Andy's Glasses

I love Wimbledon. Don’t know if I’ve mentioned that. And watching it on tv is a constant reminder of why I love the BBC. No adverts. Just tennis, pundits, more tennis, more tennis. No power drink adverts, no on-line gambling (its SOOOOOO easy; just nick mum’s credit card and you’re OFF!!!!), no feminine hygiene products, four-wheel drives or supermarkets. Just tennis.

And such tennis. Which really doesn’t exist anywhere else. Because grass courts are different. Faster. Bouncier. Less predictable. And greener. Although considerably less green than they were 10 days ago. All those East Europeans bouncing around on it doesn’t keep it in the best of condition. But I don’t mind them bouncing.

I mind them screaming. And shrieking, whining, groaning, cruchsing and warbling. I was so relieved yesterday when Venus beat the young Latvian prodigy Jelena Ostapenko because the kid, however wonderful, emits a high-pitch squeal with every shot. Sounds like a firework. A flying bomb. A kettle boiling (remember whistling kettles?). And its simply fucking awful.

In Konta’s quite amazing match yesterday we were graced with a groaner at one end and a shrieker at the other. A win-win. In some of the rallies it sounded like a constipated cat was being gang-raped by foxes. I turned the sound down. But I like hearing the ball hit.

Johanna Konta is the best ‘English’ woman of the last 6 generations. Virginia Wade was never that good. Not sure anyone from her generation could match the new breed anyway because the game has evolved so powerfully. Could Chrissie Evert’s genteel, elegant style have competed with Serena’s strength? Doubtful. But Johanna is wonderful and she’s ours. Well, she’s ours for the time-being. She started off as decidedly theirs, having 2 Hungarian parents. Then she was emphatically someone else’s because she played as an Aussie, where she did her growing up. But now she’s English. As English as the Queen. Well, as English as Greg Ruzedski anyway.

Today Murray plays Quarrey and I kind’a hope he wins just for the fans. Among whom I don’t number. But Federer playing Raonic is the big one. The massive Canadian beat Fed last year in the semis. But Roger is revitalised following his 6-month break and back to his imperious best. And I love him dearly, which counts and adds at least 4 points each set.

Everything to play for. Whatever that means.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m normally very cynical and skeptical about scientific research. Not all of it, obviously. When they make cars go faster, that’s brilliant. New drugs, either for heart failure or for ‘recreational’, fantastic. I’m cynical because there seems to be so much research (a good thing, so you’d think) about such a load of bollocks (a bad thing) that it downgrades the whole field. ‘Researchers have shown…’ yeah, what now? Sugar’s bad, fat’s good, wine will kill ya, meat is poison, wine will make you live forever, sex with animals is a win-whinny, eat more mud, blah, blah, blahhhhh.

The ones that grab your eye though, are what we call ‘good science’. Which basically means any science that validates things we like to do and would probably do anyway, whatever the scientists said. “Watch more tv; its good for you”, really really good science. “Eat only vegetables, 12 times a day”, positively bad science. “Drink more alcohol”, very good science. “Praying is good for you”, awful science, “football’s good for you”, don’t need science for that one.

So today’s result. Drink more coffee; you’ll live longer. And I love that. Because its a result I want to hear. Ergo: its good science.

And its not like they asked some geezer carrying a Starbucks extra-shot skinny decaf mochiato with caramel and chocolate sprinkles if he was, like happy. Or if he planned to live longer. They followed 500,000 people (not like stalkers ‘follow’, but like scientists ‘follow’) all over Europe. And although during the length of the test 40,000 died (holy SHIT!!! and coffee’s good for you??) the ones who drank more coffee died less. Or died slower. Or less painfully. Or didn’t die at the same rate as the other uncaffeinated fools. So they reckon not only should you drink the stuff, but drink lots. At least 3 a day. Which I do on weekends but even I have limits. Also becomes such an expensive habit your later years will be in a Council care home which stinks of coffee-flavoured piss because you can’t afford the Palace for the Advanced, up the road, which smells of roses. Ok, and piss.

So be a good person, drink coffee, live forever.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

How tragic it seems that on the very day the town of Mosul is finally freed from the dark and tortuous clutches of ISIS, another terrorist group announces its evil intentions to the world. Not that the ISIS story is in any way over, because the seed, the poison, the evil and murderous ideology is unfortunately live and kicking in so many disturbed minds.

But now the Cornish Republican Army has announced that it will escalate its activities (?) and even has a potential suicide bomber! (Mrs Rose Trevelyan, 83, of Penryn. I made that bit up, don’t go hassling her or arresting her.)

If you have never heard of the deadly Cornish Republican Army its because its new. Or newly named. Used to be the Cornish National Liberation Army. Quite frankly the changing of names of deeply silly organisations immediately puts those organisations into the category of comedy greats. On Monty Python’s Life of Brian they had 27 bands of Jesus-followers. In Citizen Smith they were always denouncing the ‘Tooting Republican Army’ because the ‘Republican Army of Tooting’ were so much better. And any use of the words ‘national’ or ‘liberation’ immediately makes it way more Benny Hill than Jeremy Corbyn.

Its not just that Cornwall wants to be independent of England (like we don’t have enough trouble with the Scots and Irish) but that Cornwall in fact was never incorporated into England at all and remains, since thirteen hundred and something-or-other, a Duchy. ‘Owned’ by the Duke of Cornwall. Who looks remarkably like the Prince of Wales. Our very own Charles.

And in days of old Cornwall was kept independent because it was rich, it had tin mines. But they’ve all closed and thus here we are in the ‘post-Poldark’ era to find ourselves with yet more seperationists. FREE US FROM INGLUND!!!! they shout. We is free and independent as we should be because we’re Celts, not Brits. And they set fire to buildings. Which is a bit nasty really. And celebrity chef restaurants. And Cornwall is simply awash with celebrity chefs.

Cornwall is unquestionable beautiful. And has, along with northern Scotland, the most fabulous beaches in Britain. Unlike the Scottish ones though, you can actually sit on the Cornish beaches in summer without suffering from hypothermia or wind-burn. And you get surf. Great surf. For those who appreciate such things after the Beach Boys. And there are a few. So people flock to Cornwall every summer. To surf, to beach, to whatever. And because these are generally posh people, they then buy homes there for future generations of SW7-ites to dodge a bit of inheritance tax. Ok, these ‘foreigners’ buy the best homes. The big ones, the seafront ones, the views. And they love a Michelin star. Hence the celebrity chef invasion.

These silly militant ‘urban warriors’ don’t seem to understand that since the last mine was shut (1867? 1922? long time ago for sure) Cornwall’s income is tourist-dependent. Ok, they sell ice cream but otherwise they NEED Rick Stein attracting Hooray Henrys to Padstow. They need Jamie Oliver there. Because then the people come and spend more.

So please join me and sign up to SAVE THE CORNISH SUICIDE BOMBER; TODAYYYYY!!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

After the rugby yesterday, I played tennis with the younger daughter. Nothing unusual about that except we were brilliant. And normally… one of us, sometimes isn’t. But yesterday, in the searing heat and horrible humidity, sheer brilliance.

And then I watched Roger Federer. He’s 83 years old (so you’d believe if you listened to the pundits) and yet is still the most perfect tennis player that has ever been. Every single shot that man plays is a thing of beauty. Every serve, every lob, forehand, backhand, volley, just a graphic of exactly, precisely, sublimely, how to play that particular shot. Very few of us can do that.

And how wonderful that there is always balance in the world. Someone’s born, someone dies, something bad happens, something great happens somewhere else. Call it ‘karma’, call it ‘balance of probabilities’, call it what’cha like. So this week, when Volvo declared they’re going to stop making fuel-burning cars from 2019 (not even 2022 as I originally thought), Jeremy Clarkson today reviewed the Bugatti Chiron. And its available soon and they’re only making 500 so get your two-and-a-half million quid ready and you can get one. Then give it to me. Because you really couldn’t cope with it. So stick with the Prius and I’ll drive the 8 litre, 16 cylinder, 1500 horse-power Bugatti. For you. Because I’m kind and thoughtful. It goes from 0 to 125mph in 6 seconds. And even has brakes. Its quoted fuel consumption is 12.5mpg. But Bugatti is part of VW and we know exactly how their figures are calculated on such matters. Were you to drive the car at 260mph (it will do over 280), it will take just 7 minutes to drain the 22-gallon fuel tank. There again, at that speed, there is no-where in the world that you couldn’t have arrived at in those 7 minutes. Ahhhhh, to dream.

Lionel Messi can afford a Chiron. He’s just signed a new contract at Barcelona paying him £1million a week. Yes, you read that correctly. Barca are worried about offers from other clubs to went a bit ‘pre-emptive’. Maybe overdid it a touch but that should make him safe. Though its worth considering that they estimate (no idea how but sounds reasonable) that Messi is personally responsible for 20% of Barca’s annual income.

A million pounds a week. And the little fucker (who I love dearly) still has ‘tax issues’, along with fellow ‘best-player-in-the-world’, the uber-narcissist Christiano Ronaldo, a ‘pauper’ for his mere 400 grand a week, but still being investigated about his tax. Or lack of.

Still lovin’ this hot weather.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So every day I get photos. Natalie’s obsessed with photographing her daughter and sharing and I’m obsessed with seeing them. Its become an epidemic. I may have to give up work to spend more time looking at Lila pics. And going ‘ahhhhhhh’, or ‘awwwwww’ or ‘Oh My Gawd!!’ or whatever. That’s my business. Then yesterday, whilst the two of them were attending some kind of mother/baby thing/event/class/convention, I got this one. Proudly showing how Lila (yellow dress, front of pic) is holding her head up so well. But what got me, but like really got me, was how the other kids weren’t. They were just face-planted on the mat. And as I looked it just seemed funnier and funnier. Are mothers allowed to do that? Should Social Services be called? Is this ‘cruelty to children’. Don’t know, don’t care, it was too funny to worry about all that.

I rushed home from this morning’s martial arts class to watch the rugby. Ok, Tai Chi class, but when the instruction is: “I’ll punch you as hard as I can in the face and you have to block it” I can be forgiven for thinking its martial arts, rather than the artistic martialness that Tai Chi can aspire to. But I rushed home for the British (oh, ok, ‘and Irish’) Lions. The final test match. Series at 1-all and this was the decider. And fuck me, what a decider. SPOILER ALERT!!! it ended in a draw. But one of those draws, at 15 each, that felt like a win. Because the All Blacks are not just a bunch of thugs who do a tribal dance and then pretend to play rugby for 80 minutes, they are in fact the real deal. The total package. Brutality and skill, in equal parts. Brutally skilful and skilfully brutal. That in itself takes skill.

And we (the royal- and Irish- ‘we’) matched them, equalled them, on all levels.

So now its more tennis. Wimbledon’s on. In case you missed that. The world’s best tennis tournament. In fact, for most people (certainly people round here) its the only tournament that’s worth anything. Andy Murray has both limped and moaned his way to next week. And for once I can sympathise with the morose Scot. Because I have that same injury. Related to ‘bursitis’. Tennis players get it. Especially at ‘our level’ of the game. The difference is, he’s still a miserable Scottish tosser, and I’m lovely.

And now John McEnroe, who avoids trouble like most people avoid money, has rekindled his personal crusade against women. Not all of them. Just the ones who play tennis. And how the best women’s players couldn’t beat the 786th rated man player. Yet you watch Serena play, not this year cos she’s pregnant, of course, and you see how Martina used to play… and then you have to realise that Martina was a lesbian. And originally a Czech, but that’s not relevant here. So where would a gay man fit onto the McEnroe scale? A transgender… person/thing? A hermaphrodite? Answer that, John, whilst you’re being a sexist (but possibly true) bastard!

Happy Sports Day

A xxxx

And remember, ‘B’ is for Brexit. Ok, and also ‘bollox’, just by the way. And bastards. And, if you’re really dyslexic, B is also for headless chickens, tossers and morons.

So we’re leaving Europe. And we’ve triggered ‘article 50’, our intention to leave those garlic-eating, bottom-pinching, jack-boot strutting bunch of ultra-bureaucrats and go it alone. Yes, we don’t need them. Them and their terrible rules and unlimited free-loading immigrants. We’d rather trade with Saudi Arabia. Good, decent people.

But leaving Europe is not like leaving a party. Kiss the host and walk out with a bottle of booze under your coat. No. Leaving Europe is immensely difficult. Because we need to sort out terms. The ‘deal’. Which is incredibly, horrendously, it must be said, actually impossibly difficult. So to achieve it by March 2019, the end of the ‘2-year’ negotiation period, never gonna happen. Simply can’t.

Therefore they’re now proposing ‘plan B’. Well, the CBI proposed it and you can’t say its not logical. As of March 2019 we will have ‘left the European Union’. But what we’ll do is stay acting as if we’re still part of it until the deal is finalised (2037? 2142??) So we’ll continue to trade freely, we’ll continue to allow the French to come to London, we’ll keep our Polish builders, we’ll pay our due fees and… well, we’ll basically stay in Europe. But won’t be a member. So we don’t get voting rights and stuff, cos we’re not a member.

Of course, the 27 member states have to agree to this suggestion, which is widely viewed as a ‘good idea’, and that alone could take 4 years. Maybe 6. Who fucking knows?

Donald Trump made a great speech yesterday and, for once, it went down really well. No protests, no marches against him, even Melania looked happy. Relatively. The speech was in Warsaw, Poland, and the crowd resembled the Neuremberg Rally in 1934 but wearing white t-shirts. Cos it was hot. The flag-wavers were exclusively white, right-wing and probably totally racist. The genetic and cultural descendants of those who chased my grand-parents out of Poland 100 years ago. They chanted Trump’s name, over and over. Their hero. Not a pretty sight. Neither Trump nor that crowd.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So a widow phones the Jewish Chronicle to place an obituary for her husband.
What would you like to say?
‘Morry Goldberg. Died’
That’s it?
‘Yes’
No ‘loving father, wonderful husband, missed by…’
He was a terrible father, awful husband and everyone hated him.
Well you might as well say something else, the first 6 words are free.
She pauses then says:
‘Morry Goldberg. Died. Volvo for sale’

I love that joke. And Volvo was the car of choice for orthodox Jews for many years, particularly before they invented ‘people-movers’ in which the inevitable 12 kids could all fit. Before that it was the classic Volvo ‘Estate’ car. The older the better.

And now Volvo announce that after 2022 they will no longer make petrol/diesel ONLY cars. They’ll make hybrids and they’ll make electric but no purely oil-burners. Good for them. Other manufacturers will doubtless follow. Its the way forward. The inevitable. And I don’t mind. Its progress. Doesn’t mean I have to drive a milk-float, however you dress it up, but I like problem-solving, I like technology and I like change. Long as I don’t have to use any of it.

Pollution’s the problem. Well, it is round here, not so bad in northern Scotland. But even a petrol-head like me is sometimes appalled by the shit in the air in my City. It makes my shirts dirty. Though I’m still really not convinced about the whole global warming stuff. Remember the last Ice Age? Of course you don’t, but it happened. The world froze up. You could walk from Alaska to Siberia across the Bering Strait. Which would have been the Bering Highway if they’d had cars, or even people, at that time. Then the world warmed up again. Phew. No cars, no factories, no nothing. Just wooly mammoths farting (methane, high in carbon) but not enough to affect anything.

And now its warming up again. Whether natural cycles or ‘man done it’, who knows. But its created a quantum shift in car technology, along with many others, all to reduce our dependence on burning carbon fuels.

The irony is that, until the ridiculously over-priced (and getting over-pricier by the day and it hasn’t even started yet) Hinkley Point nuclear power station, we are burning fossil fuels to make ‘lectricity. But the biggest issue is; there aren’t anything like enough charging points for all-electric cars. People with garages and drive-ways are fine. But most people live in flats, terraces, and sometimes park half a mile from home. Where do they plug in? The answer, of course is ‘driverless’. Then it ain’t your problem. Even though its very depressing.

I promise that if I see you by the roadside one day looking for a pack of double As because your Nissan Leaf has died, I won’t laugh too loudly as I wave, screaming past in a plume of toxic emissions.

Don’t use electric, convert to Nitro-methane. 10,000 drag-racers can’t all be wrong.

Happy Green Thursday

A xxxx

Iss’all abart the workers. Everything. The Corbyn way. The distinction is a subtle one. ‘Workers’ are not professionals. So Doctors in the NHS may not be included, for their 97-hour weeks, because they do a bit of private consulting on a Sunday. Workers is workers! Bus drivers, coal-miners, dirt-diggers. Teachers are professionals but for some reason they’re exempt from non-worker status and be counted among the ‘many, not the few’.

Brexit is about how best it’ll benefit, or otherwise, ‘the workers’. Not the bankers who will suffer, they’re not workers. Even though would appear to work, on occasion, in between the drinking (on expenses) marathon sessions and the time laid aside for sexual harassment. But they get paid bonuses, so they’re not workers. Tube drivers get paid bonuses too, but they are definitely, salt-of-the-earth, working men. And wo-men. The Grenfell Tower residents were all workers even the unemployed ones. Its easy.

Jezza even went to Glastonbury to send his message across to a bunch of drunk, stoned, loved-up rock’n’rollers, who loved his words. Mainly ‘NO TUITION FEES!!’ those three words. By the time he got to workers rights most had gone to spit at Liam Gallagher on Stage 3, or to try and catch Ed Shearan’s sweat as it flew into the crowd. But Jezza was Glastonbury’s friend.

Then its over. Glasto. And the clean-up begins. So the geezer wot owns the field calls in 700 people to clean up. Lot of mess to clear. Says it’ll probably take 2 weeks but in fact takes only 2 days. So he sends ’em home. With just 2 days’ pay. Which is 2 days more than if they hadn’t turned up but still. Its because it was, according to Corbyn’s world, a ‘zero-hours contract’. So those workers had no ‘rights’. If they’d have fallen pregnant whilst picking up burger wrappers, they wouldn’t have been entitled to 17 months maternity leave on full pay. If they’d got sick they couldn’t have gone home to rest up and still be given statutory sick pay. Or in fact not turned up at all and still be given sick pay. Pension rights.

I mean what kind of world is it where you can just get some people in, pay them for what they do and then say ‘bye; thanks a lot’? How is that fair? And so for Corbyn to be a party to this chronic abuse of workers is quite shameful. I’m appalled. I’m gonna vote for the Socialist Communist Workers Militant Collective next time instead. Casual labour?? Not on my watch.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

The Grenfell Tower saga enters several more stages of lunacy as what started as a simple humanitarian tragedy was first stolen by the Corbynites as a political issue, who then elevated it to virtual accusations of ‘rich people murdering the poor’ and now its being hijacked from the Lefties by the racists. Not, like ‘racists’ who hate black people, but the opposite. Those who see racism everywhere.

The judge appointed to the inquiry, Sir Whassisname-Double-Barrel, is just a bit too white to really be put in charge of such a case where so many of the victims weren’t. He’s too ‘establishment’ to be ‘impartial’. Are we in the fucking Raj? In 1863? This is about a building in London in 2017. Its about a fridge catching fire. Its about suicidal cladding. Its about many things, but skin colour ain’t one of them. Its about legality and responsibility and decisions made decades ago and who might be accountable for them.

They didn’t get a Liverpool fan to run (any of the many) Hillsboro’ inquiry; they didn’t get a Roman Catholic priest to run the paedophile inquiries, why do you need ‘diversity’ for the Grenfell Tower one? Should they appoint an Eritrean refugee who doesn’t speak English to head the thing up? Yes, because he’d be ‘representative’ and presumably impartial. If he knew what either word meant.

Bizarrely, whilst we’re all agonising over these quite ridiculous and politicised irrelevancies, its interesting that the ‘cladding-of-death’ is still approved for use by the British Board of Agrement. Don’t even know what that name means but they’re the ones who say what can and can’t be used. And the BAA is indirectly approved by the government. And run by an ex-Labour mp. Corbyn will obviously accuse her of being a rampant Blairite.

No-one ever slagged off a council for saving money.

But the bottom line is… they’ve found the perfect bottom for women. They can all use it, or buy it from Primark. Ok, maybe not. But scientists (with waaaaay too much time on their hands) have decided that the ‘perfect bottom’ is… 0.70. I’d thought that all along, obviously, cos I’m a fucking genius, but nice to see it quantified so clearly. That’s the waist to hip ratio. If your waist is 25 inches (in yer fuckin’ dreams) and your hips 35, that gives you 0.71. So next time someone asks if their ‘bum looks big in this’, just give them a calculator and say ‘you do the maffs’.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’d just like to point out that the current All Blacks team is not weak, average or even merely ‘ok’. Like all their teams, they are outstanding. Every player. Their method of play. Their link-ups. Its all and always, the best there is. Just thought I’d get that out there before someone pipes up with ‘oh yeah, you beat a ‘weakened’ or ‘second rate’ All Blacks team’. Because the Lions didn’t. They beat a quite brilliant All Blacks team.

More importantly, am I allowed to ‘personalise’ the British Lions? In a ‘them and us’ kind of way? Yes, I think I can. And I will and if you have issue with it then you’re probably South African or Australian and therefore simply don’t count. I’m British therefore I am Lion.

Sonny Bill Williams got hisself sent off early in the game. Because he’s a nob. And like all nobs he does silly things. In this case performing an act of common assault on one of OUR players. Known in rugby as an ‘armless tackle’ or in wrestling, where its much more common, as a ‘forearm smash’, Sonny Bill saw red in every sense. He knows you can’t perform such an act; he’s played the game once or twice before.

Yet still the All Blacks played fast and furious but fortunately failed to score a try. Not so fortunate, for us, was that we gifted them 10 penalties, seven of which were converted. By Beauden Barrett, who was far less effective without Sonny Bill on his inside, but that’s what happens.

The Lions managed to score not one but two glorious tries to tie the game at 21 each. And then with just 3 minutes left we earned a penalty. ‘Just’ 40 yards out. In the pouring rain in Wellington. Up steps Owen Farrell. Could he produce a Jonny Wilkinson moment? Was the pressure too much??

Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Owen steps up, cool-as-ya-like, after that funny staring thing they all seem to do, and slots the ball between the uprights. 3 points, couple minutes to play, should be enough. As it proved to be. Even for the All Blacks. Victory for the Lions. Yippee.

Because now, on Saturday, we have ‘THE DECIDER!!!!’ whereas if we hadn’t won, we’d just be looking for some kind of consolation. This makes it exciting. Although Aukland is the hardest place for any visiting team to ever play. Which is why none of them has won there since 1994.

Come on Engl- Brit- Come on Lions

Happy Wimbledon-Starts-Monday

A xxxx