Andy's Glasses

A ‘robot’ is a machine that performs tasks by itself. They don’t all have inbuilt guns and knives, some just hoover the floor. But the essence of a robot is that its somehow interactive with the world in which it lives. And in the case of Terminator robots, in the time in which they happen to find themselves.

This Amazon Echo Dot is a robot. I’ve decided. You just call out to it and it plays music. Or a radio station. Answers questions. Gives information. Cooks dinner. (That’s a lie.) I know my ipad has ‘Siri’ but I never use it. Phones respond to voice commands too. But ‘Alexa’ (as the Echo Dot is ‘called’) is brilliant. Ok, it doesn’t move much… well, only when I knock it on the floor really, but its part of the way forward. Lots of people are designing robots which move and do stuff, this technology is the interactive bit that is quite awesome and an essential part of the inevitable evolution. I called out ‘Alexa! CLEAN THE FUCKING CAR!!’ but she just asked what I wanted to do. Bitch. Maybe ‘she’ will only clean Mel’s car as it was her birthday present.

But the truly amazing bit is that this ‘female’ device responds instantly and obediently when you say ‘Alexa; STOP’.

I wonder how she’d respond to questions about whether Alexander Blackman should have been charged with murder for shooting dead a wounded Taliban bastard in Afghanistan in 2011. She’d probably blow up with the dilemma. Because its so not simple. Its complicated.

The Taliban guy was injured by an attack helicopter and lay wounded, near death. The Marines went to check him and decided that to call in medical help, for an enemy soldier who’d spent the last days trying to kill them, would put at great risk yet more English soldiers and medics. The Geneva Convention lays down rules and regulations for how and when you can kill the enemy. And that Convention is laid down by crusty old politicians sitting in a plush office in neutral Switzerland whilst sipping their skinny lattes and imposing their comfortable, detached morality on guys who are tip-toeing through the literal minefield whilst being shot at by snipers.

I have nothing but sympathy for Alex Blackman. He was fucked up by military problems sustained over weeks of living on the edge. And he made a ‘battlefield decision’ which sent him to prison.

There are rules to war. Sadly they’re only observed by one side, but that in a way is what its all about. The moral high ground. We MUST be better than ‘them’. But if ever there were mitigating circumstances, it was in the Afghan war. Hope he’s out soon following the Appeal Court decision yesterday.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

This is Karolina. She’s a sweet little Polish 18 year-old student blond thing currently studying photography at Kingston University. Ahhhhh. Nice.

This is what happens to nice little sweet students when they down half a bottle of vodka before going to a nightclub which then refuses them entry because they’re too drunk:

Firstly they attack, both verbally and physically, the security guys (poor things) at the door, screaming, swearing, punching, kicking. Then they do the same to the police when they arrive on the scene. But really swearing, swearing even I’d be proud of. Racially abusing muslims, blacks, calling the police ‘fucking pussies!!!!’ and even when handcuffed still had to be restrained for continuing to kick and thrash around at everyone.

Ok, just a ‘really good night out’.

At her trial the judge sentenced her to community service, saying “I’m not sending a lady to prison for something like this”. Why he chose the word ‘lady’ I’m not sure. Maybe he didn’t follow what she’d done. And basically, I agree with him. You wouldn’t want to send a sweet little babe to prison just for basically underestimating the destructive power of alcohol.

And that’s because we’re all victims ourselves of horrendous double standards and a terribly patriarchal model of the world.

Feminists should be in uproar over this. TREAT HER FAIRLY!!!! They should be shouting. GIVE HER TEN YEARS!!!!! Because if a man had used such abuse and violence he’d probably have been given a 3-month ‘slap on the wrist’, or worse. If the attacking drunk had been a black man, it would have probably been longer. WE DEMAND EQUALITY!!!!

Alcohol disinhibits. It brings out the monster within. Some drunks (no names, Rachie) are really loving and sweet and fun. Others aren’t. Karolina isn’t. John Galliano became a rabid and vile anti-semite whilst under the influence. Mel Gibson too (I still won’t see him in any movie he’s had anything to do with). Alcohol doesn’t make you a racist or anti-semite, it just liberates you to become the scumbag you keep hidden inside. Maybe abusive, often violent. Nice.

Amazing win for Leicester last night in the Champions League. Quarter finals for them now. Quite amazing. The dream continues.

Happy Sober Wednesday

A xxxx

The doner kebab was invented in 1975 in Great Titchfield St, Fitzrovia, just round the corner from the BT Tower. FACT! Ish…

Ok, the first doner kebab I ever ate was from Great Titchfield Street in 1975. Latterly known as ‘the first day of the rest of my life’, forever after divided into ‘pre-Efes’ and post-Efes’. My life changed on that day.

People will tell you otherwise. “Oh a doner kebab!” they’ll exclaim, “how horribly working class, how crude, the food of drunks at pub leaving time, oooooh, tacky”. Others will tell you how doners are a Turkish invention, or Lebanese, Arabic, Greek gyros writ wrong, many more won’t touch them on health grounds, on health&safety grounds or just because they’re smelly. People tell you how they ATCHERLEY SAW, WIV ME OWN EYEZZZZ!!!! this Turkish geezer out the back by the bins, killed a scavenging cat, skinned it and stuck it on the spit to make Doners wiv. Honest!

And let me say here and now that all of these quite ridiculous stories are probably true. Because you never know what you’re eating in a Doner. Which is a big part of the fun when you have 17 pints of stout inside you, a little less so when sober and hungry.

So how fortunate for me that I lost my kebab virginity at Efes. One of the first kebaberies in London and for the next 40 years and more, by a million miles the best. And the only place I would ever eat such a… a… delicacy? a… meal? a… thing.

My best mate moved to France in 1992. And every trip he made back, at least 5/6 times a year, he’d call/text/mail to arrange a meeting at Efes. For a Doner. Always take-away, always eaten in the car outside, always absolutely, mind-blowingly, taste-bud-explodingly, lip-smackingly, chilli-saucily magnificent. The Pig (I won’t use his real name to save him from embarrassment, but its Jeremy) would sometimes eat 2. And they were big. Really big.

About 3 years ago Efes changed hands. Jeremy went, obviously, and reported that Efes was officially dead. Horrible. Yeuch. And last night after a trip to Great Portland Street, going back to the station, I went for my usual back-street tour as I love the West Ends back streets as much as I hate Oxford Circus, Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus, I chanced onto Great Titchfield Street. And took this photo of Efes. I know, kebab shops are never about the decor, but this was definitely a few hod carriers short of the mark, even by their exacting-free standards of cleanliness and hygiene.

I might try and find a new place. Better get some serious inoculations and start the antibiotics now.

The end of an era. The Legend dies. Efes is gone.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We’re having a baby. As in ‘the family’. Daughter Natalie is about 39 weeks pregnant and growing and we’re in deep ‘preparation’ mode. I do my deep breathing exercises every day and have a bag packed and ready. Even though I’m going nowhere. But its what you do. What you also do is get ‘stuff’. Massive and humungous amounts of ‘stuff’ that this little 6 to 9 pound baby ‘needs’. Cots, buggies, changing tables, car seats, all manner of stuff required for transporting Little Baby from home to Waitrose and back twice a week. And clothing. Babies are born naked but require layer upon layer of really soft stuff with little kittens on it, in order to stay warm and comfortable.

Except ‘our’ baby. Its different. Its a Spurs baby. Its mother, father, grandfather and everyone else is a Spurs fan. Which is a ‘gift’ that starts indeed from birth. Or in little Baby-Bell’s case, from way before. Because knowing of the family’s sporting preferences has inspired… well, basically all of the friends of father and grandfather-to-be to do their baby pressie shopping at the Spurs shop. Because at all major clubs they know that there is simply nothing cuter in the entire world than a 2-week old baby dressed as a Premiership striker, in full kit, with special faux-studded booties. The kit even comes with instructions how to spit on the floor repeatedly. Not that babies need teaching that skill.

So daughter informs me this morning that every single baby-gro, bib, sock, sweater that they have been gifted is Spurs-ware.

I couldn’t be prouder.

Unless ‘my baby’ becomes a vlogger. Then my pride limit would be extended. Every day you could watch it on youtube, sleeping, dribbling, shitting, just like you do all the fucking pandas and dogs and sheep and koalas now. Perhaps have a vlog eating a lemon or some other act of parental cruelty. Give it some knives to play with.

Vlogging is the way forward. Just in case kids don’t grow up obsessed with celebrity culture and a burning desire to be a Kardashian or some other worthless low-life who does nothing all day (that doesn’t involve surgery) but makes billions, they are now giving vlogging lessons to kids. Parents are abandoning the more historic ballet classes and karate lessons and other after-school activities in the hope that little Nigella, Kylie or Mousa will one day become a world-famous vlogger and lead them from their council flat in Milton Keynes to a mansion in Beverley Hills.

I fear for the world my grandchild will be entering. Except the Spurs bit, after yesterday’s win you’d think the baby would be desperate to come out in time for the semi-finals.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

That filthy Scottish bastard who slam-dunked Elliot Daly on the ground after 90 seconds of yesterday’s match at Twickenham with a horrible, illegal and potentially neck-breaking ‘tip tackle’
was given a yellow card. 10 minutes in the ‘sin bin’. He should have been red-carded or more appropriately given 10 minutes in the pillories. Though if any of that proper ‘justice’ had been meted out, the game would have been even more one-sided than it already turned out to be. When I asked my sister-in-law last night if she’d, like me, swooned over the England match yesterday, she replied just that: ‘it was a bit one-sided’. Yeah, I explained, but when our side is the ‘one’, that can only be a good thing.

In fact it was a great thing. Even though it was never a competition, just a demonstration of what I will call ‘total rugby’. Like Barcleona invented ‘total football’ under Cruyff, so England under Eddie Jones are guilty of practising rugby near perfection. The ‘near’ only for two reasons. Firstly that Eddie would never want to stop improving, and secondly because Scotland, despite pretty good form of late, were fucking awful.

England dominated the game right from the start, in every part of the pitch, at every breakdown, certainly at the line-outs which produced the first 3 tries. Of the 7 they scored. In case you missed that. Seven.

And as always, rugby matches are won by the forwards, the backs just decide by how many. The England midfield was unplayably brilliant. George Ford, Owen Farrell and Jonathan Joseph were simply fantastic. Better together than any sum of the parts. The speed and accuracy of their passing and running simply blew the Scots away. Not that I’ll gloat. Any more than I have to or want to.

What a joy to watch. Unless you happen to be Scottish, in which case: sorry.

Spurs play Millwall today in the FA Cup semi-final. Which I’m gonna miss because Mel’s birthday celebrations start today. Birthday’s not (officially) til Tuesday but, like the Queen, the actually day is only a small part of the ongoing events. So we’re going for lunch with the gels and assorted others to the Ivy. The new one that they just opened for us in St Johns Wood because the old one is a bit too far away and parking there’s a bitch. Mountains, Mohammed, etc, etc, etc.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I turned 60 last year. Old. Fucking old. But heh, I was only a day older than the day before, and its not like one minute you’re 27 and the next you’re 60. It just feels like that. One of the rules of getting old is that you have to moan about aches, pains and injuries. You have to mention bowel movements at least once a month, multiple micturations (oh, look it up) and most importantly, you need to develop a vast orthopaedic knowledge. Life becomes a bit more medical.

The other night I went to Tai Chi. Which is a truly wonderful thing to do. Teaches you balance and poise and standing properly and walking correctly and how to perform the Tai Chi ‘dance’ and how to use that to break people’s bones. But only people who wish you harm. You can hurt others but its not compulsory. Tai Chi is ‘deep’. You learn a movement, then you smash someone in the throat to really appreciate what that movement should be for and thus makes you do the movement more accurately, which in turn enables you to hurt more efficiently. Just a very simple, energy-efficient feedback-loop. Only takes a lifetime to learn.

So the other night, conscious as ever about my very dodgy right shoulder, and careful of my relatively recently strained hip, I performed a ‘slant fly’. All Tai Chi moves have names. Lots of them quite pretty and poetic. Which can be deceptive as ‘white crane spreads wings’ is a simultaneous head block and smash into someone’s bollocks. Slant fly is a way to knock a man backwards. Or a woman; tai chi is really equal opportunity and hence violence against women is heartily encouraged. And its a great move. And it all comes from your legs. Unless… unless you accidentally get your back involved and you’re toppling about 16 stone of your mate using muscles that don’t like it. So my back went a bit funny too.

This morning I went again, because you have to, because its wonderful, because its fun and because its sort of addictive, and I tried to be very conscious of… most of body which was still hurting and aching and painful. And I was.

So buoyed by my lack of further injury I went to tennis. Where my shoulder felt like it had already dislocated, my back was constantly painful and my hip played up after about 50 minutes. I didn’t know whether to limp, hobble or just fucking lay down and die and be done with it.

60 isn’t the new 40, they lied. Its the new 90.

But I’m discovering new muscles all the time that I never knew I had. To re-write the late, great Harry Carpenter, I’m pulling muscles in places I never knew I had places.

Happy, achy Saturday

A xxxx

We need to talk about Emma Watson’s tits. I’m sorry, but that’s what its come to. Because a row has positively erupted over this very photograph, taken for Vanity Fair. As photos go, its ok. Emma has only two looks, this one, that I’ll call ‘hard and manly’ and another that she learned at Hogwarts, more ‘soft and fluffy’. She really should go to the Zoolander school to pick up a few more, but for now, that’s what there is. I saw her once at the Swiss Cottage Odeon and she looked like a 9 year-old scraggly waif. This was in the foyer, I should note, not on the screen.

However, Emma left her witchiness behind her, went to America to study (she’s clever) and has become a UN Ambassador for something or other of a broad and meaningless nature. That’s her official title. Angelina has a similar one. They’re all a bit similar, UN things given to famous babes. But Emma’s all about feminism. Gender Equality. Feminism.

And following the publication of the Vanity Fair pics, some haggard old sourpuss Daily Mailesque hack commented along the lines: “I’m a feminist, an equal rights campaigner… oh, and these are my tits”. As if feminists and breasts are an incompatible combination. But if women are allowed to keep their breasts (and I really, sincerely, heart-achingly hope they are) then perhaps its the overtness in these photos that caused some ultra-feminazi to complain so? Which yet again comes down the most confusing of all issues men have to face in the post-feminist world. Which is: at what point does ‘taking control of your body in a sort’a flaunty way change from ’empowerment’ to ‘pornography’? Not that these pics were in any way pornographic. Wish that they were, the fuss would be more worthwhile.

Because when a man sees such a thing, is he allowed to shout: “YOU GO GIRL, YOU OWN IT, YOU’RE SHOWING YOUR EMPOWERMENT”, or should he just wolf-whistle and twerk his builders’-bum-cleavage at her whilst being guilty of objectification? We need to know; we need to be told; we ain’t that bright and can’t follow the rules because they shift like thighs in a pole-dance. Oops.

It also haunts Emma a bit because she had the audacity to accuse Beyonce of being a bit provocative in her videos. As if. But what Beyonce does is definitely ’empowerment’, definitely. Nothing titillating about that whatsoever.

Hope that’s all clearer now.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

What do you do when you’re playing a second-leg European tie and you have a four goal deficit from the first leg? Which is, quite frankly, massive. Almost insurmountable. Almost.

Arsenal found themselves in such a situation on Tuesday night having been mullered (and Roben-ed, Vidal-ed and many others) 5-1 in Munich in the first leg. So they opted for a fiendish plan… to concede 5 more Ok, they did score one first, but then it went south from there. Assisted, inevitably according to Wenger, by some ‘revolting’ refereeing decisions. Strange use of a word but he’s not from these shores. Even though ‘revolting’ in French normally involves use of a guillotine. Anyway…

It, basically, all went to shit. Heads dropped, the spirit simply deserted the team as if sucked by some celestial vacuum pump, and they gave up the fight. Such is the level of disgruntlement currently circulating round the Emirates. Not a happy place. Worst of all was a picture of Alexis Sanchez sniggering as Bayern’s 5th went in, when he was on the bench. What a horrible picture.

There is an alternative.

Barcelona (my bestest, most favourite ‘dream team’ other than Spurs) also faced the seemingly impossible after losing their first leg 4-0 to Paris St Germain. They scored 3 by midway through the second half but then catastrophe. Like 4-0 isn’t catastrophic enough. They conceded a goal by Edson Cavalli (think ‘Harry Kane but swarthy’). The dreaded ‘away goal’. So now Barca need to score a total of 6 to win. 3 more goals. And time is running out. And is running out. And running out…

With the clock at 88 minutes Barca scored again. Then injury time. OMG. Another goal. Still not enough. Then in the 95th minute, with the whistle almost in the ref’s mouth to blow for time (almost, just a little excitement created here, not that it needed it), Sergi Roberto hit the winner for Barcelona. The place erupted, the world stood on its collective head, I was declaring a 4 Hearts contract at the bridge table so sadly missed all the fun as a million Catalans group-hugged and screamed. Amazing result. Amazing excitement. Just amazing.

The difference between Arsenal and Barclena’s responses to their 4-0 deficits was that the Barca manager, Louis Enrique, resigned after the Paris match. Ooooooooohhhhhhh…

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I fear that with Chelsea’s win last night the title ‘race’ (if it was ever ‘on’) is over. Spurs are second in line, currently, and remain 10 points behind the Blues. And logically, who, do you reckon, are more likely to have a mini-collapse? A bad run? A blackout? Nervous breakdown or total meltdown? Who is more likely to ‘do a Spurs’ than Spurs? I’m hoping that we can just continue our good form without such an event; that in itself would show massive promise. But Chelsea, much as I hate them, simply have to be admired.

They beat West Ham last night. That’s not hard. But its the way they do things. The addition of N’golo Kante to their horrible ranks this year was a massive piece of an almost complete puzzle. The rest of which simply fell back into place when Morinho left. Hazard become Hazard once more, Costa returned to being Costa and Pedro has become a revelation, being much more than the Pedro he was before. I suppose we must credit the manager, and so I reluctantly will do so.

Arsenal play Bayern tonight in the Champions League. They need to overturn a 5-1 deficit. Not hard to do. Just score 4 against one of Europe’s top 3 teams and concede none. But to do that Arsenal would need to be at their best. And they are currently approximately 72,782 miles from that place. Ozil’s injured but that’s no big loss because he tends to disappear in big games anyway. Sanchez is, mentally if not physically, ‘gone’. He wants out and is playing like it. The anti-Wenger movement in the fan-base has risen from about half to approximately three-quarters and all looks glum in Emirate-land.

Meanwhile at the ‘Theatre of Not Going as Well as We’d Hoped’ all hell broke loose. Bournemouth defender Tyrone Mings was attacked by Zlatan Ibrohimovic. The second assault was a blatant elbow in the face when they went up for a high ball. The first attack was Zlat hitting Tyrone really hard on the studs with his face. Dirty faaarkin’ Swede. Get a three year ban, by which time he’ll be another pensioner. Man United will be the new Leyton Orient and Morinho will be managing the tea and coffee supplies in a padded institution. Subject to medication.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We were taken out for tea yesterday. As a ‘thank you’. I accept all
the thanks ever offered. Especially if it comes with strawberry jam
and clotted cream.

We went to the quite stunning Rosewood Hotel in Holborn. No, not
‘quite’ anything, really really fucking stunning. And the ‘mirror
room’ is what you’d expect; lavish, immaculate, six miles over the
top, yet really comfortable and relaxing. Not many mirrors though, so
maybe not everything you’d expect.

And I love afternoon tea. High tea. It is the infrequently taken (for
the sake of your arteries) best meal of the day. It should contain
everything you want to eat but nothing you really need. That’s the
rule. We even skipped lunch in anticipation. And I hate skipping
lunch. Or breakfast… dinner… snack-time…

Most of London’s big hotels do ‘tea’. Why not? Its a quiet lull-time
for them and they can flog you a few sandwiches and a scone for 30
quid a time, including ‘all the tea you like!!!!’ as if tea is the new
gold or single malt. Its tea. So they make a big deal about it, about
everything. To set them apart from all the other hotels doing pretty
much the same stuff.

At the Rosewood, the USP is that their ‘tea cakes’ are ‘inspired by
artists’. So the little white cube thing (salted caramel and chocolate
mouse with a mini-profiterole inside, nothing too sickly), was a
‘Banksy’ and had a little Banksy label attached. Amazing. Much better
shoved in my gob than hanging on a wall. Or scribbled on a old garage
door. The little spotty thing in the middle tier was a wonderful
‘bisque’ (the French or otherwise pretentious way of saying ‘biskit’)
with chocolate fondant and passion fruit creme, but was rather a
disappointment in that it was ‘a Damien Hirst’ and therefore I
expected something a little more ‘dead animal in formaldehyde’ or
pig’s spleen and bleach, but there ya go.

Wonderful tea. Wonderful afternoon. Sugar rush not yet subsided.

They don’t serve high tea at White Hart Lane. They serve up wins
instead. And the head waiter, the maitre d’, the head honcho in the
goals department, without any pretentiousness at all, is Harry Kane.
Who ‘only’ scored 2 this weekend, which for him is one short of his
‘usual’. Another great (ok, and ‘home’) win.

What an afternoon that was.

Happy Monday

A xxxx