Andy's Glasses

I saw the best film ever made last night. No two ways about it, no competition, you can argue from now til hell freezeth over about the runners up; Godfathers and Star Wars and Gone with the fucking Winds, but ‘Vice’ is just… brilliant. And who’d’a thought??

It’s about Dick Cheney. Who? Yeah, we all know the name, but… errrr… American… political… who knows? Who fucking cares?? Well as of last night I do. I care deeply. Not so much about the man as about the movie. And about Christian Bale, who plays Dick, from his 20s to his 70s, piling on the pounds, losing the hair, but heh; we’ve seen make-up before, we’ve seen Robert Di Nero pile on the muscle in Raging Bull, nothing spectacular there. But Bale is beyond brilliant. As really, he always is. Like his cousin, Gareth (well, they’re both Welsh, most Welsh people are a bit inbred, he must be a cousin somewhere!) the man is a genius. Not with a ball at his feet (though he may be) but with a script in his hand.

Yet this movie is really about Adam McKay. He’s the geezer wot wrote, produced and directed it. And I learned this morning (God bless IMDB) that our Adam used to be the lead writer on Saturday Night Live, the incredibly long-running comedy sketch show which catapults brilliant comic talent to the A-list. Like Chevy Chase, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Eddie Murphy, Steve Carell; all former SNL alumni. So I’m guessing that to be the head writer, you gotta be at least ‘reasonably funny’.

And Vice is way more than ‘reasonably funny’. But in such a dry way that you’re barely aware when its being funny, it just is. That magical ‘light touch’ which, along with irony, is usually just not part of American artistry. Ok, so the script is brilliant.

But its the direction that makes Vice so amazingly special. It moves from past to present, from harsh reality to positively surreal, in the flick of a camera, never losing the path of the plot for a second. It’s powerful, even scary (George W Bush being president is scary enough, once you learn who Dick Cheney really was as the ‘quiet, unassuming’ V-P, it gets scarier still).

In case you missed it; I LOVED THAT MOVIE. Go see it. You have time just after Spurs play at Palace today, before you sit down to read about West Ham and Arsenal and Brexit and all the other disasters in the Sunday papers.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

There’s trouble in Benezuela. Big trouble. The Prez there, Moduro, has led the country to rack and ruin, taking the mantle of destroyer-in-chief from his predecessor, the late Snr Chavez. Now Trump has said that Moduro is no longer the president and America won’t recognise him as such any longer. Instead the Americans have installed leader of the opposition, Juan Guaido, as acting Prez. Several other nations, including our own and many, US-backed South American ones too, have joined in by accepting Guaido as the ‘new prez’.

I wasn’t aware that Donald Trump could do that. Like, decide he didn’t like a president and install a new one. Circumventing all that ‘election shit’ and delays and any involvement by, like, anyone who actually lives in Venezuela, and unilaterally deciding to put his own man in there.

Ok, Guaido did make the announcement that he was taking over first but as yet doesn’t have the backing of the army. The Venezuelan people would take Mickey fucking Mouse as president at the moment because they’re starving. Quite literally. Once they start measuring inflation in so many ‘millions percent per year’ then you’re in trouble. Prices double every three weeks. Ten percent of Venezuelans have left to become refugees in Columbia, Bolivia, even trying for the US itself, and good luck with that. And all that in a country with more oil reserves than Saudi Arabia. Which itself takes a bit of doing.

Fortunately for the corrupt, mis-managing, clueless, hapless, hopeless Snr Moduro, hated by the whole world and especially by his own people, he has an ally. In a world crying out for his head, one voice cries out its undying support for him.

Jeremy Corbyn.

On the basis that Moduro, like Chavez before him, is a socialist, almost-Marxist. And that, in Cobyn-world, trumps (no relataion) everything. The fact that this socialism has failed, as it has absolutely everywhere, and a nation is on the verge of starvation as a direct consequence, is of no interest to Jezza. The corruption, the waste, the tragedy for an entire nation, just so much ‘phah!!!’ to Corbyn. Its the socialism that counts. Even if that is the reason for the entire national and humanitarian disaster.

Just the kind of man we need to run Britain.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Ever watched 7de Laan? Nooooo!! But its the most popular Afrikaans soap opera ever! Watched by millions of… Afrikaaners, its… errrr… brilliant, no doubt. Like all soaps, the stories of which won’t particularly ‘add up’ in the real world but exist within the rarified context of their own little soap bubble. Which now and again burst into the outside. And on 7de Laan that happened when they showed their first ever mixed race kiss. Yup, just 25 years after the end of Apartheid, a black man and a white woman sucked face on the little screen. And there was uproar. It was the Boer war all over again. Two years ago the same soap screened its first ‘gay kiss’ and there was minor complaint. But mixed race!!!

Which is why I really don’t like South Africa and will never return. Place is beautiful but has, to my heightened sensitivity, a really strong ‘undercurrent’ of unease. And whilst never feeling that I was at risk (but I never do) I just felt ‘uncomfortable’ most of the time. Hated the vast inequality between the mansions of Cape Town and the shanty town next door. Yet people love it and return year after year.

Apartheid died (in the official sense, if not the socio-economic one) 25 years ago yet they can still be offended by this kiss. And I don’t know why I’m surprised because the American Civil War ended 150 years ago but there’s still ‘that attitude’ to be found all over the South. And some of the North. Bit of the West…

Over here we have different races. We have Diane Abbott. And a columnist in the paper last night was bemoaning that on Question Time last week Fiona Bruce (all bow; we love Fi-fi) was aggressive and disrespectful to a ‘black woman in politics’. Because there are so few at ‘that level’. And that comment itself is itself racist. Fiona Bruce, eager to make her mark on the programme, is aggressive and disrespectful to all people WHO DON’T GET THEIR FACTS STRAIGHT OR CONTRADICT THEMSELVES STUPIDLY. So to ask for better treatment for Ms Abbott just because she’s not a middle-class white man is wrong. Fiona was confrontational to Diane Abbott because she’s an idiot. Whatever colour she may be. Time to call a spade a spade.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Not just a song by the Bee Gees, ya know, the word has a proper meaning. A real meaning for something that’s gone horribly wrong. Like poor Emiliano Sala, the Argentinian striker. A double tragedy. First he has the misfortune to sign to play for Cardiff City, and then, if that’s not bad enough, he doesn’t even make it to the Principality to start. As his plane crashed into the sea just around the Channel Islands. A little plane. Coming from Nantes in France. With just two little propellers. No jets. What a terrible thing. There by the grace of Harry Kane go I…

So following the great mystery quasi-TIA, possible near-death, almost tragic (more ‘tragic’), incident of 2018, I’ve been tested more than any lab rat could ever imagine. If rats can imagine anything, that is. I’ve been prodded and probed and scanned and filmed and screened and wired up for the last week. And that’s all great. But is probably all for nought (we hope).

What I’ve also done, as per every medic I’ve seen or spoken with (and they are legion) is take Aspirin. The world’s favourite blood thinner. 75mg every day. Doesn’t exactly ‘keep the doctor away’ in my experience but is an all round good thing to do.

And remember, this whole palava started because I was reading the paper and it so perfectly described my funny little event and warned me to CHECK INTO HOSPITAL NOOOOW!!!! AND DON’T COME OUT TIL YOU’RE FIXED OR DEAD!!!! without worrying me in any way, obvs. So how surprised was I to read today, in that very same paper, that ‘taking Aspirin will turn you into a silly bleeder!!’ or words to that effect. That the routine taking of that seemingly harmless little sweetie leads to more cases of stomach bleeds, ulcers and problems than it cures. Well, didn’t actually imply that statistical probability. What is said was that out of every 200 Aspirin addicts, 1 will possibly develop some bleeding problem or other.

Basically; WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE. That’s what the newspapers really say by endlessly contradicting their own advice. Though we know that anyway. Its more a matter of ‘when, exactly??’ And possibly ‘why?’

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Sometimes football is wonderful. Sometimes its shit. Sometimes it hurts and sometimes its drab. But sometimes it is all of the above and then its just a matter of the end justifying the means. And that was yesterday when Spurs went to Fulham.

Before that happened Liverpool had a major scare when lowly Palace dared to score a goal against them. And then had the sheer audacity to pull back from 2-1 to 2 all. Eventually the Scousers won 4-3 to stay top. Man City beat Huddersfield, the team who have scored the least goals in all 4 divisions. So big surprise there.

Arsenal beat Chelsea which, for once, was a good result for Spurs. Keeping Chelsea at bay. But then the strangest thing happened. The Chelsea manager, in the post-match interview, turned into Jose Morinho. He attacked his players, their attitude, their mental strength, their desire. He stopped short of calling them a bunch of overpaid, useless tossers but the message was there between the lines. It was so nasty it could even been Antonio Conte. But slag them off he did. The scapegoat culture runs deep at The Bridge.

Wolves beat Leicester 4-3 with the winning goal coming in the 95th minute. But no-one really cares about Wolves and Leicester. Only Gary Linneker.

Then Spurs played. But a reduced Spurs. Son has gone, my least favourite rhyme. He’s playing for South Korea in the Asian Cup. Harry Kane can’t play after limping off last weekend with an(other) ankle injury. And we looked ‘reduced’. The energy was missing, the direction, the clinical efficiency. It all seemed to peter out in the final third of the pitch. Ok we have other players but losing those responsible for scoring and creating most of your goals leaves you confidence lacking.

Lila’s dad assured me that Llorente will definitely start scoring some goals now he has a chance to start. And score he did. Unfortunately it was at the wrong end and we were 1-0 down. Fulham have had massive problems scoring goals this season so we helped them. Then equalised. Which was great. But we didn’t want a draw (would have been our first of the season) against Fulham. No disrespect to Fulham but they’re shit. Second from bottom and you really NEED to beat those teams to have any aspirations whatsoever. And the game went on… and on… and on… we created and we failed and we missed and we squandered and… then it was almost over, it was so nearly over as to be dead. But Poch had brought on, or brought back from the dead perhaps, Georges-Kevin Nkoudou, not out of desperation or total lack of any possible options, but… because… because we love him (?) and he put over the most wonderful of crosses which, with just 20 seconds left in the game, the wonderful Harry Winks nodded home.

1-2 to Spurs, free points, well deserved (?) and Spurs go marching on. Though without Dele Alli, who’s marching days are temporarily curtailed after hobbling off with hamstring problems. Grrrrrrr…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I was blessed this morning. It was cold, it was bright and beautiful and it was about 1 measly degree away from a thick frost which would have stopped tennis. Instead, it was perfect. In a cold way. Which I don’t mind. Because I was dressed ‘appropriately’. The chap on the next court was dressed for the ski-slopes in February. And wondered why I wasn’t cold. Without a hat. Without a thick jacket, scarf, gloves. BECAUSE I FUCKING RUN AROUND!!! was my reply. I was sweating like a… sweaty thing, and he was playing a leisurely game of doubles, which I hate. And thus won’t play. Unless I’m in Sydney and I have to. I think that’s what they mean by ‘Aussie Rules’. If you wear a little less, you can move much more easily. And warm up more quickly, hopefully before hypothermia sets in.

And since I’ve been home all I’ve heard on the radio is Brexit Bollocks. Tories saying how they’ve been totally let down by their government, because they’re ‘leavers’. Tories saying how they’ve been let down by their government because they’re ‘remainers’. Labour supporters pissed off with Corbyn because he’s a ‘leaver’ and other pissed off because they’re ‘leavers’. And Corbyn has splinters in his sorry ass from sitting on the fence for so long.

Brexit is not a partisan thing. If it was it would be much easier. Then it would be just same shit different day. This is more complex. And leaves us in the situation where all the Brexit fans just want to leave; deal or no deal. And that’s because they all voted in abject ignorance in the first place. Remainers obviously didn’t, because remaining would have maintained the status quo that had existed for 40 years. And no-one could accuse the machine that is ‘Europe’ of being perfect, cos it most certainly ain’t. It’s almost as expensive as wasting 2 years of immense expenditure ignoring every other issue that the nation may need. It’s almost as stroppy, intransigent and frustrating as Brexit negotiations. And its full of tossers, just like Westminster.

And now its all about ‘no deal’. The doomsday scenario. Jumping off the proverbial cliff. That’s what leavers really want. Just LEAVE!! Whilst most of us just want the whole thing to go away.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I just love this. This is a serious version of ‘the future’. Well, part of the future, the bit long after Brexit (should the world still be functioning that far into eternity), but not too far. Hopefully the bit just after Arsenal get relegated.

We already accept autonomous vehicles, even though they kill a few people in tests. We accept that ‘driverless’ is the way forward because as much as anything else, it avoids parking issues in an increasingly space-conscious world. That’ll be my world. The Lundun world, as opposed to the New Zealand world where priorities are different.

Uber are geared up for ‘driverless’, the only question is where all those Mohammeds will work after it happens? Surely there aren’t enough mountains? And all the car companies and online platforms are desperate to hook up and tap into this almost infinite market that will arise.

But this is special. This is just that little bit ‘outside the box’. I saw it the other week but due to pressures of the world (Brexit, Spurs, holidays, Spurs, Lila, Spurs and stroke-prevention medicine) was awaiting the chance to comment.

It’s a driverless taxi, obvs., but its different. Can’t remember who makes it but basically its a ‘Transformer’. A real one. It starts life on the ground, all looking surprisingly like a… like a taxi. But when it is called by someone with difficulties, like a wheelchair, the wheels extend on legs and, as shown, can back up over stairs or any obstacle. It also has a door on all 4 sides (no driver, no steering wheel, so no constraints). Furthermore, the legs can actually ‘walk’ as well as wheel. So if there’s a snow drift, or a fallen tree, or a dead body from the previous driverless taxi, this ‘thing’ can just step over it, using the wheels as ‘feet’. It can’t kick a football. Not yet anyway.

But how brilliant is that? Someone not just looking to make something ‘equivalent’ to what’s already there, but instead using proper top-down thinking to see what is needed and working from there. And even making it happen. Applause, applause.

Happy Saturday. Arsenal vs Chelsea; OMG that’s big. Battle of the bastards.

A xxxx

So when they said: ‘you need a 7-day heart monitor’, I envisaged something the size of a postage stamp, fixed under my belt, a couple of neat little stick-on electrodes wirelessly linked to it by blue-tooth and life would just work around it all, almost oblivious to its presence.

I didn’t expect three fucking great stickers holding 15 metres of cabling all attached to a car battery on a string dangling round my neck. I mean, WTF???

How am I supposed to work, play, LIVE MY LIFE!!! But it mustn’t come off. Other than in the shower. Which I do a lot. Other than that, it will monitor my every heartbeat. Literally. It’s its job, innit? Tennis will be interesting. I feel some sellotape may be useful.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like Jeremy Corbyn very much. Not because he’s an anti-Semite, nor because he’s an Arsenal fan, not even because he is the worst political leader since… ok, he’s the worst political leader ever. At least Hitler got the roads built.

His only interest is in making political gains for him and his party. The country can go to shit for all he cares. He refuses to join in the collective, cross-party discussions about Brexit. He makes noises that its about ‘THE CATASTROPHE THAT WOULD BE A NO-DEAL BREXIT!!!’ in fact very loud, shouty kind of noises. But he wants assurances. Or he won’t play. Yet if the will of parliament is ‘no deal’ then who the fuck is that tosser to say otherwise?

Meanwhile, his own party condemn him because he won’t join in their demands for a new referendum. The ‘official Labour Party line, other than their leader’, as it could be known. But he won’t commit and he won’t join in. Which he should. Theresa May has essentially asked that for the sake of the nation, the parties jointly decide their priorities and requirements. That itself is impossible given the diversity of Brexit feeling within each party. But it can be attempted. Including the second largest party would be of benefit. To the process and to the nation. But ‘he’ doesn’t give a shit about either.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

There are worse outcomes to a vote. You could get none and the opponents 434. You could get 100 and… yeah, ok. But losing a vote in parliament by 230 votes is fairly… significant. Ok, its fucking humongous. Although the result has almost always been something of an inevitability, it was just the magnitude that was to be decided.

Jeremy Corbyn immediately tabled his ‘vote of no confidence in the government’ for two reasons. Firstly because it was politically expedient to do so, and secondly because he’s a tosser.

Because I think he was the only man in parliament yesterday who reckons Labour could do it better. Even though he has never said and will never be seen actually stating how ‘better’ would be achieved, or even what ‘better’ might look like, nor how he’d simply fly this ‘better’ past Europe who would embrace it totally. Due to his ‘charm’ no doubt. His statesmanship.

Tosser.

I rarely quote Boris these days, I’d gone right off him. Until last night after the vote, when he stated, quite rightly, that we should treat this not as a loss, more of a mandate from the British Parliament to say to Europe that the crock-of-shit deal that THEY put together and twisted and mangled from any form of British acceptability has been summarily rejected. Try again, and try harder. Lose the fucking ‘backstop’ for one. Don’t leave Britain in the situation where we’re obeying all European laws and rules but getting a say in none of them.

Even Boris, who never misses an opportunity for self-promotion, said that leaving Europe is not about WHO is doing it, its about WHAT is being done. Theresa May is merely the messenger. Plus, in reality, would Boris want that job now? Would anyone??

Oh yes, Corbyn wants it. I forgot. But only because he’s so stupid to imagine that his party would all pull together for this mythical ‘better deal’. The remainers would hug the leavers, the hards and softs would align in harmony and they’d all sing ‘the red flag’ together. Diane Abbot could count the votes.

For the total and absolute bore that Brexit has become, last night was very exciting. And that excitement continues. Probably won’t get boring again until next Tuesday.

As to ‘where we’re going’; NOBODY KNOWS.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So following the ‘curious incident of the left arm at breakfast time’, when said arm went ‘weak’ and shaky for about 3 minutes with no after effects nor any other symptoms, the medical world went frantic. Well, my medical world did. Because every doctor is assured, positive and with no ifs, ands or buts, that it was a ‘TIA’. A mini-stroke. Sure as eggs is ova. And there is a process. Most of which was done before my holiday, in the interests of even surviving the holiday! I had the neurological work-out, I had 20 different blood tests, I had an ultrasound scan of my neck arteries and I had an MRI of my brain. And everything was negative. Or positive. Depending on your perspective. It was all good anyway. No signs, no nothing. Don’t need statins, don’t need blood thinners, blood pressure shit, nothing. I AM the perfect specimen of frail old man. And thus needed to see a cardiologist. To eliminate the possibility of an irregular heart rhythm sending shock waves in my blood causing little clots. As I understand it. And quite frankly I’m a bit bored with the whole thing now so tend to drift off during the technical explanations.

The Doc last night was from Georgia. The Russian one, not the Confederate slavey one. My neurologist is South African. The Radiologist Indian and the neck one a little Jewish man from London. Without being too cynical, 3 minutes of arm weakness has so far provided two holidays, a term of private school fees, a 3-carat diamond and a BMW X-5. But ‘it’s a process’ and must be done proper.

The technician lay me down and shaved my fucking chest!!! I mean; where’s the dignity? Where was the stylist? This beautification was strictly utilitarian. We need electrodes ‘there’ and there’s hair in the way. No ‘how would you like it, Sir?’, not even a ‘who did your last chest hair cut?? Awful mess…’ Nothing. Just razor, buzz and I have a bald patch on each moob. ECG or EEG or whatever was fine. I produced a lovely graph showing movements of the FOOTSIE over 5 years. Ultrasound showed all was lovely and super. Well, it showed I do have a heart, contrary to popular belief. So he injected some of my own blood into my own fucking vein (like there’s not enough blood in there anyway), but having mixed it with sterile water first. Don’t ask. It was all good.

So if I’m so startlingly, perfectly, amazingly, deliriously fucking healthy, WHY DO YOU ALL FEEL I HAD A TIA???

I’m picking up my heart monitor on Thursday so they can check a week’s worth of rhythms. And pay for the ‘all weather package’ on the BMW.

Happy HEALTHY Tuesday

A xxxx