Andy's Glasses

I’d rented a flat in Hollywood, right opposite the Chevron I’d been working in. It was an easy commute. Of 20 to 45 seconds, depending on traffic. But long before that I’d realised that if I was to stay in LA I’d need wheels. There are no tube trains, no real trains (only really slow ones that go, like all the way to Kansas and pull about 140 carriages of mainly freight) and the buses are shit. And I was in America, where every one of my dream cars had come from. And where all anyone really wanted to drive, in 1981, was a VW Golf. It was the right-on aspirationalist’s vehicle of choice. Preferably a little-engined diesel. The Prius of its day. And to add insult to injury, over there it was called a ‘Rabbit’. The days of ‘gas guzzlers’ were dead! Small, neat and European was the way to go. Unless you happened to be a small, neat European, in which case what I craved was ‘muscle’. And funds were limited. Fortunately, the Golf/Rabbit that I really didn’t want was expensive. Foreign, economical and very in demand. Whereas a 1973 Pontiac Le Mans with a 6-litre V8 engine and the size of small cruise liner (but with worse steering) was yours for 200 dollars. Because no-one in their right mind wanted such a thing. With petrol at OVER A DOLLAR A GALLON!!!! So that was my ‘ride’. And even with 150,000 miles on the clock, I never had a moment’s bother with it.

I changed job to telesales. And I would suggest that if anyone ever suggests this as a career move for anyone you know, punch them hard and run like the wind. Its a terrible job. I did two in fact. One was a complete con, selling ‘futures’ in ‘strategic metals’ to people who didn’t have much future and needed a ‘position’ in strategic metals (titanium, ruthenium, basically military metals) like the proverbial fish needs his bicycle. A month after I left the office was shut down by the FBI for a whole host of naughty things. The other job was selling jewellery supplies to jewellers in Idaho and Nebraska and Wisconsin who struggled with my accent. And that was without the rhyming slang.

People kept coming into the petrol station telling how they were in telesales and made millions. ‘Then why are you driving a car older than mine?’ I wanted to ask but was too polite to do so. But I gave in and tried. And fucking hated both of those jobs. Which is why I became a professor.

Meanwhile I moved into a much nicer flat, in a much bigger block on Hollywood Boulevard. I liked Hollywood. It was sleazy, edgy but always fun. My mate Robert lived in this block and it had a lovely swimming pool. Robert’s mate Craig was coming over from London and so Craig and I became flat-mates. Just like that. And at the pool there were always loads of people. All young. None of whom seemed to ever work in any way that I would define it. Hence it became a social centre. A sit-com with a constantly changing cast. Robert and girlfriend Debi, his friends from London Nigel and Philip, with his girlfriend, Bonnie, and, eventually, once they arrived from New York, Steve and Joey. The mystery men.

Mystery? Because they spent all day every day by the pool, yet had been sent to LA ‘on business’. Then about once every 10 days or so they’d get really excited and tell us they were working that night!!! But wouldn’t say what they were working at. And they had a small, spare bedroom in their flat that was forever locked. We thought ‘hit-men’. Gotta be. The room’s where they keep the guns. And dead bodies. Steve was a big, burly New York Jew, Joey was thoroughbred Long Island Eye-talian. Obviously ‘connected’. Obviously.

But then Bonnie’s friend Susan arrived from Indiana. The Hoosier State. Another fucking mystery; what is a ‘Hoosier’? No-one knows. But they named the state after it/them anyway. And Susan was interesting. In a bit of a ‘wow!’ kind’a way.

Happy next day

A xxxx

Last week I joked that I’m apparently the only person who (despite really trying hard) has never been sexually assaulted, abused or harassed. This week its no longer a joke. I am the only person. I mean, wtf???

First off we had Kevin Spacey. I mean; Kaiser Sause, for fuck’ sake. (Or was he???) molesting little boys in 1926 or 1984 or whenever. Whenever it was, it was bad. Netflix immediately cancelled the next series of House of Cards in sympathy with him. Ok, they cancelled it because the merest allegation of sexual anything but normality (or even gay-ality) can adversely affect your ratings. And so distance is required. Preferably long and certainly immediate. No point waiting for anything so sponsor-immune as ‘evidence’ or ‘corroboration’ or even ‘proof’. No siree, the weakest sniff of wrong doing and the guvnors go into ‘Weinstein mode’ and get the sand-bags out.

And then it shifted, not so subtly, to our very own Houses of Parliament. Starting off as ‘inappropriate behaviour’, like knee touching, thigh holding, bum-pinching and unseemly comments by text message (ALWAYS a good idea when you act like a total sleazebag to put it in writing, for posterity). And this is not junior people. We’re talking cabinet ministers and deputy leaders and high up, powerful dudes. No dudettes, as yet. But then the stories went to the next level. ‘He hugged me whilst rubbing his crotch up and down on my leg’. Like a fucking Labrador. Full on sexual assault. Some things done were so heinous that no-one knows what they were but those accused have been sacked and thrown out of their party. Well, the tories throw out, Labour just kind’a make noises.

These allegations are so widespread, so sexual, so frequent, you’d think this was the Elysee Palace rather than that of Westminster. And yet this is obviously an international problem. Or rather, its a man problem. Why do men feel the need to exert power over underlings by sexually predatory behaviour? Is it in our DNA? Chromosomal?? Is it true that ‘all men are rapists’? The sad thing is; it looks that way.

But I blame God. Because when He (definitely a ‘he’ for this argument) made women, he made them soft and tactile, and if this was ‘in his own image’, I wanna see him. Let’s face it; He did a pretty good job, generally. And sadly, men in a position of power feel they can act upon this rather base desire. To touch women. And often more.

And in a way the Weinsteins and Spaceys of this world, although just as evil, lack the pure hypocrisy of their political perv-mates. These are the people making the laws. Telling us how to behave. And that is completely wrong.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So I’m reading an online article yesterday about the Balfour Declaraion. As ya do. And on the ‘page’ were related articles. One of which said ‘read this about PPI, very important’, an article, not from those annoying bastards who phone up every 20 minutes through the entire working week to see if you’ve made your claim yet, this was an article in the Telegaraph. So I read it and on the page was ‘FREE CHECK FOR PPI’, and as I’ve never looked into it, my interest was piqued. So I hit the link and was taken to a simple ‘name, postcode, phone number and we’ll call you back’ message. I did read the ‘terms & conditions’ though, which stated: we’ll check whether you’re entitled to make a claim. This is FREE but if you proceed we’ll take 30% of your ‘winnings’, etc, etc. But if you choose to make your own claim, the service is FREE.

Half an hour later Jason’s on the phone, checking my mortgage history details. Nice feller. Ish. And then he says that it’ll take 10 days to get hear from the banks then we can proceed. “Ok”, I said, “then I can decide whether to proceed or not? Because finding out whether there is a claim to be made is free, right?” Silence. “Er, hello? Jase-mate?” Oh, he says, no, not exactly. Because it costs us 10 quid each bank and if you don’t proceed we may charge a fee.

“So where does the ‘FREE!!!!’ come into it, precisely?” Errrrr, its not free, we charge.

Ok, so the banks mis-sold policies; they mis-represented them. And these scummy, ambulance-chasing morons make that crime right by mis-representing their own services? Are we going to spend the next 10 years being phoned to ‘claim against mis-sold PPI, mis-sold claim companies’?

More importantly, and whilst still on a ‘high’ from Spurs win on Wednesday, the inevitable paranoia starts to creep in. Real Madrid will want Harry Kane now even more than they did before. Ronaldo is yesterday’s (gender-undefined) man, Harry is all man. And better (based on nothing but love). Dele Alli will be a must. They’ve always wanted Pochettino. Throw in Harry Winks, Eric Dier, Jan Vertongen and Kieren Trippier and we might as well just rename the new stadium ‘The Tottenham Bernabau’ and lose the cockerel altogether!

Keep away Madrid. Worry about Catalonia, leave N17 alone.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Ok, football is suddenly back on the agenda. No idea why, just one day the world is depressing and dire and football is a total waste of time and energy and then, ka-boom! it re-enters life in the most dominating and demanding fashion.

It was a shitty 7 days. We were 2-nil up against West Ham in the nothing-cup and cruising. Then managed to lose 3-2. Four days later we went to Old Trafford and got beat again by United. A different United from the Carling/Watling/Bass/Heineken/Carlsberg Cup one. All grim, all bad, all sorry for oneself.

And not the best way to prepare for the biggest game of the century. The biggest match everrrrr. The home game against the mighty, the all-conquering, the twice-running European champions, Real Madrid. We’d done brilliantly well to hold them to a draw at the Bernabau 2 weeks ago and I was prepared for some kind of revenge thing. Though this time we had Dele Alli back from his suspension. Which proved somewhat important.

And Spurs were just magnificent. Simply brilliant. Cruising to a 3-1 win, only conceding Ronaldo’s conciliation goal in the 80th minute.

I missed it all. Was out stuffing my face somewhere local where the food comes BIG. The first time I checked we were 2-0 up, 63 minutes. Oh my. I dribbled pulled brisket all over my phone, had to get an extra napkin to wipe it, after I’d licked to the food off. Too good to waste. Then I checked again with one hand, the other was holding Mel’s spoon-hand from the chocolate fudge cake and ice cream we were ‘sharing’. 3-nil. Then it refreshed, 3-1. 80 minutes and panicking now. There’s no Spurs fan anywhere who ever feels confident about holding onto a lead. To many horrible memories. Even when we were 9-1 up against Wigan I was praying for a quick end in case they stole 9 goals in the remaining 2.3 minutes.

Not this time. 3-1 it ended. Two from Dele and one from Eriksen. And so Real Madrid, who hadn’t lost a Champions League group match since 2012, lost at Wembley.

Toby Alderweireld went off with a dodgy hamstring, which is a massive loss. And yet Eric Dier slipped seamlessly into the back 3, Sissoko came on in the holding role and they barely missed a beat. I love that. Not the injury but the depth in quality and versatility. Walker fucks off to Manchester City, Danny Rose gets injured and Trippier and Davies just improve ten-fold. Jan Vertongen was apparently humungous at the back.

And I love them all. I love everyone today.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

One Direction are bigger than the Beatles!!! Said so in the paper so it must be true. Because by some warped criteria for ‘bigness’, the four/five Tossers (depending on whether you count Zayn Malik now he’s left to become a full-time, solo, boyfriend-to-a-supermodel) have four members currently sitting at number 1 in America with solo hits. Well, not at the same time but its a first for a UK band. And that, according to The Times, makes them ‘bigger than the Beatles.

Just so you’re not under any confusion or ambiguity about my personal view on this situation, allow me to clarify. The Beatles were Gods of music. Pioneers. They were the first ever supergroup, even though that term wouldn’t exist for 10 years. They were not merely incredible musicians but extraordinary songwriters. And Ringo. They changed music forevermore.

Whereas One Direction are a bunch of 3rd rate Karaoke singers (they did in fact come 3rd in the X-Factor wot spawned them) who look pretty and are pretty worthless in any real musical sense. They are a Frankenstein of the music world; put together by Simon Cowell of all the ‘bits’ he knew little girls would like. Then churn a few songs from his music factory and hey presto! they’re number one!!!

One Direction wouldn’t exist if the Beatles hadn’t been there a long way first. There’s a lovely line in The Comedy Store’s fabulous old ‘Bad News Tour’ in which Ade Edmonson’s character states: “Jimmy Page was 16 when he wrote ‘Stairway to Heaven’. I could play it when I was 14. I think that says a lot”.

In 50 years time, when One Direction are old and fat and bald and doing Karaoke nights at the Three Tuns in Watford every Friday, they’ll probably be singing along to Beatles songs.

I have a cold/cough thing and can’t sleep due to excessive snottage. I’m not happy, I’m very tired and miserable and if I wasn’t such a hero I’d stay in bed and moan for a week.

(Not quite) Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I have a rule. Only one. And its fairly general. Almost a generalisation, but spared only because generalisations are generally wrong. The rule is this: if a man is accused of wrong-doing, he’s always guilty if his hair is dyed. Just as an extension (to the rule, not the hair), dyed hair on men is actually always a sign of guilt, you just sometimes need to look deeper to find what he’s guilty of.

You look round the Chinese National Congress, all late-middle aged men (ok, one woman out of 2400, so safe to ignore her, like the other 2399 delegates probably do) and there’s not a grey hair in sight. The President himself looks like he bought his jet-black hair from an Elvis impersonator store. Yet the greatest culprits of this crime against greyness are undoubtedly the Americans. American men don’t go grey; they go a reddy shade of ‘mahogany’. With silver at the roots. Nice. Lucky that Trump is a natural ‘blond’ or he’d be showing signs of grey too and would doubtless dye it into a ridiculous yellow birdsnest. Oh, he does.

So enter Paul Manafort. Stinking rich business-person, Trump campaign chief strategist and all round ‘big guy’ with unnaturally dark hair. Therefore (Andy’s rule) he’s guilty as sin. And of sin. In his case, the sin being taking millions of dollars in payments from the President of the Ukraine, who was himself massively ‘pro-Moscow’. In other words, a Putin Puppet. And Manafort brought the money into the States by buying properties and other acts generally considered to be of the ‘laundering’ variety. Then lying to the Feds about its provenance. As ya do.

Another Trump campaigner, George Papadopoulos, has already pleaded guilty to the investigation about lying over his contacts and his attempts to source Clinton emails from the Russians.

These two are in big-shit trouble with the Feds. Manafort is on ‘house arrest’ and has actually had his passport taken away. An act which wouldn’t trouble 96% of Americans who only acquire passports when they want to go to Florida to shoot alligators. But it will definitely trouble him.

And yet its all kind’a circumstantial at the moment. Big campaign dudes with links to Russia and fraud. But not an actually link to the election mechanism. Not yet anyway.

Trump meanwhile does what he does best. He doesn’t make speeches, he doesn’t hold press conferences, he sends Tweets. Can only handle 15 words at any one time. 9 of them insulting and abusive.

God help America

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

David Attenborough is 91 years old. That’s ancient. Makes me feel young. And yet makes he best tv programmes ever. As he has for 700 years. The latest series started last night, Blue Planet 2. About the seas. Hence ‘blue’. Goddit? And the sheer majesty of his programmes just sets them apart from every other show on tv. The photography is better than on Strictly Come Prancing, the drama higher than whether Sophie’s tarts will rise on Bake Off, more excitement than Bristol City vs Skelmersdale on a Thursday night in November. Wow. David is not the only one responsible for the magnificence of the series, there’s probably one or two other people peripherally involved. But I think he does most of the ‘heavy lifting’ himself. And although we, as the viewers, can delude ourselves into thinking that we’re embarked upon a noble quest for education, for information and enlightenment of a- intillec-chul nature, really its just another hour spent stodging out in front of the tv with a bag (family size) of Doritos and guacamole. Maybe a few beers. “Don’t disturb me, Darling, I’m engaged in my further education, innit”.

And there among the pods of dolphins surfing immense waves and massive fishes leaping 3 metres out of the water to catch birds in flight, was a fascinating little snippet. About what I’ll call ‘Ugly Fish’ but in fact are kobudai. The weirdest fish ever. Not just because its ugly, lots of fishes are. Lots of people are. But because of the life-cycle. The mature males mate with the mature females. You can tell them apart because the males are 3 times the size, 5 times as ugly and have a massive lump on their heads. Like another head. Attractive. The females do their mating thing for a year or whatever, then they go into a cave. And change into a male. They grow, they get the head-lump, they get really ugly, and hey presto: I’M A MAN!!!! Who then goes out looking for females with which to mate.

In evolutionary terms this is a great thing. Gives the females more chances of producing offspring that carry her genes. But fuck me (unfortunately, due to timing, the kabudai can’t fuck themselves) it puts a new slant on the whole ‘trans’ thing.

Kabudai live in Japan. They probably banned from Saudi Arabia, Russia and Iran. Aren’t allowed to swim in Alabama or Tennessee. Japan’s safe for them. They have a high threshold to odd perversions over there. Not that I’m judging or stereotyping. Heaven forbid.

I only watched the first half of the programme due to ‘factors beyond my control’. Was one’a those weekends. And now I’m intrigued to see the rest.

Because, more than anything else, David Attenborough just tells the story. In ‘neutral’. He doesn’t shout and scream and he certainly doesn’t use that ‘high drama’ voice that all the other ‘nature’ programmes do when the shark’s gonna strike, when the eel’s racing out of the coral, when an innocuous looking bit of sea weed develops teeth and consumes a whale, whole. He lets nature tell the story. He just fills in the bits. Bless him.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its a weird world. As you can see from the picture. Though that was intentionally ‘AHH-OMG!!’ weird, obvs, rather than ‘eeeeuuuwwww, creepy’ weird. The creepy bit is sex-bots. Really creepy.

Some dude in California (where else?) is now producing a line of ‘sex-bots’. Expensive but really customisable. Up to 7 heads. Not necessarily all on the same robot. You get to choose the head of your choice. And the breast size, nipple type (errr, squidgy or robust, pink or blue?) small bottom, large bottom, Kardashian-bottom (+$330 depending on price of silicone at the time), knee-cap durability, elbow-width and personality. Yes, personality. They’re apparently ‘cold and clammy’ in the attempt to make silicone into ‘skin’, so it might be more like fucking a corpse, but this will be a corpse that at least whimpers at the appropriate times. And speaks. Hugs you when you get home from a hard day at the orifice, sorry, office.

And that’s the creepy bit. The really creepy bit. We’ve always had ‘blow-up dolls’, they were invented for groups of stag-nighters to drag round Kings Cross Station with a paralytic, 6 foot 4 groom-to-be wearing a dirty wedding dress and stilettos. But they looked like balloons. With funny mouths on them. Looked ridiculous. Purely ‘functional’ in the saddest of ways.

But sex-bots? That speak? For which you choose a ‘personality’??? Noooooo…

That’s creepier than creepy. “This could be your lucky night, Babe”. Vomit. “Shall we go upstairs??” Or maybe stairs are a problem and you have to change the chip for advanced leg movements. Who knows?

Prostitutes must be living in dread. Who wants a filthy, possibly-diseased crack-whore any longer when you can have a silicon ‘dolly’ in with a ‘shy’ personality instead? Cleaned nightly with peroxide. You could have an ‘assertive’ one, either normal or ‘big ass-ertive’, all manner of combinations and cheap puns are available. And they’re on the market from about $7.5k.

Mr Californian Sicko reckons they’re great, “and not just for sex”. And that is a claim-and-a-half considering they can’t play chess and why would you want to take one to football with you?

So life is catching up with sci-fi, but thankfully slowly. Or here’s a thought: having sex with… people? I know, sounds bizarre, but it may catch on. Ya never know.

Happy Sunday (and still no football worthy of any comment whatsoever; that area of my brain is currently suspended, pending…)

A xxxx

Ahhhh Alabama, sweet home Alabama…

Except I’ve never been there, not sure exactly where it might be other than ‘deep south’ and I’m not sure if, even now, they allow jews in. Yet, as ever, I won’t let a little ignorance stop me from making wild accusations and blanket statements abusing that entire state. Frikkin’ cross-burnin’, confederate-flaggin’, good-ole-boyin’… sister-shaggers!

But Alabama has always been a bit of a problem. Well, maybe not always, just since the civil war ended. They’ve always had issues over race. Still do, by all accounts. And I haven’t seen any statistics but I’m gonna guess that there’s a few privately owned guns down there. In line with the constitution.

What they don’t have though is a senator. Since Jeff Sessions left the scene. So they need a new one. And last month they had the primaries for the Republican candidate. There may or may not be a democratic candidate at some point, but strictly to make up the numbers (errr, that’ll be ‘2’ then). Alabama is so Republican that it becomes a debate about which type of Republican you want. Or don’t want.

Donald Trump put his man forward, no idea what he stood for, its irrelevant anyway; he basically stood for and by Trump. A ‘pawn’ for the somewhat challenged Prez. And Steve Bannon, former White House organiser, election-winner, now back leading the ‘alt-right’, put his man up too. A guy called Ray Moore. An ex-judge, twice disgraced (no idea, just read it this morning, but it simply can’t be a good thing really) who arrived on election day on horseback. And in case you thought that this might be a subtle personal homage to Brokeback Mountain; safe to say Ray don’t do ‘subtle’, wouldn’t know ‘homage’ from ‘omelette’ and has rather strong views on homosexuality. Like never saying he wouldn’t bring back capital punishment for being gay. During a political speech he pulled out his gun. That’s not a metaphor, it was his six-shooter. Just to ’emphasise the point’.

He’s not in yet, but he will be soon.

Yet the scary thing is; if he beat Trump’s man, Ray Moore must therefore be ‘the good guy’.

God help that nation.

No talking about football. Iss banned.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

In the wake of the Harvey Weinstein story, and its more tsunami than mere ‘wake’ really in view of the vast numbers and sheer horrors of the events claimed, other groups are queuing up with their own tales of harassment, abuse and predatory behaviour. Models have a badge now, so many of whom had terrible experiences at the hands (literally) of svengali-esque ‘carreer-makers’ can speak of their own personal experience. Even MPs are now recalling similar events of groping, harassment, physical and sexual abuse. It appears to have been an epidemic. Much of it ‘historical’ but that in no way mitigates the gravity of the offences. Its not like such activities were acceptable in ‘pre-feminist’ times. I’m not sure when, exactly, ‘post-feminism’ started but I’m guessing Donald Trump wasn’t instrumental in its induction.

I’ve now reached the point where I’m actually concerned that no-one ever sexually harassed or assaulted me. Was I not pretty enough? I reckon I was drop-dead gorgeous. Did I mix in the wrong circles? Give off the wrong vibe? Ok there’s the ‘probable’ fact that most (errrrrr…) of the guilty are men, and being the world’s most heterosexually wonderful person that I am, maybe there just aren’t enough predatory women to go round. Obviously I’m not talking a woman who looks like Harvey Weinstein (heaven fucking forbid that there is any woman anywhere who could look like THAT), but more an Anne Bancroft in The Graduate kind’a deal. That’s what I was looking for when I was 15/16/17 (I could go on).
Whatever it is, its gotta stop.
And so has Jared O’Mara gotta stop. More revelations have come about of previous appalling acts of pretty much anything nasty and hideous. Calling a coffee shop girl an ‘ugly bitch’, very nice. Very Labour. But as one wag commented yesterday: ‘is this enough to get him thrown out of the party? No, only talking to Tony Blair can guarantee that’. So true. The fat ginger tosser lives another day.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx