Andy's Glasses

Everyone knows Einstein’s equation. He probably had more than one, maybe even four, but E=MC-squared (can’t do superscripts on an i-pad) must be the most famous equation in the world. Its on t-shirts, record covers, mugs, posters, everyone knows it. But most don’t bother to understand it. President Kim (funny little fat boy in North Korea) understands it perfectly. Energy = Mass x the square of the speed of light, which is the ‘c’ bit. You only need to know that light travels pretty damn quick. In fact it travels at almost 300million metres per second. That’s faster than Usain Bolt, faster than a Ferrari, faster than absolutely, literally, everything. So if you take that speed as a number, and multiply it by itself (‘squared’) the resultant number is verging on the infinite. Its fucking humungous. So the what Einstein’s equation tells us is that the energy you can get from even the tiniest, half a milligram, of matter, once you multiplied it by the ‘c-squared’, will become immense. If this was a general rule there’d be a problem. Eat half a Mars bar (mass) and the energy produced (calories are a measure of energy), would be in the zillions. We’d all be fatter than we even are now! But the equation only works for nuclear matter. Atomic particles. Its an expression of the massive energy levels produced by the tiniest of particles when you split them (fission) or force them together (fusion). And its dangerous shit.

So dangerous that its Kim Jong-un’s mission to build them and use them to threaten the world with. Robert Oppenheimer, who devised the processes which enabled ‘atomic bombs’ later killed himself, knowing that he couldn’t live with the shit-storm he’d innocently invented in a physics lab. A shit-storm which killed 200,000 Japanese when unleashed on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And they were ‘atom bombs’, which is what we call fission bombs.

The bomb North Korea tested (the new euphemism for ‘threatened with’) on Saturday was a ‘hydrogen’ or fusion bomb. Which is why his little tester was about 12 times more powerful than the bombs dropped on Japan in the war. Fusion is neater, more potent and you literally get more ‘bang for your buck’.

But there are other benefits. Atom bombs produce masses of nuclear fallout, the real, longer-term evil that rises in the ‘mushroom cloud’ and then contaminates everything for centuries. Whereas Kim’s hydrogen bomb is much more ‘environmentally friendly’. I’m just gonna let that one sit there for the full irony to sink in…

If the Green Party did bombs, they’d be hydrogen ones. Much cleaner, safer. (Safe? ISSA FUCKING BOMB!!!!!)

So North Korea now has proven nuclear capability and proven delivery systems. Not quite as efficient as Amazon but they’re getting there. And Trump can brag and puff out his chest all he likes, he’s not likely to strike first.

God help us all

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Wayne Rooney is a very naughty boy. Again. But as details emerge (even though in the Mail so its not like its automatically genuine or true), it gets more and more sordid. Or, ‘better and better’ as such a thing is known among the tattling classes.

Wayne was 3 times the alcohol limit when arrested driving the most un-footballing-superstar car ever; a Beetle convertible. In fact, not only is that not a footballers car, its never a man’s car. Ever. If a man has one of those he might as well go to Sainsburys wearing a tutu. But the car (obviously) wasn’t Wayne’s. He only owns Range Rovers, Bentleys, Lamborginis and monster Chevy pick-up trucks (note the plurals).

The Beetle belonged to a woman!!!! Wayne had been drinking (that’s generally how you get drunk and over the limit) for 10 hours, apparently. And had ‘chatted up’ the Beetle owner. And this is how he did it. (Read this is a whiny Scouse accent, perhaps slurring a little for the alcohol effect; its amazing she understood what he was saying at all). “I really like your breasts. What size are they? Love to get me hands on them”. Smooth bastard. How could any woman resist that Byronic prose? Sweet nothings be damned. ‘Get yer tits out!!’ wins every time. Well, it does up north where ‘sophistication’ is measured by whether you wash your hands when you leave the toilet. Or even put your dick back inside your trousers.

So the woman agreed to accompany Rooney when they left the club. Mrs Rooney was on holiday abroad with the couple’s 3 children and is pregnant with the forth. But his woman is no ‘family breaker’, no, heaven forbid. She said so. Even though she’d have to be deaf dumb and blind to not know a. who Wayne Rooney is and b. that he’s married with kids. It was just a ‘birra foon’.

The woman basically saw pound signs flashing. I don’t like to judge but sometimes you just have to. She gets to shag Wayne Rooney, she’s made. Either he’ll pay her money to keep her onside or at least quiet, or the papers will pay more. This way is arguably better. Because sleeping with Wayne… oooohhhh…

So she gets to tell the story anyway. Must be worth 50 grand of the Mail’s sleaze-fund. If I was half the principled ethical man I like to imagine sometimes I could be, I’d stop buying the Mail on Sunday. But I can’t.

Nobody’s perfect. Not me, not Wayne and certainly not the tart with the Beetle.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Since the Matt Dawson story the other week; how he contracted Lime’s disease from a tick bite in a London park, there are loads of horrible tales about these horrible things emerging everywhere. There’s the tale of the woman bitten in Golders Hill Park (5 minutes away from here) who contracted Lime’s too. Not nice. And yesterday the elder daughter, who used to have her own name but is now ‘Lila’s Mum’ and nothing else, got into a panic because there was a bug on Lila during a park walk. Holy shit! A bug!!! So this is in an open letter to her about ticks and life and death and the meaning of the entire universe. Because if ever there was absolute proof that ‘there is no God’, then its ticks. And mosquitoes. Snakes. Chelsea fans. Traffic wardens… Who’d have ‘divinely created’ that fucking lot??

Dear Lila’s Mummy,

further to your concerns regarding the tic ‘epidemic’ (2 cases in 19 years) and the whole Lime’s thing, I wish to illustrate a few points relevant to this matter.

Ticks are horrible little arachnids, like spiders, but smaller, they don’t make webs, they suck blood instead. Most don’t like human blood. Only that of vegans (I made that bit up for effect and to make tree-huggers in general question their belief systems). They like dog blood, cat blood, bird blood, but some are less discriminating and bite us too.

So you have to think of it like this. In terms of probability.

I walk on Hampstead Heath virtually every weekend. Long walks. In the green. Pretending I’m in the countryside whilst reassured that I’m just 5 miles from Oxford Circus. You have often accompanied us on such activities. And we walk in the proper countryside, when we have to, and in all that time, how many times have we been bitten by a tick? Answer: 0

And of all the ticks around, only a few bite humans. And of all of those, only 5% (total fiction) carry Lime’s. So the probability of Lila, or more importantly, of me! getting bit by the tick and contracting that horrible disease is 1 in 25,765,893,3478. Work it out yourself.

Furthermore, Lime’s is easily curable if treated with anti-biotics early on. And the bite site produces a fucking great bullseye pattern of red swollen horribleness that nobody could ignore. Other than Matt Dawson and the babe in Golders Hill who was misdiagnosed.

The moral is: shit happens. Just play the odds and hope it doesn’t happen to us.

I remain, etc, etc, etc,

Your esteemed father. Who walks to the tube station wearing a mosquito net and midge hat, carrying a can of ‘Raid’ in each hand.

A xxxx

Negotiations continue in Brussels. Or, probably, continue to stall in Brussels. Mainly because to negotiate, you have to be talking about the same thing. And currently, that ain’t happening. David Davis, who fills me with the same degree of confidence as did Norman Wisdom on an ice patch, the most on-the-ball politician since… Donald Trump, has some vague concept of ‘The Deal’ that we’ll get for trade after leaving the EU. And that’s what he wants to discuss. Whereas Barnier and the Euro-bastards won’t discuss anything other than the ‘divorce bill’. The number of Euros that Britain has to pay, expressed only in billions, to walk away from a wasteful union that its been over-funding for 25 years. Davis, a man you can’t help thinking is well out of his depth over there, wants to include this in negotiations. As if its some kind of ‘sweetener’. He wants all the facets to be hammered out together. The trade deal, the laws, the border in Ireland, security of EU workers here, security of British workers there AND, the ‘settlement’ figure. But ‘NON!!!’ cries Barnier. They won’t discuss anything until the separation fee is agreed. 87 billion, 69 billion, 104 billion. Numbers conjured out of the sky. They can’t even agree on how the figure should be calculated. Mainly because Davis ran out of fingers. Ironically, the main reason (other than immigrant-phobia) for leaving the EU was because of the amount of wasted money it sucks up. Ironic because I hate to imagine the cost of the ‘negotiations’ which will drag on and on with teams of lawyers and accountants on retainer and expenses and going to lap-dance clubs on my taxes.

I never wanted to leave ‘Europe’ but if we’re going, let’s just fucking go. I’m so bored with it already. We’ll still buy Prosecco, even though its much worse for your teeth than seaside ‘rock’, and they’ll still bank in London. The rest we’ll deal with. Eventually.

And whilst we’re negotiating with ridiculous sums, today is the final day of the football ‘transfer window’. If you don’t buy today, the shops close until January. Better scoop up all the bargains you can. Alex Oxlaide-Chamberlain went to Liverpool yesterday for 35 mil. If they’d have waited til today they could have got 45 mil. Its like a reverse ‘sale’. The later you wait, the more you pay. Spurs bought a new defender from Paris Saint Germain who’ll be great if he doesn’t have to go to prison. He currently owns a 2-month suspended sentence for assaulting a policeman but his lawyers have given written assurances that he won’t get banged up for the duration of his contract. Then we bought another defender from Etudiantes. For a team that currently owns one solitary striker, and a pretty weak spare, if he survives today as a Spurs player, we’ve certainly shored up the back.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

On Saturday night we were up in Leeds. So we had Mel’s dad (the purpose of the visit) over to the hotel for dinner. Like all hotels that are either decent or in most cases, aspire to decency, they have a posh restaurant. Which they try to get you to eat at, obviously. And as the very narrow, single-track road leading to this (very) country hotel was 1.5 miles long, you don’t really want to go anywhere else.

“Yes, we have a new chef!!” they proclaim. Even if they acquired said chef from a job-centre or head-hunted him from McDonalds, he’s the New Chef!!! with exclamation marks. Italian. So was Mussolini.

There were about 12 ‘mains’ on the menu. And I have a rule (possibly my only one) that if the words required to describe a meal take up more space on a plate than the meal itself will; don’t eat it. Not because I don’t like words, cos I love ’em. I just don’t want to eat them. And its also a sign that someone is seriously over-thinking stuff. “Locally sourced free range chicken thighs seared to perfection then slow-baked with a red wine, pomegranate (the go-to food of the pretentious) and shallot reduction, flavoured with toad-stalls, camembert and raspberry jelly, served on a bed of pigeon testicles, banana-flavoured spinach and chorizo (another absolute essential in post-millennial dining)… blah, blah, blah.

We found one thing that not only sounded good but was actually great. Braised beef. Wonderful, simple, nice. I almost felt ashamed to have a meal that didn’t contain quinoa, chorizo, pomegranate or gluten-free rhubarb, but my hunger overcame my shame. As always.

Nice. Not cheap. Are they ever when they have you prisoner at the end of an alcohol-free 1.5 mile driveway? But acceptable. And I can’t really complain about the price because for some reason the meal wasn’t added to the bill. Oops.

Last night we went out with friends to an old established local eatery. Greek restaurant, nominally, called The Carob Tree in that area that calls itself ‘Highgate’ but is so almost Kentish Town that you can afford to eat there. And we’ve eaten there lots of times. The owner is my best friend. He’s a big Spurs fan. Unless you go there and you’re a Chelsea fan, in which case he is your best friend and a massive Chelsea fan. One of those types. Fortunately wasn’t there last night.

And I’ve never looked at the menu there. Never. They cook all the usual Greek stuff and probably do it really well, but what they do better than anywhere else is fish. Up on the ‘specials’ board. Grilled. On their barbecue. Not ‘measly’ fish, not ‘sardines disguised as seabass’ that you get everywhere else, not a sliver of ‘blackened cod’ for 60 quid. No. Big fishes. Fucking whales. Though they called it sea bream. Big enough to share. Probably big enough And its cooked so wonderfully with the skin crispy and the rest moist and… errr… fishy, without being ‘fishy’. And that combination of ‘big’ and ‘perfect’ just hits the spot. Without requiring a four page essay to tell you what its like. Cos what its like is fantastic.

Lila knows about eating.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m fed up with goals in football. Fed up with the spectacular and the amazing and the concerted and the wonderful. Because they’re not currently being scored by Spurs. I have no desire to watch Manchester United score great goals, nor Chelsea, Manchester City or even Huddersfield. I can’t include Arsenal in that because they currently don’t score any. But this is not about gloating at the misfortune of others. Not yet anyway. Time for that later.

Because on Saturday we witnessed the foul of the season. When there’s still 35 matches to play. We’re here to celebrate an act of momentary insanity which took grievous bodily harm to the next level on any sporting arena that doesn’t have Conor McGregor in it. This was so ugly it became a ‘thing of beauty’.

Brighton vunderkind Anthony Knockhaert runs onto a ball on the wing. And he’s quick. From the middle of park comes Miguel Britos, Watford ‘enforcer’, on the diagonal. And at the point of their eventual meeting (Pythagoras worked it out easy-peasy) Britos lunged at the Brighton player, whilst travelling at full speed, with both feet off the ground, out of control and studs-up. The ball, it is barely worth mentioning, was on the other side of Knockhaert, ie the side Britos wasn’t arriving at soon, so simply was never part of anyone’s equation, other than perhaps Britos’ in which case, his maths is pretty damned weak.

The maniac defender’s boot landed on the side of the other player’s leg, just below the knee,  hitting with all studs. What is known as a ‘leg-breaker’. The leg was saved by being off the ground. If it hadn’t been so Knockhaert would not have walked again this season, if ever.

Though he’d probably have got into the Arsenal squad, mangled leg and all. Because they were, by all accounts, total shite. No clue, no passion, no fight, no nuffink. Gary Neville said he would ‘sell the lot of ’em in the next 10 days of the transfer window and get decent players in’. Arsene Wenger… pretty much agreed. Though he called it ‘work to be done’ rather than ‘THE MOST PATHETIC DISPLAY EVER WITNESSED’.

Spurs still yet to win at Wembley but I flat out REFUSE to make it ‘a thing’. Its just…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There are very few times in life that you can simply put your foot down and leave it there. As a driver it happens on occasion. As a husband hardly ever. But today I experienced such a moment of sublime exaltation as I pulled onto the A1 just south of Leeds.

Leaving Yorkshire is always a wonderful moment (I realise that ‘technically’ we were still there and would be for 50 odd miles more, but psychologically the road home is ‘no-man’s-land’ and thus unaffiliated and can be considered part of ‘home’).

There’s a long ‘on-ramp’, downhill, leading onto the main motorway, so we came off the roundabout and I hit the pedal. Probably started at about 30 mph and by the time I got to the motorway I was kissing 100 and g-forces were pulling on my face and it felt wonderful. Not totally convinced Mel was enjoying it quite as much as I eased onto the fast lane, traffic light but there were cars enough. I’d slowed down a bit by then, in the interest of license retention, so was doing no more than the car in front (doh), about 80. When the car in front of him hit the central reservation. Just kind’a ‘bounced off’ it.

And the world went into ‘bullet time’. I was Neo (I decided in a hurry) as the car, a black BMW bounced off the metal wall and lurched over to the left, into the middle lane. Where a little black car was sitting. The driver of this little car was alert and swerved instantly to his left where, on the slow lane was… fortunately nothing. A gap in which he could veer out of the danger of the bouncing beemer.

Its amazing how fast your mind works at such times. I’d already calculated the probability of the BMW hitting the little black car, knocking it into a Skoda, which flipped over, as ya do, rolling into another car… I saw a motorway pile-up. Because it just becomes a pin-ball thing with cars, all travelling at 70 or so, being pushed, banged and shunted around. And the net result is: we all die.

However, the evasive action of the little black car, coupled with the BMW driver managing to get his vehicle straight once more, meant it never played out that way. Thank fucking Christ.

The Beemer was driven by an elderly man who, I presume may have fallen asleep at the wheel. If he’d been a younger person I’d have presumed phone usage or stereo changeage, but old = sleep. Normally. I needed a nap myself after that.

But I learned a valuable lesson from that ‘near miss’. Cars moving fast are potentially dangerous projectiles in certain circumstances. So the best thing you can do is drive faster than everyone else and GET OUT OF THE FUCKING WAY!!!

I don’t do football these days. Don’t need to. I have Lila. And she’s spectacular and reliable and doesn’t CONCEDE STUPID GOALS IN THE 92ND MINUTE!!!!

Happy bank holiday Monday

A xxxx

Did you see Gylfi Sidgurdsson’s goal last night. His first for Everton and probably the best goal he’s ever going to score for anyone. 50 yards, on the run, so much though that as he kicked the ball he fell over. Made no difference. He’d spotted the goalie a mile off his goal line and knew what was required. Beckham’s done it, Rooney’s done it, Nayim did it most magnificently, but its always spectacular. Because you need the wherewithal to appreciate the fleeting situation AND have the ability to capitalise on it.

Gylfi’s 45 million pound price tag is looking like a bargain. Ok, its not. In fact its nothing like a bargain, its quite ridiculous. Even though you could buy 4 Sigurdssons for 1 Neymar. And get a new deal for Ibrahimavic with the change. Should that float your proverbial (and very expensive) boat. Don’t get me wrong; I love Gylfi. He’s a class act and always has been. But his price tag was purely a reflection of Everton’s windfall in selling Lukaku for 75 mil to Man United. If that hadn’t happened, Gylfi either wouldn’t have gone or would have gone for the 18 mil he’s probably ‘worth’.

But his arrival means that Everton can now also unload Ross Barkley. And as a Spurs fan, as we are apparently the most likely destination for that man, I would rather have Sigurdsson back any day than the somewhat stroppy, sometime nasty, often unpredictable quasi-wayward midfielder. Especially as Barkley too is likely to carry a price tag north of 40 million. And for what? For 3 goals a year and ‘loads of potential’. Bit like David Bentley a few years back. Potential is sometimes realised but more often than not, in football, it just isn’t. It just ‘withers on the vine’. And again, its 40 million because its Spurs and they’re a ‘rich club’.

A champions league club is what we are. Unlike ‘some’. But what a group we seem to have been included into. Easy bloody peasy. Real Madrid, Dortmund, no problemo. Get the big boys out the way early then we only have the dross to contend with later in the season. A nice easy run to the final when we’re inevitably tiring a bit. So that’s the plan.

Holy fucking moly

Happy Friday

A xxxx

40% of middle-aged people do not manage a 10 minute walk once a month. Front page of the paper.

How the fuck is that even possible? You would have to actually avoid walking. A trip around a supermarket takes half an hour, that’s walking. Not TO the supermarket but just buying shopping, walking round the aisles, seeing if there’s anything free to eat. Sometimes they have ‘try this’ type stalls, sometimes you have to go to the grapes to ‘try’ them independently. There’s always something to snack on whilst you’re on that grueling walk.

The problem is that they invented remote controls for tvs. If they hadn’t then at least you’d have to get up and walk to the tv 3 times a day. That’s about 1.5 minutes. If you walk really really slowly. They should also make a rule that walking staring at your phone doesn’t actually count. You have to look at who you’re bumping to to make it worthwhile.

I walk miles. Every day. Maybe its a London thing. We are much fitter down here than in the arctic wastelands of ‘up norf’, like Leeds (where I’m going on Saturday, grrrrr), like Newcastle, like Radlett. Because to work in town means you have to get here. And that normally means public transport. Which rarely arrives at your office chair. You have to hoof it from the station. Because I’m a ‘change-a-phobe’, I walk further. I hate changing tube lines. So I take the Northern Line to the nearest stop and walk. No matter how far. Don’t care. Its never more than 20 minutes anyway, by which time I’m twice as well off as those fat bastards who don’t get off their lardy arses each month and the day’s barely started. That in itself justifies the morning Kit-kat and three Mars bars for tea.

Though I’m exempt anyway. Because they defined ‘middle-aged’ (those ageist fuckers) as ’40-60′ and I’ve exceeded their fairly meaningless and totally arbitrary upper fucking LIMIT!!! Yet still, I like walking. Even at my age. Hours and hours a week. But this isn’t about me. I’m holier than 5 southern ‘thou’s and up north I’m holier than the Pope himself. Who, incidentally, barely walks anywhere. Why would you when you’ve got one of those chairs people carry you around in?

They even tried to make it a socio-economic thing; ‘the rich more likely to walk than the Corbyns’, all that bollocks. Walking is free, as far as I can tell. Other than the coffee, kit-kats, brunch, on the way.

GET UP AND MOVE!!!!!

A xxxx

I’m not a boxing fan. Haven’t been since Mohamed Ali hung up his gloves. The sport just doesn’t do it for me. Don’t mind doing it, but watching is a bit dull, gets technical, I fall asleep. Which, if you’ve paid your tenner to PPV to watch it, is a bit of a waste. If you want to watch fighting go see West Ham play at their new stadium.

But on Saturday there’s a welterweight contest that is exciting. Really exciting. Because its different. Because its interesting. And because its probably the most cynical fight ever billed, in a sport so overflowing with money and cynicism that it takes quite a bit just to make the top 10.

Floyd Mayweather is 40 years old and ‘retired’, undefeated after 49 matches. We’ll call that the ‘grey corner’. He is, many say, the best welterweight ever. Brought out of his retirement by… well, by money. And there is quite literally no-one in the world who people would pay to see him fight. No worthy opponents. And if the fight is to be no good, people won’t pay to watch it (the pay-per-view in America costs about $100 due to… errr… being able to get away with it) like the 4.8 million who paid last time Floyd boxed. So they went outside of boxing to find his opponent. And found an Irish plumber called Conor McGregor. Who happens to be the world champion at Mixed Martial Arts. He is awesome and a massively popular crowd puller on… wherever you watch MMA. But, inevitably, there’s big money involved. Yet not quite as big as in boxing.

Mixed Martial Arts is like boxing without the rules. Well, one rule: no biting. Anything else is pretty much fair game. I don’t think they allow guns in the ring but may consider it. You can kick, throw, strangle, wrestle, grapple, punch and spit. Maybe not. Only blood. Its brutal and, oddly, fairly violent. And Conor is ‘da man’ in MMA. A killer.

So in some ways its logical; he knows how to fight. Just not as Floyd fights. Personally I think they should have 2 fights, one boxing, the other with MMA rules. But that wouldn’t be fair. Though I’m not sure why. And so Conor can’t kick, can’t grab, can’t break legs, just box. Which is why they’re calling it a mis-match. Which it is. Its like taking a formula one car and racing it in first gear only.

My tai chi class is mixed martial arts. But perhaps more gentle than Conor is used to. He couldn’t take the pace.

So I’m, for once, rather engaged by this 700million dollar spectacle. Even though only Lila could have me out of bed at 4 o’clock in the morning, so they’re not getting my tenner.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx