Andy's Glasses

Stephen Hawking has died. Or been switched off. Or run out of charge. Whatever, the greatest genius Britain has produced since Isaac Newton and Bill Nicholson will roll his wheels no more. He is an ex-Lucasian Professor of Clever Stuff at Cambridge. And clever he was. Did you ever read ‘a Brief History of Time’? I did. The book that ‘popularised’ the unfathomable. I like science. I do science. I read science. And as I was reading that book I was following his concepts and felt like I understood them totally. Then as the book shut, they were gone in an instant. I could open it again and grasp (at straws?) it over again but it wouldn’t stick. So, in short, Stephen Hawking was much cleverer than me. Amazingly he was given 5 years to live in about 1965 due to his Motor Neurone Disease, but managed to hang on a while longer. And we’ve all seen the film and thus realise that he probably wasn’t the nicest man on the planet. But possibly the one who understood that planet better than anyone else. He never achieved his ‘grand unified theory’ but as most people can’t even spell it, he did better than was expected. He always wanted to join the colossal big stuff; planets shifting, time warping, gravity of black holes, with the microscopic, the energy produced in the nucleus of an atom. One equation that would encompass both ends of physics. But he failed. No cigar but he couldn’t have smoked one anyway in his condition. How he managed to father children is more than most people can fathom. I wonder what they’ll do with his ‘voice’ thingy?

Meanwhile right down here on planet Earth, on solid ground, Ahmed Hassan is in court for putting a bomb on a tube train. Which ignited but didn’t work properly, instead shooting a fireball down the carriage burning about 70 people and scaring everyone shitless. The actual detonation failed thus the bag of horrible sharp, nasty, rusty ‘shrapnel’ wasn’t deployed. Thankfully. And Hassan says he never wanted to kill anyone. The screws and bolts and knives in the bag were ‘just to look good’. Because “the idea of killing anyone never crossed my mind, never in my life”.

It takes a special kind of person to draw a line between creating a fireball in a crowded, confined space and claiming he wouldn’t murder on ethical grounds. You almost have to admire the little fucker. Then deport him.

Its Lila’s birthday soon. And as her present arrived her mummy and daddy decided to ruin the surprise and give it to her early. Where has that year gone???

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I really like this government. Because at no time before can I ever remember ‘triggering an article’ and yet now, so soon after ‘triggering article 50’ to get us out of Europe (and that seems to be going really… errrr… hmmm… really well?), it looks like we’re set to now trigger article 51. I mean, that’s fucking amazing. I didn’t realise articles had to be triggered in sequence, but there ya go. I’m an article-triggering-virgin so not sure of the rules.

Article 51 is a UN thing, it should be noted, I s’pose, whereas article 50 was a European thing, but I don’t think we should let that underplay the neatness and synchronicity of these events. And, of course Article 51 basically accuses the Russians of attacking Britain. Which it PROBABLY did. And allows us to take action. From my own point of view, I still think we need to establish all the facts, as in ‘would they stand up in a court of law’. If not, then really we should hold all threats until such details are established. We all fucking KNOW that the Russians did it. Who else would have the motivation to kill a traitor-to-Russia? Who else would possess a Russian-made nerve-agent? But its not enough. Ironically, even when it does become ‘enough’, as it did with Andrei Lugavoy killing Litvinenko, the Russians will still deny it anyway.

So we’re going to shut down Russia Today, the Russian state tv channel based over here. Which will cut Jeremy Corbyn’s income source significantly, cos he’s always on it. And we’re threatening a ‘cyber attack’ on the Russians. Which is a bit like taking your slingshot out to attack a tank because Russia leads the world in cyber-crime. They hacked Hillary Clinton, they affected the US election, they played a part in the Brexit referendum and lead the world in ‘malware’. And we’re going to attack them?

Midnight tonight. That’s the ‘deadline’ for the Russians to respond to Theresa May’s threats. Otherwise… otherwise… she’ll trigger article 52 (not sure there is one, but we’ll make it up as we go along)? Very exciting.

I think we should suspend this til May 26th. Because that’s the day we come home from our trip to (fucking) Russia. And having spent about 19 hours filling in the visa application, I’ll never get that time back. Never. Listing every country visited for the last 10 years, dates and times of entry and departure, details of last 3 passports, names and addresses of children, parents (including where they’re buried, when applicable), every meal eaten in the last 9 months, quite unbelievable.

So please don’t declare war on Russia til we’re home and safe. Triggering articles is opening a can of fucking worms. As we know.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

If power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, then what about absolute, eternal, total power forever? What does that do to the price of eggs? Because yesterday the National People’s Congress in Beijing voted to abolish the ‘2-term’ rule of leader by which the boss man can only serve 2 five-year terms as President. That is no more. So President Xi can rule his little heart out until his little heart actually gives out. It was a close contest. With 2,958 voting with the President to abolish the rule and 6 voting against. They had a recount. Mainly so the dissenting 6 could be identified and will be out of a job by today, locked up by Wednesday and in some forced labour camp by Friday. They introduced the 2-term rule after Chairman Mao died. The founder of Communist China. Who did all sorts of things of a fair-ish and decent nature but was also responsible for an estimated 30-50 million deaths, mainly of some kind of ‘dissenters’. I’m not sure how rich he was at the end but let’s say Chairman Mao was never short of rice.

Over in that other model of the Communist Dream, Putin is still serving up ‘the dish best served cold’ in the wake of the latest revenge killing in Salisbury. Which ‘might’… ‘allegedly’… ‘possibly’… be something to do with Russia. Maybe. And Putin again is in sole charge of a totalitarian state. In which ‘dissenters’ tend to get arrested and disappear with what would be over here, alarming frequency and worry. But over there is just ‘life’. And again it is reckoned that Putin has literally billions stored up in various offshore accounts. Just a little ‘nest egg’ so he can keep the heaters on when he retires. But how far from the original mantra of: from each according to his ability to each according to his needs? Ok, he might ‘need’ another little jet plane, what’s the problem?

And that is the dream to which Jeremy Corbyn and most certainly John McDonnell aspire. I just caught part of a speech to by the latter to the Scottish Labour conference yesterday and in an almost throw-away line, as the shadow chancellor was slagging of Conservative policies generally, he blamed the usual ‘market forces’ and ‘big business’ and then just kind’a threw in ‘terrible liberal democracy’ as a third horn of his personal devil. What? You got a problem with over-hornage? Who said the Devil can only have 2? You ever seen him??? Well thank you.

But since when, in Britain, has ‘liberal democracy’ been an evil? Been the cause of problems? Yet in McDonnell’s sick and warped mind that is the case. Whereas the totalitarianism in China and Russia are political aspirations.

He is a very dangerous man. I bet he does tai chi too.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

What do you do when your football team is shit? This is a deep and profound question that goes to the very heart of the underlying philosophy of our national game. A less pretentious person would see the irony in intellectualising something that is far more animal, basic and visceral than ‘mere’ thought.

But the first consideration is always: ‘who does a football team belong to?’. And the only answer to that question is ‘the fans’. Because really, no-one else gives a toss as long as the money keeps rolling in. Some of the players are passionately loyal. Until a better offer comes along. And I don’t blame them for that. The managers are the way the club performs at any given time, how they play, how they set up, what their immediate goals (no pun) are. Then they get sacked or leave for more money elsewhere too. The owners have their own agendas. Some see their team as a viable way of writing off losses for tax purposes. Others, like the Glazers at Manchester United, see the club as a cash cow, to be milked extensively and often, using any form of obscure financial wheedling they can. The Oligarchs own teams to try and keep their profiles high enough that the KGB don’t kill them in Pizza Express. And the Oil Barons just buy ‘toys’ all around the globe because they have nothing else to do and are prepared to pay very handsomely for the vanity of buying ‘success’.

So a club is really just the fans. They bear the name, the badge, the shirt, through good and bad. Til death do they part. But unlike marriage, there is NO divorce ever from your club. Its the tattoo that can’t be erased or covered up.

Thus is fan ‘protest’ an acceptable form of voicing an opinion, normally that their team are shit and heads need to roll. sumfink needs ter be dunn!!! So they hoist banners that ‘WENGER MUST GO!!!’ or that ‘Mike Ashley is vile’, neither of which anyone would deny. And then there’s West Ham.

Their team are indeed shit. No one would question that. More interestingly, they’ve always been shit, so why all the problem now? But unlike ‘civilised fans’ (a contradiction in terms if e’er there was), those ‘ammers don’t do peaceful, thoughtful protest. They gang up with horrible collective aggression and violence and launch an attack on the director’s box. That’s not to mention the total morons who invaded the pitch, mid-game, to… errr… to… do something disruptive and incur the wrath of the Premiership who will inevitably make things much worse for the club and the fans as a consequence. But the evil intent on the faces of those 20 or 30 throw-back Neanderthal’s out for David Sullivan’s blood (Sullivan duly bottled out 10 minutes later) was a really horrible sight to behold. Ugly.

If they impose sanctions on West Ham and perhaps play in an empty stadium for a few games, that, in terms of atmosphere, won’t actually make much difference at the London Stadium.

Ban them from the league. Relegate them to the Victoria’s Secrets Dulux Paints 3rd division (South) for a few years. Til they can learn to behave.

Happy Sunday (Spurs have just taken the lead at Bournemouth so I’m hopeful)

A xxxx

The two New Yorkers, possibly hit-men, otherwise, probably something of low repute, for sure, certainly nothing requiring high levels of industry as they spent about 25 days out of 26 at the pool, were an odd couple. Steve was the ‘old man’ of our group at about 34. A big, burly, hairy New York Jew. Joey was about 23 and Eye-talian to the core. The name, the family and the odd word thrown into a conversation in traditional Long Island Latin.

Steve’s girlfriend had come over for a vacation and one day Joey told us a couple of his old, dear friends were paying him a visit. Schoolfriends, family friends, bad’a,bad’a,bad’a. And we were just hanging there one day at the pool (where else??) when along came Jackie and Debi. Two more ‘Talians from Noo Yawk.

They weren’t modelesque, like Susan was, they lacked the leg length and the high gloss polish. In fact these girls would rub off the polish as being ‘tacky’ because they were dressed in ‘street smart’ and ‘demi-punk’ and were the coolest things ever. And they were New Yorkers, and thus moved with a self-assured confidence that was almost a challenge. They simply exuded the Taxi Driver line, ‘you talking to ME???’ with every stare. And they swore a lot. Which, coming from basically, petite and gorgeous brunettes, I found rather alluring. Oh and they were funny. Every comment met with a put-down, every sentence barbed, especially Debi. So I let Craig (my flat-mate) take Jackie and I went to sharpen my wits on 7 stone of solid, New York rock.

Debi was (and still may be; who knows?) a psychiatric nurse. Like Nurse Ratched in One flew over… but seriously cute. And she started work at the Cedar Sinai hospital in Beverley Hills. No shortage of rich nutters there, for sure. And then when she finished, she had me, her own, private, poor nutter. And I was still seeing Susan. But that was ok cos Debi was going out with one of the doctors at the hospital too. Well, ok-ish, obvs.

And just when I thought that my cup was well and truly runneth over, I got a letter from Brazil. Ivani was coming over to do an advanced English course at Redlands University in the Desert. So we can get together and spend lots of time. But… but… but…

You know how ‘you can never have too much money’, well it doesn’t apply to all good things, that’s for sure. Life was getting really complicated. Yeah, in kind of a ‘pinch me and tell me this is real’ kind’a way, but seriously. I mean: SERIOUSLY!!

Happy Friday

A xxxx

There’s no disgrace in losing to Juventus in the Champions League. Its not like they were some unheard-of Swedish part-time minnows who scraped into the Europa League on alphabetical merit. They’re Juve. They’re frikkin’ massive. And they’ve made it to the C.League final twice in the last 3 years. Yet still it hurts. But more because it brings to an end our run of 17 games without defeat. And I hate statistics like that. Because I don’t want my world to crumble in the fallout. Now we shall see the real magic of Pochettino if he can rally the troops for Sunday’s match at Bournemouth. A fixture which lacks the inevitable romance of playing Italy’s biggest team in the most prestigious tournament in the world of football, but its just as important.

Meanwhile there’s a tale of two nations being played out right here, right now. Two what could be termed ‘rogue states’ but only one is. That one is Russia in the wake of the latest death by really weird manner in Salisbury. Though no-one’s actually died yet and most tragically, if anyone does die soon its most likely to be the policemen who was first there to try and help the Russians.

They haven’t stated yet exactly what the nerve agent used was. But they know and if they know that they’ll know where it comes from and if they know that then they’ll know for sure… that the Russians did it. They always do. Though Boris’s premature accusations have only given credence to the Russian persecution get-out of ‘everyone accuses Russia, even though we’re cuddly and nice, so typical of the West’. The same ‘west’ who, for some reason, feel unable to take action against Russia blanket bombing civilians in Syria, killing hundreds of children, every fucking day.

The other nation that would be ‘rogue’ but instead is our ‘greatest ally and bestest friends forever’ is Saudi Arabia. Prince Whatever (big fat geezer with a beard wearing a dress, you know the one) was accorded not just the full red carpet treatment, but lunch at Liz’s too. And as he’s not a head of state, that is big. Like lunch would have been. Prince looks well fed. And we do lots of trade with Saudi, especially arms. So we look after them and entertain them at The Palace. Otherwise they’d use another nation’s bombs to murder half the civilian population of Yemen with. And we wouldn’t want that. Not me, nor The Queen, nor Theresa May.

Its all fucked up.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

We’ve had the Leveson Inquiry, we’ve shut down the News of the World as a consequence due to Murdochian sleazy journalism and now it appears, on the very day that government suspended ‘Leveson 2, with a vengeance!’ or whatever it was called, the noble and hi-brow (ish) Sunday Times, Murdoch’s flagship journal, was acting in an even more despicable manner than the regular gutter press. They hacked phones, bugged homes, stole bank statements and mortgage accounts of then PM Tony Blair, of Gordon Brown, anyone big and famous. So they issued a statement. Along the lines: this newspaper has made every effort to uphold the standards, blah, blah, blah… morally up our own arse… blah blah, never intended to descend into the nether world of corruption… will strive to maintain standards…

Well they fucking failed. Miserably.

So to avoid being tarred by any association to that newspaper (in that I read it), I’d like to issue my own statement of innocence, if not ignorance:

“This blog has never hacked a phone, bugged a flat, rummaged through a cabinet ministers dustbin, accessed bank or other financial statements or in any way acted contrary to the official code of conduct of ‘andysglasses.com’. There’s simply no need. I just make it up instead.”

Sifting through an Islington wheelie-bin in the cold of night in me rubber gloves rummaging through Peter Mandelson’s used tea bags is just not my thing. Question my dedication if you will. I just don’t care enough.

Meanwhile, back in Salisbury, we seem to have acquired a couple of very sick Russians. And for the benefit of Boris Johnson the old adage ‘if it smells like shit and looks like shit then it probably is shit’, doesn’t automatically work if you change it to ‘if it looks like Litvinenko and smells like Litvinenko…’

Of course it PROBABLY is the Russians cleaning their laundry in someone else’s garden, yet again, but Boris, WHAT’S THE FUCKING RUSH? Why start making stupid accusations and promises of sanctions now, when we know nothing, rather than waiting a few days until we can speak in an informed manner? I’m allowed to make shit up, the Foreign Secretary isn’t.

As a cruel irony, just this weekend Mel & I have booked a little holiday for May. St Petersburg and Moscow. So we’d really prefer it if Britain hasn’t declared war on Russia before then. I JUST BOUGHT TICKETS FOR THE FUCKING BALLET, FFS!! So leave that nice Mr Putin (haven’t got our visas yet) alone, Boris. Or at very least, wait until the inevitable facts are known.

Happy Wednesday and COYS tonight

A xxxx

Who d’ya feel more sorry for; Arsene Wenger or Bradley Wiggins? One is a victim of his own self-important arrogance and the other… is pretty much the same. One is being hounded out by his own club’s supporters whilst the other has the entire mechanism of government railed against him and accusing him of being a cheat at his sport without giving him the benefit of any form of defense. Wenger has a defense but its really shitty at the moment. So you can see, this is no meaningless and facile comparison but indeed a question that needs to be considered.

The entire sport of cycling has been in disarray since Lance Armstrong was caught crossing the Tour de France finish line with a syringe hanging out of his left arm. He was a ‘drug cheat’ and was correctly disgraced and disbarred… errrr… dismembered… whatever they do to drug-cheats. Which, at that time, it must be said, was a bit of a grey area.

Everyone was taking drugs for something. Even for a cold, for an allergy, hay-fever, whatever. And if you had a letter from your (team) doctor, stating you need meds for ‘a condition’ then that was pretty much a carte blanche to take what you like. You can take an anti-histamine for hay fever, but you could also choose a fuck-off mega-steroid which would (among so many other wonderful things) probably stop your sneezing. Whilst making you bigger, faster, leaner, stronger, more powerful and A FUCKING GOOOODDDDD!!!!! Or at least feel like it.

So they questioned Sir Bradley last night and he maintains that he “never crossed the ethical line”. Yeah. Like what’s he gonna say? He was doubtless under pressure, both personally and also from ‘the team’ and did what the doc told him. Ethical lines are big grey areas with lots of little lines inside them.

And if that’s not bad enough as it stands, they also announced today that Bradley Wiggins invested in a tax AVOIDANCE scheme. Not ‘evasion’ but avoidance, so it was legal. Even though they closed it down. And not just any ole tax avoidance scheme but one which used a charitable front to acquire tax benefits for its ‘investors’ whilst doing virtually nothing for any known charity in the process. Usual tax avoidance mechanism: you invest a million quid, sell it to a trust for a pound, establishing a massive loss, which you sell to an offshore loss company who sell it back to your for 22 million quid which is lodged in Panama for a month, during which time there’s no tax due on the million quid and the government here owes you £48k off your tax due to the excess losses. Or something like that. In this case, add in some ‘gift aid’ from the government and a charitable status umbrella and you’re talking major league, bottom-feeding scummy finance.

But I still feel more sorry for Wenger. Just because he’s Wenger.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m not the biggest fan of Arsene Wenger. Though after yesterday I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. And I can’t stand Jose Morinho either. Because I don’t like managers who can’t lose with any grace, managers like Wenger and Morinho who always want to blame the ref, accuse everyone of persecuting their teams, the ball-boys did it, the team doctor was wrong, anyone and anything but accept responsibility.

But yesterday a new contender for ‘most hated’ simply rocketed to the top of the list. When Antonio Conte took his Chelsea team to Manchester City. Ok, it was Manchester City who, quite literally, are sweeping away all who come before them. So you have to approach them with care and consideration and caution. If you attack too strongly you leave yourselves exposed at the back and they will punish you. Yet attack is always the best form of defence and if you have the ball then they can’t score.

Teams fearful of the opposition often set up more defensively, more conservatively, particularly away from home, hoping to score ‘on the break’ with just a couple of attacking players left up the pitch.

But Conte is an Italian. Raised on that nation’s fine tradition of defending first, second, third and forth. Fouling and violence come 5th and 6th and attacking comes in at a lowly 19th.

And thus yesterday his team set up at the Etihad with 5 at the back, four more sitting about 5 yards ahead of them and the lonely, solitary figure of Eden Hazard pretending to attack all by hisself. The ideal ‘target man’, all 5 foot 6 of him. Playing where all his unquestionably brilliant skills are rendered virtually worthless.

Had the plan succeeded in producing the 0-0 draw that was the stuff of Conte’s dreams, he would have created the blueprint for the death of our national game. But inevitably, as Chelsea did not chase the ball, rush to break down attacks, move towards the City players at all, a goal came just after half time. And I thought, great, now Conte will bring on a striker and will have to chase a goal and it might look like a game. But no. He didn’t. Just kept to his incredibly disciplined banks of defenders to stop City scoring again.

Because he’s a total… heap of shit.

His justification, as the pundits and critics slammed into Chelsea’s horrible tactics, was that, basically, he knew they would lose, everyone does, and a big loss would be very demoralising for his players. So to lose 1-0 is a great thing, no?

Well how demoralised are his players, does he reckon, that their esteemed manager essentially told them that he has absolutely no confidence in their abilities or skills, that they’re going to lose the game, lack any chance of winning so might as well not bother. Instead just try to ‘lose not too badly’.

It was cynical, it was horrible to watch, totally cowardly and it gave a terrible message that he wasn’t just playing for a draw, but was more than happy with a ‘gentle’ loss. Oh, and fuck the fans who not only went 200 miles to watch their team embarrass themselves but now have to face the humiliation as they read today’s papers and see their mates at work.

I don’t know what they call football in Italy, but its certainly not ‘the beautiful game’. The sooner Conte goes the better. He’s a danger to football.

Happy Monday (which, in terms of results generally, it really is)

A xxxx

The ‘me too’ campaign have teamed up with the ‘time’s up’ brigade and formed a new, consolidated, cohesive and unified group that, quite frankly, you wouldn’t want to fuck with. I may have to rephrase that end bit. And although both those causes are noble, worthy and could both be replaced with ‘about fucking time!!!’ like all populist protests, they can go a little far.

In that anyone with a grudge against someone in Hollywood (and that’s almost everybody whose ever worked there) can invoke the ‘me too’, name-and-shame and the person named has a massive presumption of guilt by the media and everyone else. No-one asks the story, considers ‘the other side’, its just ‘me too’ and then he’s a son-of-a-bitch. Turning something with good intention into a modern-day lynch-mob.

And there’s also the ‘not me too’ to consider. Those who weren’t abused, assaulted, raped or intimidated. How do they feel? The ‘me too’ almost becomes a badge of honour, the admission to a club. And that club means that men, albeit horrible, Weinsteiny, abusive, megalomaniacal, power-wielding misogynists, found the members attractive and desirable enough to risk their won careers (eventually) for the pleasure they sought. And thus the ‘why not me too’, by extension, are unworthy of groping, seducing, abusing. Which, in the vain and narcissistic world of movies, is almost insulting.

So to show my own solidarity with all of the above, I went to see a proper, non-abusive, totally woman-ish movie last night. Ladybird. Written and directed by a gel, (Greta Gerwig), and at least half the actors were women, and no-one gets shot or punched. And Saoirse Ronan is totally captivating, even though she looks a total mess through the entire movie. Its wonderful. And in normal circumstances I’d want her to win tonight’s Oscar for the best acting by a female person in a non-lgbt, non-objectified, proper feminine role. But I think that’s gonna be Frances McDormand’s for 3 Billboards.

And on the way home we stopped and picked up felafel. Which would also win an oscar for the ‘best felafel in a wrap’, so brilliant was its performance throughout its very short career (about 4 minutes, I reckon). And as with all great film performances, it left me wanting more. A credit to its skill? Or a reflection of what a pig I am? I almost felt guilty eating something in which nothing had died to feed me.

Happy Sunday. Come on Brighton

A xxxx