Andy's Glasses

Tests in Norway have shown that ‘we’ (and I speak for the entire human race here; everyone on the entire fucking planet!) are getting thicker. More stupid. More dense. Less ‘intelligent’. And I think they’re right. I think you are getting more stupid every day.

Apparently, after the last war, ‘intelligence’ increased over the decades progressively. It was called the ‘Flynn effect’. No idea who ‘Flynn’ was but he was clever. Then, with people born about 1975, reaching adulthood by the 1990s, the tide turned and IQ test scores started dropping by 3 points or so every decade.

The tests were done on Norwegian men going into national service. So really, it says nothing about women. Who may be getting cleverer as ‘we’ get thicker, or may follow suit with the boys in the name of ‘equality’. And you can’t knock the sample size because they’ve tested 730,000 people, which is certainly a significant number. Yet its flawed. Fatally flawed.

Mainly because of the big question: how do you measure ‘intelligence’? The old measures, like skill with a football, the ability to find pornographic material in a desert, doing wheelspins in the car park at Tescos, may no longer be relevant in the post-digital world. Maybe these people, the daft ones, have other skills of a technical nature which the old ‘IQ’ tests just don’t pick up on. Surely if ‘intelligence’ is evolving, as it will, then testing needs to evolve too, to represent this. But they can’t do that because then you’re effectively testing different things.

One thing’s for sure: newspaper researchers are definitely getting more stupid. The article in the Times suggested that IQ may be dropping because of the way children are taught languages and maths. But ‘IQ’ was NEVER about learning, studying or cramming. It was supposed to be ‘innate’ and unchangeable through life. Above all academic stuff. That’s why they invented daft tests of increasingly obscure series of things, connections, similarities and differences, because maths and English didn’t work on these innate and ‘inherited’ functions.

IQ is a load of bollocks. Always has been. It was invented by Victorian English rich white men who wanted methods of proving their racial superiority and created tests that demonstrated that very point. IQ, due to its very ‘innate’ and ‘hereditary’ nature has always been abused by Eugenicists, like Hitler, who found yet another way to improve ‘The Race’, by sterilising or just killing the sub-normally intelligent. Others have done and still do similar. So we hate ‘IQ’, even though we’ve got Mensa certification an’ everything.

As many have said; IQ tests measure the ability to do IQ tests. And pretty much nothing else.

Yours cleverly

A xxxx

Lila is just so clever and bright. If you say the word ‘zoolander’ to her she instantly goes into ‘supermodel’ pose. Other supermodels generally don’t wear nappies, I grant you, but mainly because they don’t eat anything whereas Lila eats everything.

We went yesterday all the way to the ‘green’ at the end of the road for the local ‘summer fayre’, or ‘summer fair’ or even summer fete. Who cares what they call it. They have it every year and to mark my 30th anniversary of living in the local area, we went. Ok, and because it was Natalie’s birthday the other day and she thought it a good place to see friends and eat things. I have no friends but will eat anything. And I’d never been before.

And as I sat back, with Lila, obvs, watching the scene, there was something almost magical about it. It was the absolute typical summer English fayre scene that is played out on village greens up and down every and all shires, every nook and cranny of my country.

There’s a church. Actually we have two, one at each end of the green. One for… errrr… Christians and the other for… other Christians who don’t like the first ones. And they provide the bookends, and the magnificence whereas everything else is really low-key and quaint. Stalls selling cakes, face-painting for kids (they refused to do me; that’s fucking AGIST!!), sellers of wines and beers, local companies trying to flog you Volvos (yes, bit odd but everyone needs corporate cash) and there was a dog show. Which was fab. Would have been if I had a dog. Which would have probably won because most of the dogs did win something. My old mate, the retired judge, came out of retirement to judge once more. Knows nothing about dogs, everything about judging. The cockapoo won ‘best of breed’ and the Retriever got 6 months for aggravated licking.

And everyone stood around, or sat on blankets on the lawn, eating, sipping wine, all dressed in summery colours and wearing silly hats, kicking balls, kids running round, it was ‘the perfect scene’. All that was really missing was rain but you can’t have everything. Though Rachie came back from Berlin for the celebrations so we had most of what we needed. And life was rosy once more.

Then I picked up the Sunday papers and learned that America and Canada are on the verge of war and North Korea will fight on America’s side. Holy shit!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

For some reason I’ve become fascinated by the concept of ‘choice’. Well, I know the reason, because of event that occurred last Sunday, but we’ll get to that later. Because we live in a world of almost limitless choices. You want ‘some cheese’, the average supermarket sells 146 varieties. Ok, 130 are all green/black/blue or slimy and you wouldn’t go near them, and 10 are even worse, being the ‘vegan cheeses’, which is a bit like buying a car without wheels. Though probably not as tasty. We google something we want or need or desire and up pop 43,724 options. Way too much choice.

But I’m concerned with the fine line that exists between ‘choice’ and ‘no choice’. F’rinstance…

You turn up at a lovely little cafe on a gorgeous, sunny Sunday morning. And you’ve walked your little socks off (233 steps, but feels much further), so you really ‘deserve’ that iced coffee/pot of tea/croissant/massive-high-fat-full-English-breakfast or whatever… but there’s no table to be had. Despair, despondency, depression, de-caf. Then a table leaves!!! OMG!!! Fantastic, we’ll take that, thank you so much, there is indeed a god. And you’re relieved and grateful and happy as happy can be.

No choice. No consideration as to whether this was a ‘good table’ that became available, no decision to make, no alternatives to consider. There’s a table! Take it!! I’m sooooo happy!!!!

But as we get ‘luckier’ then our happiness becomes more limited. Luckier in that you turn up and there’s 3 free tables. Ah. ‘Where would you like to sit?’ asks the charming Kosovan resident smooth-person. Because last sunday after tennis I was chatting to a few people there when two women arrived to this very experience. Half an hour before, the place was rammed and they’d have been turned away or, worse still, made to sit inside. But due to timing, they had a choice of 3 tables. All of which were in the sunshine and next to the park. They went to all three. Checked out the ‘environs’, the view, the table, sat down, got up, repeated, then started again. Unbelievable. ISS’A FUCKING TABLE, NEXT TO ANOTHER ONE, NEXT TO ANOTHER ONE, ALL THE FUCKING SAME!!!! But I didn’t say a word. Instead I started to think about choice and about dissonance. Of the cognitive variety. When we get very uncomfortable if we may have made the wrong choice. When ‘his’ burger looks better than my rack of lamb. When its great here in the pub but would the movie have been a preferable choice? Or whether this table that I’ve picked is in fact as good as the one I just rejected.

The human condition is a strange one.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So we’re all set for the ‘G7’ meeting in Canada. The annual meeting of the world’s most powerful (by numbers) economic nations in the entire known universe. They started as a group of about 5, then it grew up to 8 when Russia was invited to join, post-Soviet era, and then they got kicked out again in 2014 after the invasion of Ukraine and annexation of Crimea. Although if its about economic might, what’s the odd bit of territorial modification of questionable morality got to do with it? But heh, we can’t be sitting at the table with people we disagree with and disapprove of, can we? Wouldn’t be right. So its back to 7.

Theresa May wanted to use the meeting as a platform for proposing more sanctions against Russia in the wake of the Salisbury ‘incident’ and various other naughty Putinistic stuff. But, as they say; man plans, Trump laughs. Before the fat president had even walked up the steps of Air Force 1 to take him to the meeting, he announced that in fact Russia should again be included in the Group. A statement that would have gone down as well as a doner kebab at a fashion shoot with the other 6 who were all waiting to attack the blond one for his prohibitive trade policies.

Trump doesn’t care what the others think. He really doesn’t. As a massive anti-Trumpeter that I am, even I simply have to admire his ‘America First’ attitude, stated (so fucking loudly and repeated, obviously, he repeats everything in case you missed it the first time) during his election campaign. And thus he acts accordingly. If the president of France disapproves, then fuck him. He’s not an American.

There are those who feel that Trump stands by Russia as the quid pro quo for their invaluable assistance in him winning the presidency. Oooohhhhh. Others just think he’s a nob. Its all a matter of politics.

I was more concerned that at the G SEVEN meeting, the early photos, the inevitable, faux-pally, brothers (and sisters)-in arms shots, there were at least 10 ‘leaders’ and Trump hadn’t even arrived yet. Because up there were the European Leaders, even though they represent no ‘nation’ that I’ve ever heard of, and other freeloaders who just like taking expensive flights and eating free food. No show without Punch. And punch them I’d like to.

Happy Summit

A xxxx

I mean; Russia’s almost my ‘second home’, right? I have a deep-lying love and feeling for all this Russki stuff. I understand them. I’m almost a part of this whole ‘Russian thing’. Right? I mean, a week there in the strictly tourist environs, speaking to no natives unless they were tour guides, walking the streets, travelling on the underground like a native… I’m as Russian as any Somalian pirate.

But Putin, man, he pulls no punches. He’s now said that joining the war with Syria has been the best testing ground for his weapons that any (warlike, aggressive, no-care-for-humanity-whatsoever, murderous) country could have. Since joining Assad in the war in 2015 Moscow reckons its tested more than 200 new weapons. And although all weapons are tested (I’d imagine), there’s no test like a proper militarised battlefield. Particularly someone else’s battlefield, and even more so when the brief from the national leader in Syria doubtless contains several versions (Arabic, Russian, Rhyming slang) of the word ‘indiscriminate’ within its text.

So as Putin gets all his toys out over there for ‘testing’ (“Hey Yuri, try this one! Its a new bomb that destroys people who have names beginning with ‘S’ but no-one else!!!”), human rights activists estimate that the Russians have killed over 6,000 Syrian civilians. Nearly 2,000 of them children. As they lay waste to entire cities that have the misfortune to be labelled as ‘rebel’ in that some people there oppose Assad. Some, not all. Yet all get either killed or displaced.

Funny that there’s 50 times more fuss when 75 Gazans are killed trying to infiltrate the Israeli border, led by Jihadi terrorists. But I make no judgments. Though reserve the right to imply them.

So Putin is really happy with his new weapons. And continues trying new stuff. Nerve agents, tea laced with radioactive shit, umbrellas tipped with poison. Yet Russia is where ‘we’re all headed’ for the upcoming World Cup. England defender (and Spurs ‘legend’, til he leaves) Danny Rose has told his family not to go with him to Russia because of racial abuse he’s encountered there previously and he wants to spare them the pain.

I’m almost getting the feeling that Russians aren’t very nice people. Led by a seriously un-nice leader.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As my age has increased, so has the usage of personal screens and phones. 40 years ago, the time (average) spent looking at phones (to 2 decimal places) was… 0. You spoke into phones, looked at the dialling thing, didn’t look at the phones cos if you did you wouldn’t hear what the ‘other end’ was saying. And now, the average (mean and median) is, generally… all the fucking time. Therefore my age (in years… or days/weeks/whatevers) positively correlates with phone use. Very strongly. I’d say greater than 0.9.

So its my fault. All these tossers staring at screens all day is my fault. I did it. I caused it.

Did I fuck!

Because, statistics lesson 1: correlation is NOT causation. Lots of things correlate, particularly with time. Length of Lila’s hair with petrol prices. They correlate positively too.

So today I learn that ‘studying damages eyesight’. I always thought it was excessive masturbation that did that, but not according to a study at the University of Cardiff. They found that ‘those who were genetically predisposed to spend more time in education’ were more likely to become myopic.

Which to me is in fact a prime example, within a probability of less than 5%, of being total and utter bollocks.

How can anyone be ‘genetically predetermined to be educated’? Spending more time in education depends on, first and foremost, socio-economic situation. Then on parental influence, then on intelligence, possibly. And socio-economics is not genetically marked. It is definitely hereditary but there’s no ‘gene’ for it.

And even if there was, a point I’d like to stress, in case I haven’t previously: CORRELATION IS NOT FUCKING CAUSATION!!!!! So even if there was a gene for ‘length of education’, which is as likely having a gene for favourite tv programme, and it did correlate with short-sightedness, that still would not mean that it was causative.

Its also worth noting that even if ‘education’ and study was the cause of this allegedly increasing myopia (not something that concerns me with any thought other than increasing stock levels at work), you also have to look at what kids do when they’re not studying. They staring at phones and games consoles and computer screens. Its not like they’re out on their bikes, like we were, in the fresh air, playing football, shoplifting, good healthy stuff. They’re surfing porn on mobile phones. That should positively make them blind.

I despair.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Fake news. Its all the rage. Personally, I’ve been doing it almost every day for decades. Distorting the truth, telling porky-pies, making statements that I positively know to be untrue. But that’s called ‘satire’ and thus is allowed (I’m digging here, help meeee). But when it happens on an industrial scale, when it affects elections, when its done within the institutional world, then its a bit more insidious, a bit nasty and quite frankly, its wrong.

So I went to a talk last night, given by Charlotte Henry, whose book, entitled ‘not buying it’, which is being published as you read this, is all about fake news. Is that true? Or is it fake? Ooohhhhh… It was also about a phrase I’d not heard before but instantly fell in love with: “post-truth”. I love it because it conjures up a time when the truth is redundant, when we reach an era in which there’s no longer a need for honesty anywhere. But it don’t mean that. Sadly. Or gladly. What it means is that the meaning of an argument is actually secondary to the message given, that message designed to appeal on an emotional level. Like Nigel Farage’s great pre-Brexit picture of a boatload of non-white refugees queuing up to come to England. We all knew that middle-Eastern and far-Eastern migrants aren’t part of the EU, therefore had nothing to do with Brexit. But that image hit emotions in a debate which had been Faraged into one about immigration and the picture spoke a million words. None of which were actually part of the argument. Similarly the “£350million a week for the NHS when we leave Europe!!!!!” didn’t need even refuting it was so patently stupid and misleading. But emotionally people loved it. Nothing evokes more emotion in ‘little England’ than the NHS… except maybe immigration.

Fake news is different. Its self-serving, done to make money. Teams of scallywags in Eastern Europe make up stupid stories which get posted online and however daft they are, every ‘hit’ they receive pays them money through Google-ads or wherever. They don’t care about the message, nor the impact, just the dosh. “Elvis shagged my granny! Last Night!!!” is of the same interest to these people as “Trump joins the KKK”.

The whole ‘post-truth’ thing is a modern take on what was called ‘spin’. There’s intention to deceive, there’s moving the gist of the story away from what’s unfavourable and twisting it into a more flattering light. Because the emotional side with spin was gained by changing the bias.

There all biased. They’re all liars, spinners, post-truthist fake-newsers and bastards.

If you don’t read it here you simply can’t believe it.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We’re getting ready for the World Cup. As an England fan that means getting in the beers and the flags (cross of St George, obvs, the Union Jack is banned because it references Scotland), all kinds of things to wave (at the tv) and make noise with, plus, obviously a big box of tissues (for the penalty shoot-out we inevitably lose to Germany) and a new bottle of whisky for consolation. I’m more of an England fan this time than usual because our national team looks so much like Spurs. Unfortunately though, they’re not quite as good as Spurs. And my apparent capacity for sharing the love to international teams peaked in 1970 and has been going steadily downhill ever since. But as a testament to the Premier League, England provides more players to all the world cup teams than any other nation. More world superstars play here than in Spain, France, Italy or Germany. The rest of the world doesn’t even get a look in.

But in the midst of all the media shit surrounding this massive event, I’m drawn constantly to events in Madrid. Because of 2 things resulting from Zidane’s ‘resignation’. Firstly and most importantly, the continued tie-up between Real and Pochettino. With both parties willing to talk and discuss, even though the latter party just signed a brand-new deal with Spurs paying him about 8 million a year. Though I noted last night that Mauricio wasn’t on the new, revised list of possible managers for the Bernabau. And why would he go? Zidane won 3 consecutive champions leagues and it wasn’t enough.

The other feature of Zidane’s departure is that Gareth Bale probably won’t be leaving now. For some reason Zizou never liked Bale enough to play him with the regularity you’d expect having, at the time, inherited the world’s most expensive player. Bale hinted he’d leave if he didn’t play more. Strongly hinted. But with no Zidane, Bale will surely get much more exposure, as he deserves and showed at the final the other weekend. I just don’t want him playing for Man United.

And Kanu, remember Kanu? Like a pre-incarnation of Adebayor? He turned up in Moscow and the lovely baggage handlers stole £8,200 in cash from his bag. They were caught, the money recovered and duly returned. Phew. A few have pondered as to why anyone would travel with so much cash on them. Which is a worthy question in normal circumstances. But Nigerians and money is a world unto itself. But if you want to know the reason, send your bank details, pin number, mother’s maiden name and three passwords and I’ll tell you.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

What do you personally find ‘disgusting’? What revolts you? Makes you cringe? Causes a gag reflex? Invokes a shudder? Well, the chances are that if you’re a woman (or really have always wanted to be one) the list will be much longer. And the chances are that I might even be on it.

But ‘tests have shown’ (zzzzzz) that the designation of ‘disgusting’ is far more profound among women than men. And I love a real, honest-to-goodness, gender difference that they can’t shout ‘me too!’ about.

They showed images of things to lots of people at the London School of Hygiene, to men, women and all others. Lumpy milk, skin lesions, gone-off food, someone using someone else’s roll-on deodorant, eating something off the floor and ‘sexual situations’ (undefined in the article I read but you can imagine… ok, I can imagine). And the subjects scored the images for levels of ‘how disgUSTING is THAT!!!???

And sour milk and skin lesions aside, there’s not really much I actually find ‘disgusting’. Though many people find me to be totally so. I’ve never been ‘precious’ about hygiene. Other than my own, showering twice every day. But whereas I have the ‘2-second rule’ about eating food off the floor, especially chocolate which automatically receives an unlimited extension, Mel has a ‘if it even looked like it might have fallen on the floor, throw it out’ rule that is total. Lila doesn’t, oddly, and she’s a proto-woman. And is thus on life’s ‘learning curve’ in which the consumption of mud, sand and earthworms is a mandatory requirement. Only then can you define ‘disgusting’ with any sense of objectivity.

They reckon this unquestionable gender difference stems from women’s ability to produce only a few offspring whilst men can father thousands. Each week. So women need to be more aware of potential diseases and infections. But there again, they always reduce any genuine gender difference to reproductive specialising because they’re really not allowed to speculate on other causes that may offend the militant femmies.

And its not my place to cause offence. Its just my hobby.

Happy hygienic Monday

A xxxx

I’m going to revisit feminism because: a. its relevant, b. its important, c. its funny and a really easy source for winding everybody up. And also because I just listened to a debate on the radio asking: can a man ever be a feminist? Which is as stupid a question as it is rhetorical because if only women are allowed then they’re just singing to the choir as its obviously the men that really needed changing.

I am a feminist. I think. And then comes the ‘why?’ And that’s when it all becomes a bit stereotypical and pigeon-holing and predictably stupid. I was listening to the radio because I was cooking. OMG! A man! Cooking!! At home!!! (you’re allowed to be Gordon Ramsey or Heston Blumenthal but cook in your own kitchen and people get impressed or feel sorry for you).

And I used to get phone calls from my daughters whilst I was out shopping requesting… female products. Sanitary towels, tampons, eeeuuuuwwww. And I was never bothered. Yeah ok, ya want the purple pack ‘with wings’, yeah? Having the conversation never bothered me, buying the products never bothered me.

I also strongly believe (again, I have fairly high-powered working daughters and wife so its in my best interests) in workplace equality and equal pay. Nothing else makes any sense at all. The best person for the job is the best person for the job, whether they possess tits or not. Ooops.

So, politically, practically and consciously I am a feminist by almost all definitions (that I’d be prepared to listen to). Then comes the stupidity. Someone compiled a list of adverts from all over the world (including even the UK!!!!) which ‘objectify women’! Which use a pair of legs, a cleavage, a pert derriere, to attract the attention of… probably men, in an attempt to sell stuff. And that’s the red line to which ‘real’ feminists apparently sit on one side, and I’m firmly on the other. For one simple reason. Men like to look at beautiful women. If they didn’t the world would be totally fucked. Or perhaps, literally, not fucked at all. Either way, big trouble. If men were no longer allowed to, even internally, drool over provocative images then that would mean that the total and complete emasculation of half the world’s population had occurred, in the name of political fucking correctness, political castration would have occurred.

And furthermore, the debate enters totally FUBAR levels of insanity when a pole dancer is the definition of ‘objectification’ whereas Beyonce doing the same thing in her latest video is ’empowerment’, taking control of her body as she sees fit. And she’s well fit.

Do feminists really want to live in a world in which men have been conditioned to no longer be stimulated by their presence? If that’s where we’re headed, shoot me now.

Otherwise, have a fab Sunday

A xxxx