Andy's Glasses

Its all about ‘quality. Innit. As in ‘equality’ but pronounced in a more East Luunduun, or Sarf Luunduun, or even west Essex kind’a way. And there’s nothing wrong with equality. The director general of the CBI is a woman. The head of the Metropolitan Police is a woman. The Prime Minister is mostly a woman. And even Miss World is a woman.

So why not Doctor Who?

I’ll tell you why; because Doctor Who is a man. Always been a man, always will be a man. Except, obviously, when she’s a woman. So that’s straight. The total cop-out of the entire history of Doctor Who is that every few years he (now /she) gets reborn. Reincarnated. Recreated. Re-booted. That way you never got tired of seeing the same ole Doctor every series. And now they’ve taken a woman, given her blond hair, and called her the Doc.

And I for one… really don’t give a shit. Because since series 3 I haven’t watched it, and if I never see another episode it won’t affect my life in any way at all.

Nothing monumental or offensive or emotional happened in series 3. In fact nothing monumental, offensive or emotional happened before or after it. And that was the problem. On series 3 I just gave up watching because nothing had happened, nothing was happening and nothing was likely to happen in the foreseeable. It was dull. Which is forgivable. But being stupidly childish and daft isn’t. The plots were stupid, the baddies laughable and the ‘scary bits’ would pretty much send you to sleep. In a warm, peaceful way. It always looked as if it was made in the producer’s garage using any bits and pieces he had lying around as ‘props’ and ‘special effects’. You can film an old metal dustbin seven ways to hell, its still a fucking dustbin. Even if you call it a ‘Dalek’.

And this was 1963. I was 7 years old and already had learned to expect much more than Doctor Who could offer, even if the alternatives were Bruce Forsyth on ITV or a documentary on steelworkers’ haircuts on BBC2. I loved the old Batman series, for fuck sake. How discerning could I have been?

Roger Federer is definitely a man. No question. And from being ‘the best player of his generation’, he is now widely accepted as probably ‘the best player ever’. Yet now he’s seemed to have become ‘the best sportsman ever’, which is another kettle of herrings altogether. By tomorrow he’ll be ‘the most important person who ever lived’. Move over Newton, Einstein, Darwin, Beethoven, Watson & Crick and Ronald McDonald, there’s a new kid in town and yesterday he earned more than the lot of you did in your combined lifetimes. Except Ronald, of course.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Spoke to a friend this morning on the way to tennis. She went yesterday to Chichester to see Fidler on the Roof. Starring Omid Djalili as Tevya. And I thought; that is the real beauty of the much-abused term ‘multi-culturalism’. A Christian Iranian comedian playing a Polish Chassidic Jewish milkman. And apparently, quite brilliantly.

Mel & I went out for a curry last night. Was quite wonderful. Very wonderful. I love Indian food and, in fact, I love India. And yet, although no-one has mentioned it, I fear that the current wave of acid attacks stem from, if not India itself, then definitely from their culture. Because acid attacks are very common on the sub-continent. Always have been. Linked to those bizarre distortions of noble concepts like ‘honour’ and ‘respect’ and ‘disgrace’ in a manner that only the worst of religion-driven patriarchal societies can descend into.

The first time I remember such an attack, it was in West London by a Sikh man against his own daughter. For refusing to marry the man he chose for her. But its not a Sikh thing. Nor Muslim, nor Hindu. It tragically embraces them all. In a culture of adherence to parental views or pay the consequences. Formed in the outlying villages in India and Pakistan and Bangla Desh and then brought here with immigrants. The children of whom spend all day watching the same tv shows as any other kids, go to mixed race schools and, basically, ‘go native’. As they would. All kids want to conform. Then the father tells his 15-year-old daughter, just getting ready for her GCSEs and really into Love Island, that she is going to India to marry her Uncle’s brother-in-law, aged 48, and live out her life being subservient to him in a mud-hut in Udaipur. And according to HIS cultural understanding, she has no choice, nor say in the matter. If she refuses then HE is disgraced, she has upset everyone’s ‘honour’ and it all goes to shit.

Its not mentioned as a problem coming from India because it might be prejudicial, even if its true. And now, of course, acid attacks are ‘out there’ so all manner of nutters can do them, all manner of races. So it becomes almost like blaming the Chinese for a(nother) mass shooting in America, because they invented gunpowder.

Its not about ‘blame’ as such. But when you embrace multi-culturalism, you get the good with the bad. You get chicken tikka massala. And acid attacks.

Anyway, too busy to think about that now; the tennis is on soon.

Come on Fed!

A xxxx

Someone decided to rank the 10 best dressed women tennis players. Oh my. What were they thinking? You might as well rape them as rank them on appearance. Sexism, chauvinism, anti-feminist disgustingism. Who did that? ‘Loaded’ magazine? ‘Neanderthal weekly’? Penthouse? No, it was actually the Women’s official Lawn Tennis association wot done it.

What at terrible error of judgment. What a complete misunderstanding of the zeitgeist. In which women are demanding equal pay, striving for equality and then the LTA decide to see which gels look the prettiest in their whites. Why not just have a ‘pert nipples’ competition? Best thighs? I’d probably be more interested in that myself, but not the new, reconstructed, me. Just the old knuckle-dragging pre-modernist me. Who looks similar, but inside?

I think the women look gorgeous in their whites. There, I’ve said it proudly. Maybe that’s why I don’t have time for the US Open or the Aussie, where they turn up in black shorts and red t-shirts and look like the people who got turned away from Glastonbury on sartorial grounds. Because Wimbledon insists upon whites. The anti-Henry Ford. Any colour, so long as its white. And all the better for it.

Venus collapsed today, even though Muguruza looked much better in her whites. Or perhaps because she did. Venus had two points to break serve and take the first set and blew them both. Then, after a women’s final that had been pretty damned close for the first 10 games, just went to pieces. Venus. A ‘Williams’. And just folded up. Lost the first set in the next game and then lost the second 6-0.

And ‘apropos of nothing’ as they say, I’d just like to offer a bit WTF???? about ‘acid attacks’. Oh they’re all the rage now. Or all in rage now. Whatever, get some really serious acid (available everywhere to unblock your sink; I bought some myself on Tuesday) and throw it in someone’s face. Where the fuck did such a grotesque obscenity come from? Who would want to do that to someone? A sick fuck, that’s who. But its ok. The total psychos out there hurling concentrated sulphuric around like confetti so the police are now onto them. The headline today read: “knife-crime laws to halt acid attacks”. So we’re safe. They’re going to apply the same laws to acid as they do to knives. And as we all know, stabbings have reduced from 24,576 last year to 98,322 this year. So that’s good. Hmmm…

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’m just reading a book by Robert Harris. He’s a writer. Likes a historical novel. He’s written about the Nazis, he’s written about Tony Blair and he’s written about the Romans. Loads of books about the Romans, starting with Pompeii. They’re great. Not because of the history of the events but because of the picture they paint of that time and that society. Which was a rather clever and brilliant one. Ok, bit brutal by modern standards, but it was noted by being uncommonly democratic. The Greeks invented democracy but the Romans nicked it, as they nicked half of the civilised world when they ruled the planet. Money, artworks, furniture, political philosophy, they stole the lot.

In the latest, ‘Imperium’, its a quite wonderful quest of Cicero (Roman Senator) exposing corruption before the forum. Which was itself pretty corrupt. By our standards. Everything was by their standards though. So in their democracy, the votes of the aristocrats actually counted for more than those of the poor citizens. Slaves, women and other no-goodniks couldn’t vote at all. But it was still more democratic than anywhere else. And as the jurors were bribed, the judges rigged and everything pretty wayward from our post-modern perspective, I can’t help thinking how Donald Trump would have been perfect out there in ancient Rome. Though the Romans worked hard, defeated everyone then sat back and got fat. Trump’s done it the other way round; got fat and lazy first, then went into power.

I’m not saying Trump dunnit. Wiv dem Russians. There are always many ways of examining things and many different lights to shine. F’rinstance; the picture they found yesterday of Trump in restaurant with that Goldstone geezer (who set up the whole Russian connection out there, and a Brit we can therefore really be proud of) and some senior Russian spy, says nothing. Its 3 men coincidentally eating together. But the implications….

Trump junior actually responded to “we have loads of shit on Hilary Clinton from Moscow” and went to meet Put’n’s lawyer lady to discuss, again with Goldstone. But ‘the meeting told us nothing’, it was very short and there was nothing to report back to ‘Dad’, so he wasn’t involved at all. Oh, that’s ok then.

No, its actually a million fucking miles from ‘ok’. A presidential campaign team went to meet a foreign spy (how else would you describe someone with classified information?) with a view to learning dirt. That in itself would have him disembowelled in ancient Rome. With hot irons before crucifixion. But in Trump-world ‘its ok’ and he’s a ‘good person, a transparent, honest person’.

Like his dad. Yesterday in Paris. “Yes we left the Paris accord on climate change but we may go back. And if we do, that’ll be great. And if we don’t, then that’ll be ok too”.

Tell me what the fuck that means, Donald. And why its ever worth spending good words saying precisely nothing.

To the Forum!!

A xxxx

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