Andy's Glasses

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

Much as I’m always happy to see any Corbynite discredited, disgraced, demoted, demolished, even disfigured, I must admit to feeling a little ‘something’ for poor Jared O’Mara. Though what I’m actually feeling is in no way sympathy or support, even compassion. But that’s because he’s a Lefty-Labour Tosser. What I’m feeling is a touch of schadenfreude and a sniff of the total hypocrisy that always arises in these situations. Coupled with the wonderful irony. An MP on the Womens and Equality Committee in parliament spouting sexist, misogynistic, homophobic comments of a seriously nasty nature. I’d pay money for that. He also attacked fat people and celebrities in the rant which occurred 13 years ago. Part of his campaign to become a councilor. How does that make you a councilor?? But that’s history, this is now! How can a man who ever held such views possibly be on a committee for, basically, equality and tolerance? When he’s a sexist homophobe, fattist bastard?

His argument, pretty much because its the only argument you could ever make, is the ‘Trump defence’. “I’m not like that any more”. Ok, we have ‘leopards, spots…’ but do people change? I reckon they do. Because what the attention-seeking (council membership is nothing if not that) little ginger-haired plonker’s comments really are is just so much intentionally outrageous anti-PC ranting. I dare say they didn’t even represent his true feelings even then. Ok, ‘they came from somewhere!!!’, that’s true, but I’m familiar with… errrr… ‘people’ making inflammatory statements just for effect and they come from the desire to offend as much as from any deep-seated belief system. Other than that: SACK THE BASTARD, HANG HIM FROM THE YARD-ARM OF POLITICAL CORRECTNESS AND WATCH HIM TURN BLUE!!! (obviously not blue in the political sense).

And speaking of Trump, who can’t even be nice to a frikkin’ war widow, I’m worried about Melania. There are deep suspicions that the Melania we see (big hair, dark glasses, misery-pout) is not the same as the ‘real’ Melania (big hair, dark glasses, misery-pout) but merely a big haired, dark-glasses-ed, miserably pouting imposter!!! Who fucking cares. She says nothing, does nothing, merely turns up alongside… him. A clothes horse on wheels would do. Would probably look happier.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m looking for reasons to be cheerful if you’re a Manchester United fan. And I’m thinking… and I’m thinking…

Naah! Its all gone to shit. Lost a game, not such a big deal, happens to the best of them, (though apparently not to Manchester City), second in the league; that’s ok, early days still. But there is darkness on the horizon. Extreme darkness…

Jose Morinho has an interesting personality. Something you could also say about Hitler, Stalin, Jesus Christ and many others. But Jose’s is interesting because he swings between smug, arrogant smiley Dago (can I say that word??? oh, I already did) to psychopathic whingeing excuse-monger on a turn of a centre-forward. Not his, the opponents. He simply cannot handle defeat. Well, strictly, he does handle it by playing his own version of the ‘blame game’. There’s nothing in the middle. No ‘normal’ for Jose, he’s either gloating or self-destructing.

Most famously this happened in his last term at Chelsea when he blamed the team doctor for the loss of a match. She’d gone on the pitch, as is her professional and ethical duty, to tend one of Jose’s princesses, who he trains to treat all contact as seriously as they can get away with, clutching heads, holding faces, waving for medics, and he chose to put the entire match responsibility upon her pretty little head.

And now, following the loss at Huddersfield yesterday, Jose’s at it once more. He’s blaming the ‘really poor attitude’ of the team. Who he then has to work with tomorrow and get them all ‘onside’ and team-spirited before the next match. Which he has now made way more difficult by his statements to the press.

There’s no doubting the man’s talent. But it tends to stall. Anyone can manage a team who are playing brilliantly all the time (does that even exist??) but its the minor hiccups that really define managerial skill. And Jose’s minors explode into majors of his own making, and they seem to get worse each time it happens.

But good managers are hard to come by. Can West Ham afford to sack Slaven Bilic? Who would they replace him with? Does anyone even care? I like him being there, particularly as we’re playing them this week.

My main worry is that Spurs magnificent midweek performance at the Bernabau spotlighted 2 things. That Pochettino is the manager that Real really want, and Harry Kane is an anagram of ‘Christiano Ronaldo’. But only if you’re dyslexic.

Liverpool this afternoon. Gonna watch it with Lila. Big game. Even though it is indeed ‘early days’ in the league, I’ve unilaterally decided that all Spurs matches henceforth are now ‘massssive!!’

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Do you have a mobile phone? Just wondered. I used to have one. Then I replaced it with a mobile Lila-photo-storage-facility. Its much better. There’s no room for apps, text messages, phone numbers, just photos. Only of Lila. Except a few that sneak in of Harry Kane or even Donald Trump when someone says something funny about him when he fucks up. Ok, which is pretty much a daily event, but Lila really trumps all. Even trumps Trump. Though 49 photos a day really doesn’t satisfy totally. It gives me a little taste, but mainly of what I’m missing. So this morning, after over a week’s forced separation (holidays, work, life), I managed to squeeze a quick visit after tai chi but before tennis. I was in mid-activity mode and so was Lila. Every minute is an activity for Lila, even if that activity is just chewing her socks. So we got together. And all I can say is: denim jacket. Don’t like to be the love-struck, totally-obsessive grandparent thing but sometimes… just sometimes…

Lila knows nothing about the intricacies of Brexit. She has that in common with Theresa May, Boris, David Davis, Jean-Claude This and Michel That and everyone else involved in the divorce fiasco. Which is more akin to the lottery than to any logico-mathematical process. Think of a number, in billions, double it, add on the number of lovers enjoyed by the entire French parliamentary ministers over the last 4 years (also in billions), divide by the national debt of Lithuania and THAT’S HOW MUCH BRITAIN HAS TO PAY!!!! Then Theresa May offers them 75 quid, in cash, and negotiations start in earnest. And its all bollocks. Because much as I love numbers, as a general statement, I never trust them when spouted as a gospel. Particularly by politicians. First we had the Boris “350 million quid EVERY DAY to go into the NHS when we leave Europe” blatant lie. No-one ever mentioned the pay-back we get against that Euro-payment, but they wouldn’t, would they. Today I heard that ‘Britain has paid 200 billion more than any other nation over the last 40 years’. I’d question that one a bit too.

So if we aren’t sufficiently generous in our offer they won’t discuss trade. If we are generous everyone cries ‘Judas’ for still cow-towing to those Euro-bastards. Then there’s borders. Then there’s laws. What happens to EU citizens still living here, as they’ll be allowed to, if their vast array of European human rights are abused in some way (Europeans should have their human rights abused at every opportunity, nothing more than they deserve) and we’ve left the Euro legal thingy? Where would that poor person stand? How would it work? Oh my.

I’m still aching over the price of an iced-coffee in Tel Aviv and I’ve got all this to worry about.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Churchill once described Russia as ‘a riddle wrapped in mystery inside an enigma’. I thought he was talking about China. Googled it to find the quote and learned it was Russia. Bummer. Churchill also once famously retorted to a woman at a dinner party when she said to him ‘Sir, you are drunk!’, by saying ‘yes, madam, and you’re ugly, but in the morning I’ll be sober’. You gotta love Churchill.

But getting back to China (?), they’re holding their five-yearly national congress of the communist party. Not quite as big as the 10-yearly National Assembly or whatever they call it, with just 2280 delegates at this one. All smartly dressed (compulsory), full dress military uniforms (compulsory) and all in receipt of a hard copy of the three-and-a-half-hour President’s speech so they can study it as he delivers it. And study it they do, making notes in the margins like a bunch of schoolkids in history class. If you yawn or fall asleep you’ll be taken out and never seen again. That’s democracy in China. Ruled by one man with the power of all the gods combined. Who set in motion the process to extend his 10 year tenure, which ends in 2023, longer. Much longer.

Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. (Not Churchill, different old geezer, not as funny).

And the Harvey Weinstein ‘thing’ is all about power. And its chronic and sustained abuse. Its not about sex, per se, but about feeling you can live out your fantasies just because you can get away with it. Getting caught with your fingers in someone else’s cookie-jar. 47 times.

But you can’t help wondering when this, the biggest story for decades in Hollywood, and looking certain to get much bigger as doubtless other ‘big players’ will become accused and the entire ‘casting couch’ culture suddenly put in the spotlight with whistle-blowers (among other things) queuing up in the wings, you have to wonder how Donald Trump feels when he reads (or probably has people read it to him) every day the story unfolding. Because its his story too. He must be squirming every time he hears the name Weinstein mentioned.

Though whereas Weinstein has effectively lost his job, his company is being boycotted by all and sundry, he’s a national disgrace and may end up in prison, Trump’s punishment was to be elected president. Unsurprisingly, the White House has made no comment whatsoever so far on the scandal.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

That vile place, Piccadilly Circus, is famous for its billboards. Always has been. Because 23 million tourists mill around there all day every day and night, you can’t actually get in there now if you’re a uk passport holder. Sorry, them’s the rules. But we don’t wish to go there anyway, its horrible. They can keep Eros. When they replace him with Harry Kane I’ll think about returning.

But due its rather large footfall, Piccadilly Circus has become a evolutionary history of the billboard, pretty much in my lifetime. They used to have massive posters, with lights shining on them. Then they went to screens with stationary images. Then flashing images, changing every so many seconds. Which morphed into full-fledged big screen technology with moving images, changing messages, all kinds of display wizardry. But now they’re become ‘interactive’. But not ‘interactive’ like you get to have a go as well, or you can push some buttons, no. This is more devious, sinister, surreptitious type interactive.

They have installed cameras which scan the crowd and work out the changing demographic and control the advertising content accordingly. So if a bus full of pensioners from Grimsby arrive, the ads would be for… things they like and need. Wheelchairs. Nursing homes. Soft food that doesn’t require too much in the way of teeth. Surgical supports. Then they get displaced by 17 coaches from Tokyo and the ads change to those for cameras, pizzas (Japanese love pizza), sex-bots, ladyboys, all the things culturally and age specific to their demographic. Football fans get beer ads with lots of lovely, semi-naked white women on them. Nothing ‘gay’ like clothes or body products.

The next step, surely, is to ‘reach out’ to the phones of those collected in the square and quickly search their browsing history and present up-to-the-minute relevant ads. Bit of a problem with school trips because they’d have to advertise porn sites but this is obviously the way its headed.

Just a quick mention of last night. At the Bernabau. In Madrid. 1-all draw. Which is, for Spurs, simply MASSSSSSIVE. To go to that temple of Madridista Magic and not lose 4-0 is a victory. To come away with a draw (only the 3rd team to do so in the Champions League in the last 24 home matches there) is the stuff of dreams. And despite the Times printing the group table wrongly, with Real at the top, Spurs in fact top the group due to higher number of away goals.

Pinch me.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx