on the planet.

(Poppa-)A xxxx

We were ‘cancelled’ last night. That’s always a big bonus. A night in. Ahhhhhh. So I had a long bath, with Robert Harris. Finished ‘Munich’. Not his best. Then Mel went in the bath. A different one. A clean one. With bubbles and oils and candles and ohmmmm. And Kill Bill was on. But, like, both of them. Part 1 and part 2. The holy grail. And oddly I’d been talking to a mate just last week about their brilliance, only to learn he’d not seen either. Ever. Too violent. Which I immediately dispelled. No, its not, like, ‘real’ violence. It’s stylised. It’s cartoon violence. It’s Tarantino’s ultimate homage to Kung Fu movies and so although there quite a bit of bloodshed, its a million miles from ‘real’.

Then I watched it last night and realised that I’d lied. It is incredibly violent. Horribly violent. Awfully, mercilessly, relentlessly violent. And the fact that most of that violence is perpetrated by gorgeous, sweet-looking women doesn’t lessen it. It just makes it a bit more… exciting. Uma Thurman biting the tongue out of a would-be rapist is fairly violent, I grant you. But that mass samurai fight; Uma vs the entire population of Hong Kong, all armed with swords (Uma 42,649; Hong Kong nil) was so extreme that it was amusing, as she slashed and chopped and hacked and stabbed her way through all the men in suits. And women in suits.

At which point I had an image of Parliament. And how much fun you could have with a samurai sword in there. I’m not talking acts of murder or terrorism. Just justice. Cold, hard justice, I grant you, but justice. For the fucking shambolic catastrophe that we’re currently ‘enjoying’ over Brexit. Because I’ve reached the point where I hate them all. For making MY country a laughing stock on the world stage. We’re a fucking joke. But a really unfunny one.

Which has led to the current status quo, which is not rocking all over the world. We’re almost at the point where a general election is possibly the only solution. Not that it will solve the problem at all, whoever might win such a thing. But everyone has lost all confidence not just in the government but in Parliament in general.

And Jeremy Corbyn is 5 points up in the opinion polls. Which is the doomsday scenario.

Even worse, Spurs play Liverpool this afternoon, another crisis.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx