Andy's Glasses

David Steele, sorry, Lord Steele, the former leader of the Liberal Democrats, made a speech. As the (many decades ago) leader of the anti-apartheid campaign, he knows precisely what the term means. And in his speech he drew the parallel with Israel as an apartheid state. And listed the atrocities, the ‘massacre of civilians’, the ‘second class’ system with ‘the wall, all the populist, Labourite garbage (approved by the Ku Klux Klan’s ex-imperial grand wizard, just to show how far Corbyn has taken the so-called ‘Labour Party’), and spoke many of the words spouted by ex-Lib Dem peer, Jenny Tonge, who was subsequently suspended herself for anti-semitism. Obviously a great source of wisdom and impartial news.

And tomorrow, David Steele is going to my best mate’s for lunch. He lives in France, as does David Steele, most of the time. But whereas his Lordship’s other time is spent here, my mate’s is spent in Israel. Where his son lives, and his two grandchildren. And my mate loves Israel.

Which doesn’t mean he approves of every action taken by Binyamin Netenyahu and his government, doesn’t mean he’s happy with every political decision made there. Because, like me, he’s liberal in his views. But when the debate comes back to ‘Israel’s right to exist’, which is an argument never levelled at any other nation, or to pulling down the wall (which reduced terrorist attacks by 90%, but can’t stop the regular and almost constant bombing of schools and farms, though presumably those are not manned by ‘innocent civilians’ because they only exist in Gaza), it gets a little uncomfortable.

And my mate worked with David Steele back in the day. When the Liberal Democrats were formed. Remained friendly ever since. And see each other once/twice a year.

So the dilemma is: do you headbutt Lord Steele or kick him in the bollocks?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

What’s the matter with ‘meat’? I’ll tell you. Its not wot’s writ on the tin, that’s wot. They tested a load of ‘meat’ and some of it was just plain ‘wrong’. Pork sausages containing chicken, beef burgers containing lamb, venison steaks filled with turkey and aardvark. All wrong. One in five was not as described. Which is awful. The worst culprits, unsurprisingly: sausages, kebabs and restaurant curries. On the basis that they are all ‘drunk food’ and thus eaten by the least discerning recipients in the world. The people who are just happy to have found somewhere open at 3 in the morning. Because Gordon Ramsey is closed then, and La Gavroche, so Stavros’ Kebab’n’chicken will have to suffice. Drunks seldom looked for terms like ‘locally sourced’ or ‘made from pure…’

I mean, are butchers just stupid? Even Lila knows the difference between a cow and a hen. Although, according to her, both say ‘Mmmmmmmm’. Or is it a conspiracy to unload all the unwanted dodgy bits of all the animals into a form in which it is least discernible? And as for curries, many of the ‘normal’ emporia actually say on their menus ‘meat madras’, rather than the more specific, though apparently not much more accurate, ‘beef’ option. At least ‘meat’ is honest. In a ‘general’ kind’a way.

This is obviously most of a problem for Jews and Muslims who really don’t want to be eating pork when they’ve ordered lamb or chicken. Though strictly, they shouldn’t be eating meat that isn’t kosher/halal in the first place, so get no sympathy. Because kosher ‘meat’ is very different.

The chickens for slaughter get to meet the rabbi, who offers comfort and compassion and tells them that they’re going to be martyred for the cause. That cause being born into a carnivorous world. And when they die they get to chickenly heaven with 70 eggs. And they die really happy and nice. Then those chickens are carried, individually by the rabbis, to the place where they’re cleaned and wrapped, at no time leaving his sight. Same with the cows. Every last steak is monitored and has prayers said over it to ensure it hasn’t come within 73 metres (biblical) of a pig. Or a prawn. That’s why kosher meat is so fucking expensive. All the rabbis. That you have to pay, not eat. They’re not kosher.

But its wrong that so much meat is wrongly accredited. The expression ‘what’s written on the packet’ shouldn’t just be a metaphor. Yet the same rules apply in virtually everything; if you buy cheap anything, its risky. Though often, in particular in ‘meat’ vindaloo, its also very tasty.

And THAT is why we should all become vegans. Kind’a.

Happy Fish on Friday. Yeah, but WHAT fish??

A xxxx

How do you envisage ‘the future’? Robots strutting around zapping people with inbuilt ‘phasers’ for parking on a yellow line? Moving pavements (just what’s needed for the obesity problem)? Invincible Cyborgs coming back from the future to settle old scores? Or some dark and sinister Blade Runner world with no joy to be had?

I like the Fifth Element version. Just the cars. Which, having run out of two dimensional space just take the logical step and move upwards into the third. So Bruce Willis cab has to negotiate right, left, front, back plus up and down. I can see ‘down’ as being the real problem, unless you have glass-bottomed cars. But it illustrates a point. That we’re reaching maximum point, possibly for people, definitely for cars.

Personally I would just get rid of all the shitty drivers, the lane hoggers, the wide-berthers, the terminally slow, the old, the stupid and those who lack the wherewithal to drive in manic fashion. But I fear my ideas may not be taken into the law. So we need something else. We need driverless cars.

Apparently.

And although I can see massive benefits of this, in reality it will not affect congestion at all. If anything it could make it worse. It will benefit parking. Because you don’t need to park them. So don’t go buying shares in NCP any time soon. Though it does make you wonder where they’ll all go, like just after the presumable rush hour maximum usage time, for the next 8 to 10 hours. Will they shrivel up and fold themselves away, like Transformers? Or will we have driverless car mountains in Aldgate and Kennington as they wait for the next call?

Why I think congestion may increase is because there are many people (I can only speak for London here, firstly because I live here and secondly because I don’t care about anywhere else) who would drive in to work every day but don’t just because of parking costs and availability. So if driverless cars are cheap (as they must be) and fares keep getting more expensive (as they must do), then in fact more people will opt for ‘driving in’, albeit driverlessly.

Toyota have just invested half a billion into Uber for driverless technology. Toyota already have the technology but Uber have all of us hooked up to them already. Which is why they’re so valuable on a corporate level.

And yet, as the driverless wave continues, people keep dying. I know, its all for progress, but tell that to the woman who got hit crossing the road in Arizona. Well, you can’t, she’s dead. Or the guy whose driverless car decided that the massive truck it was just about to hit was ‘just a reflection’ that it chose to ignore. Brown bread.

Driverless technology is here, its inevitable and it will be massive. But the testing? That’s (quite literally) the killer. Never mind, they’ll all become ‘martyrs’ to the driverless cause.

Happy Wednesday

The Luddite
xxxx

Doctor, I, errrr, I have… errrr… I have a little rash.

And I do. Friday night I was itchy. In my groin. Odd. Had a look after my shower and found a red rash (would have preferred a blue one) on both sides of my groin. Itchy. Looked nasty. Googled it; its called ‘jock itch’ and comes from… basically, sweaty bollocks. Its athletes foot of the testicle region. Athletes Testicles, I shall re-name it. Sounds cooler. And it said you have to wash properly. I’m an obsessive washer. Not just 2 showers every day but I WASH. Between every toe. Mel laughs at this but that’s why my feet are fucking cleaner than hers! And you must dry properly. My bathroom looks like Pablo Escobar’s. Covered in a thin film of white powder. Ok, a thick film of white powder. Johnson’s baby powder. To say I use this ‘liberally’ is an understatement akin to saying ‘West Ham are having a difficult start to the season’. But still I got the rash, which I’ve never had before. Its fungal. Like mushrooms. I have Toadstool Testicles. And treated with some cream, its almost gone. Phah.

Then I read this in today’s paper (see above). And screamed. Haven’t really stopped screaming yet, I’m just doing it internally so as not to upset fellow tube travellers.

So whilst I’m panicking the National Executive Council of the Labour Party (henceforth, for purposes of simplicity referred to as ‘Hezbollah’) are today redefining their previously redefined redefinition of anti-semitism. Which is a good thing. Or would be if they actually meant it, felt it or even accepted that this issue is a problem within their midst. And not just a ‘conspiracy against Brother Corbyn by Trump supporting, right wing, anti-workers, capitalists and other fucking Jews’.

They will probably have to accept the IHRA official definition, in full, with all those pesky ‘examples’ which were what they’d removed the last time they tried to redefine. But it all comes down to attitude. And what Labour have to understand is that words, even IHRA words, are pretty fucking meaningless if actions say something else. To reluctantly accept something due to massed public outcry and accusation is not quite the same as embracing its spirit. They don’t seem to understand that if you judge Israel differently from all other countries (as does the UN too, by the way) then a bunch of neurotic (we all are), over-thinking (yep) and possibly overly sensitive (understandable) Jews will ask what differentiates Israel’s ‘atrocities’ from those in Syria, Yemen, Saudi Arabia, Darfur, North Korea, even Mayanmar, which barely get a mention.

Oh happy days.

Let’s make Tuesday one of them.

A xxxx

Let’s talk about sport. Not football. I’m not having anything to do with that at the moment, its just… gone off my radar. Horrible game. So instead let’s talk about ‘other sports’! Oooohhhh, there are loads, apparently. Not that many are that good or demand our attention but trust me, the world is full of sport, you just have to pick the right one. And in fact the two that have drawn my attention are the two that I simply ‘can’t watch’. Don’t ever watch. Yet like seeing the results, particularly when ‘we’ win. I’m talking of cricket and Formula 1. The ‘long games’.

On saturday a weird thing happened. I sat in front of the tv for an hour of the Test match. Cricket. In case you didn’t know. That never ever happens. But I watched the end of the lunchtime football and as Liverpool won at the final whistle, I fell asleep. And woke up an hour later with the test match in front of my very, slightly opening, eyes. So as I slowly regained consciousness I watched 3 or 4 overs. And it was… totally… errrr… amazingly… hmmm… nothing happened. 10 minutes, 20 balls bowled, 2 runs scored, brilliant. Paint drying. Yet I (in theory) love cricket. Love the scores, love the statistics, love the fact that the very next day we won the 4th test against World number 1 team, India and have now taken the series. I love watching that final wicket fall, I love watching their rather arrogant but quite brilliant captain lose a stump. But I’m just not prepared to sit there for 4 days waiting for it all to happen. Does it count as ‘watching cricket’ if you’re asleep? I think it bloody well does!

Then again yesterday Lewis Hamilton won a grand prix. Nothing unusual in that, its what he’s paid (totally obscene amounts of money) to do. But it was in Italy and he beat off two home-grown Ferraris to claim the victory. In one case simply knocking it off the fucking track. Good riddance. It was like Mad Max comes to F1. Again, I can’t watch the whole ‘thing’. Its dull and repetitive, though being a petrol-head I can listen to it on the radio just for the VVRRROOOooommm. And what they show on the 10 o’clock news is sufficient. A 30 second snippet showing the start (Hamilton in third place behind the 2 Ferraris), the crash on the first lap when 1 Ferrari died and then Lewis going past the chequered flag and wasting half a gallon of champagne. The 5 hours in between is my sad and tragic loss.

So Lewis won! England won!! Who cares about football?

Yours miserably

A xxxx

Lila’s in Berlin. This is her at Heathrow yesterday morning. She has a passport. Bunny (the blue thing) doens’t. Could that be a problem? Now we’re leaving Europe and losing the whole ‘borderless’ thing? How do soft toys feature in the Brexit negotiations? At least she’s handing in her bread roll, which certainly doesn’t have a passport. But she’s gone, with her mummy & daddy, to see Auntie Rachie, who is so excited by their arrival that she stayed almost sober for 2 nights beforehand. Commitment, dedication, love.

So we had a cultural evening. Which, as all culture should, started at Nandos. I haven’t been there for years but I don’t know why. Because, like any fantastically successful food chain, it starts with the food. And Nandos know their strength. Which is chicken. Which they do in a hundred different ways and all are really good. Ingredients all fresh, nothing is pre-cooked, salads are fresh (just thought I’d add that to impress you; because, quite frankly, you really don’t go to Nandos for salads) and cooked really well. Its not ‘fast food’ per se, because it takes 15 minutes to get to the table. But its priced as fast food because it is almost ridiculously cheap for what you get. I would go further and say that, being chicken-based, the food is ‘healthy’. Not that I give a shit but its amazing how food-snobby people get about Nandos. Yet they willingly go to the over-priced, overly-pretentious Ivy cafes and eat half-cold, poorly prepared, badly-delivered crap and pay 5 times the price for it. I’m never eating anywhere else. Going to learn Portuguese so I can order in their natural language.

But we went there because its where the cinema lives. And we went to see ‘Black Klansman’. Which is a very good movie, but its not the ‘great’, the ‘wonderful’, the ‘5 star!’ offering that its been hailed. I liked it a lot, Spike Lee makes good ‘joints’ but not brilliant.

However, it was the trailers that interested me a lot. Because there’s a seed change occurring in Hollywood. Its started and I think its its response to the ‘me too’ thing. So they’re bringing out films which are basically: ‘behind every great man is a greater woman’. No more Jack Reacher, James Bond (who now has to actually ‘ask’ before he can have sex; to ‘send the right message’; tossers), male super-hero, love-em-an’-leave-em types. Now we have a new film out about Neil Armstrong, the first man to walk on the moon. Or, rather, a film about Neil Armstrong’s wife without whom, we will learn, small steps for man… etc, would never have happened.

Then there’s another with Jonathan Price as a nobel laureate for literature who we will learn was NOTHING without the driving force of Glenn Close as Mrs Nobel Laureate. She’s come a long way from boiling bunnies (no relation to Lila’s bunny, thank gawd).

And being someone who enjoys a knee-jerk, over-reacting, Daily Mailesque generalisation; ALL movies now will HAVE to have a strong woman as the main story. We MUST move from just having respect for women to revering them. So starring as the rags-to-riches hooker (Pretty Woman), or the world-champ pole dancer (Showgirl) simply won’t cut it in this more enlightened age.

Society moves on.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

There was a famous advert on tv for Mars bars, many decades back, which used the line: a Mars a day helps you work, rest and play. And it showed how this (still) wonderful treat gives you energy to work and play, whilst… really not sure where the ‘rest’ came in, but it rounds off the ad nicely. It was all about ‘energy’. Surely, if you eat 2 you can work, play and rest even more fully? The original slogan: ‘a Mars a day helps you… get FAT!’ was rejected by the marketing team, despite its honesty.

We need energy to survive. You put petrol in a car (if you’re an environment-killing, air-polluting total BASTARD!) and that is used to produce the power. Similarly, you put ‘energy’ in a human and they can function. And in food that ‘energy’ is measured in kilo-Calories. Which is a term with serious baggage for dieters and the food conscious. (Speaking of dieting, I decided yesterday, as Mel & I were finishing off a jumbo bag of pretzels as a pre-dinner ‘snack’, that our 5-2 diet intention has now officially become modified to a 7-nil).

So energy in, wakefulness and different energy out. Runners eat pasta, boxers eat half a cow and two pigs, 3 chickens and a dozen eggs for breakfast. Because hard exercise burns energy and if you don’t put sufficient fuel in, the engine will seize up. (I like this metaphor and thus will push it towards the outrageously ridiculous, where all metaphors belong). Porridge is a really healthy, fibrous, energy-giving start to the day. And is very calorific. But no-one minds those calories. And breakfast is indeed the best meal to ingest hi-carb calories.

We give our energy levels a ‘boost’ at times. The morning coffee ritual used by so many gives us caffeine, which is a drug appearing to lift energy levels without the need for horrible accompanying calories. Cocaine is even better (which, originally, was the ‘secret ingredient of the fizzy drink which shares its nickname), amphetamines better still. But drugs tend to give ‘false energy’ and making you feel energetic without anything to back it up, so you burn your own muscles instead.

And sugar is the simplest way to intake calories, or ‘energy’ as those pesky little k-cals can also be known. Even though refined sugar is metabolised in such a way as to make fat rather than create actual, useable ‘energy’. Even though it feels like it does. Because, like caffeine, it gives you a ‘buzz’. A ‘rush’. And that is as addictive as, maybe not cocaine, but pretty close.

So is there a problem with selling ‘energy drinks’ to kids? I don’t think so. Could there be a correlation between kids in the UK consuming 50% more ‘energy drinks’ than in… Europe and the fact that we’re the most obese nation on the planet. (I’m not including America, obviously, because I’m not sure, under current leadership, that’s its still on this planet). Is there an issue with getting children addicted to cans of shit containing up to 20 sugar cubes and two double espressos of caffeine? That they drink 3 or 4 times a day? What’s the problem? Just give your kids ‘energy drink money’ every day along with the ammunition allowance for their guns. Its fine.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’ve just come back from nursery rhyme time at our little local library. Its free, its wonderful, its packed with little kids and Lila loves it. The downside is that I have nursery rhyme ear-worms for the rest of the week. Any mention of ‘ducks swimming one day’ or ‘monkeys jumping on beds’ or ‘catching fish alive’ (very topical at the moment; well, fish, scallops, what difference?) and I go into all-out mode, complete with hand movements, jumping up and down, whatever is required. More like a ‘full body worm’.

But apparently there have been complaints about that old favourite ‘the wheels on the bus’, as being ‘offensive’. No, not by bus drivers, nor by Wheels-R-Us, but by feminists who think that mummies on the bus going ‘chatter, chatter, chatter’ is an unfair and prejudicial stereotype. This is not at my library, we all have sufficient sense of time, place and irony to just accept an industry standard. But I’d guess… Camden? Islington?? possibly Hackney??? they were offended by that patriarchal, typically male-oriented slur on an entire gender. By the wheels on the fucking bus? So I’ve re-written it. In a hopefully more politically correct manner. So it can’t cause offence to anyone.

The single-parent mothers on the bus say nothing that could possibly offend anyone, nothing that could possibly… etc…

The Gooners on the bus say ‘not again, not again, not again…’

Please feel free to add more categories, we wouldn’t want to appear prejudicial by omission. So if I’ve forgotten anyone, please append.

Happy totally inclusive Thursday

A xxxx

Great British Bake Off is back on our screens. The new series. In which a dozen hapless amateurs make food which goes wrong. Compelling viewing. Wouldn’t want to miss a limp biscuit, a cake that’s gone flat, an undercooked pie.

And its true. I wouldn’t want to miss it. Any of it. I want to know precisely how much yeast Kevin puts in his dough. I need to see how Olivia made such a perfect pain au chocolate whilst her croissant looked like a turd. I hold my breath as Nigel takes his Victoria sponge from the oven, in case it sinks. (names have been changed to protect… someone)

And I ask myself: WHY? Why do I care? Why do I watch? Why bother?? Ok, I bake, like a really little bit, and I go to Waitrose and buy their pastry dough. All different types. Who needs all that kneading? Open the packet, roll it out and you’re off. I wouldn’t know what to do with yeast, nor bicarbonate of soda, other than leave it in the cupboard. Used in bomb-making, I think.

But I suppose what I’m hooked on is the format of the show, the formula. Which of course, they’ve also done with painting pictures, probably origami, possibly yoga, maybe car repairs. I don’t know; don’t watch any of them. Love Island passed me by as does anything with the word ‘Shore’ in the title. But Bake Off compels me. Yet the format is old now, I should be bored with it. Like… errrr… football… but I’m not. I don’t like Paul Hollywood, he’s a humourless Brummy who looks like Damian from The Omen, just before he ripped his mother’s spleen out with a soup ladle. Though if Paul H had done that, the spleen would have been cooked to perfection, with a scalloped edge and no soggy bottom. Pru Leith is a pretentious, pompous cook with aspirations to aristocracy. Yeah, they make you a Princess for cooking a cake. And the ‘other two’ are corny, cheesy and stupid.

So what’s to like?

But its on series record, along with Match of the Day, and there it shall stay.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

And it came to pass, that a football team from London (previous 21 London team’s visits, including Spurs,have failed to win) went to Manchester and by the grace of all that is holy, they came away with a win. Amen.

Not only a win. We also got 3 points. You do when you win. Its… never mind. And we came away with a clean sheet. Them’s rare, particularly at Old Trafford where referees traditionally ‘look benevolently’ at the home side. But we came away with so much more. We came away with a belief, and, for some of us, with the realisation that in the team playing last night, there is no ‘dead wood’, no player you’re not sure of, no-one who makes you shudder. Every one a fucking Maserati.

It was indeed the game of two halves. Man United came out all guns a’blazing in the first half and for 20 minutes we looked shell-shocked. But with Jan Vertongen’s class and Belgium compatriot Romelu Lukaku’s incompetence, we held it together to go in 0-0, with great relief, at half time.

And during that break something happened. Two things happened, in fact. One was Morinho putting the reins on his team, pulling back the flamboyance, organising what had been a bit chaotic, even though great to watch, other than for the nail-biting Spurs fans, who were unhappy. And the second thing was Mauricio Pochettino, bless his little Argentinian soul, did ‘something’ to Spurs. In a mere 15 minutes he managed to transform them from lacklustre and unconfident into the best team on the planet.

We were sharper, more aggressive, more organised, quicker. The back four soldified as Toby Alderweireld, after swallowing a can of spinach, turned back into the absolute best centre back in the world. Ironically, the one Morinho was desperate to buy in the transfer window but wasn’t allowed. He was deemed ‘too expensive’. Though 50 mil looked a bargain after the way he played yesterday. He missed nothing and then, after dispossessing, distributed the ball like Andrea Pirlo. The classiest player on the pitch.

But football’s not all about defence. And we suddenly started attacking like Spurs. Ok, Man United’s defence was as poor as ours was brilliant and they left some massive spaces open for us to exploit. Harry Kane scored his first Old Trafford goal. In August. That breaks every hoodoo ever. But then up stepped tiny little Lucas Moura who’d been a bit pesky all night, fast and nippy and somewhat Brazillian. And he turned into an unmarkable, unplayable superstar. He looked like Hazard, like (all bow) Messi even as he just bounced off tackles, shrugged off defenders and added a couple of fantastic goals to his tally.

Spurs failure to buy in the summer suddenly appeared cured by a re-birth of a player we bought last January. More evidence of the magnificent ‘Pochettino effect’. And if that effect is defined as taking underperforming players and bringing out levels of ‘very best’ they didn’t even know they had, then sadly, the Morinho effect is the exact opposite.

What a win. What a game. What a… what a… what a…

Amazingly happy Tuesday

A xxxx