Andy's Glasses

Do you ever just think: the world has become too clever by far? And, kind’a, left YOU behind? I’m fine, I’m a high tech dude fully conversant with all electronic wizardry and smart phoniness that you could be. But don’t’cha just worry at times when you’re looking for a book and it knows where you are within half a postcode? That Google searches bring up Amazon offers relating to the search, of stuff you’d previously looked for? I google ‘windscreen wipers for a mini’ and up come seven offers of tennis balls. I buy a lot of tennis balls. Not much good for wiping windscreens.

This is because its just too fucking clever. Too fast. Too automated. And, without wishing to sound too paranoid: because they know too much about us.

This, I learned today, is what happens when you visit youtube. You want to see Lionel Messi’s latest goal or revisit California Dreaming by the Mamas and the Papas and you know one of those really annoying adverts will probably pop up first. That you can ‘skip in 5… 4…. 3…’ Well that advert is there because advertising companies have bid, whilst you’re waiting for the connection to youtube, all of half a second, in an auction with some clever google ‘doubleclick’ device, after first checking your browsing history to see what you’ve searched for previously. And on that basis, if you’ve spent time researching say cars, then the agency for Mercedes, or Ford, will bid higher than companies representing feminine hygiene products and so before you can enjoy Mamma Cass you have to watch a fucking pick-up trundling offroad around the countryside for 18… 17… 16… seconds.

The problem is that some of the most viewed things on youtube are evil, nasty things relating to ISIS, to right-wing extremists, to all manner of baddies, and Kim Kardashian. And when the adverts are played, the sites get a part of the fee. Extremist sites as well as those of vain women with massive arses, are supposed to be banned, blackballed, removed by youtube. But the postings can remain there, as they seem to do, and thus when you buy your next Mercedes E Class, half of the door mirror was paid to fucking ISIS.

Its awful. Its wrong. And its up to google to sort out the mess.

Meanwhile, my new phone arrived yesterday and I’m scared to use it. Once I turn it on the entire digital world will know all there is to know about me.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I never realised that you ‘apply’ for a knighthood. Who’d’a thought that? You just go on the website, knights-of-the-realm.com (don’t go, I made that one up) and download an application. I want to be a knight. I’m a good guy, I have my own sword (no euphemisms here) and I’m fucking noble.

Yet its not that simple. I wonder if there’s a fee for application. Yet apparently that’s how its done. You tick the boxes and Her Majesty decides whether to get you to take a knee before her. I’d always thought that some kind of committee-of-toffs would meet at, like, Camelot, and summon you, with a horseman, because they’d noticed how wonderful you were.

David Beckham didn’t qualify. Well, he did qualify, but then became unqualified. And he wants a knighthood. He really wants a knighthood. Alex Ferguson’s got one. Bobby Charlton’s got one, Elton John’s got one. Why not Becks? Sir David and Lady Posh. Think of the letterheads.

The reason Beckham didn’t get his knighthood was that he had invested in some offshore tax thingy, not an illegal one, but, as most are, a little on the dodgy, ‘tax avoidancey’ side. As you would if you were worth hundreds of millions. By contrast, Philip Green was (and is) domiciled in Monaco (for tax purposes) when he was knighted. Jimmy Savile we don’t even mention. Ooops.

And what qualifications do you need to get knighted? Well, you need to have done things. Good things. Sitting in the pub all weekend watching football doesn’t qualify. Sadly. Or we’d be a nation of knights. So, despite the fact that Beckham is one of the most loved people in the country, he also does good stuff. Stuff unrelated to getting more tattoos or driving big cars and trucks. He worked very hard on the Olympic bid for 2012, which we won, in part through his efforts which, its safe to assume, in his case, was just by turning up and smiling. He was captain of his country’s football team and single-handedly dragged that sorry bunch through lots of victorious battles. And he is loved. Throughout the world. Both for the grace he displayed when playing our game (kicking out at Argentinians notwithstanding) and for his seemingly endless charity work.

He didn’t get knighted, so ‘allegedly’ sent some rather unhappy emails to his mate. Which were stolen/hacked and they tried to blackmail him. David Beckham, victim of bottom-feeding scum. He refused to pay them so they appeared in the Daily Mirror. Complete with the required righteous indignation from the collective world of media high horses. Like Piers (fucking) Morgan. Who’d give both testicles for a knighthood. Or any recognition from anyone, even his own mother.

Ok, so slagging off opera singers isn’t particularly nice, but so what. We’ve all done it. ?????

Leave Sir David alone. He’s lovely and we love him and he should be rewarded for putting up with Victoria for all these years, if nothing else.

Happy Wednesday

Sir Andy
xxxxx

A state visit is an event. A big event. Fucking massive in fact. They wheel out the horse-and-carriage sets, polish up the Coldstream Guards, dust off the Crown Jewels and, oh, provide a bit of security too. Just 40 or 50 thousand police should do it. Plus secret service, anti-terrorism boys, and any teams the recipient of the State Visit should deem fit to bring along for the ride. There are more earpieces on view than at a hearing-aid convention. But basically, London grinds to a halt (well, the traffic generally does) as the received dignitary and Mrs Received Dignitary get to enjoy British pomp and ceremony from the back of their very own Landau. And we do pomp and ceremony better than anyone. Its almost our national pastime.

And its great for tourism. Those Poles and French and Japanese simply pour onto these shores armed with just selfie sticks and little union jacks to wave about. Lovely.

So who gets invited to a ‘state visit’? Not everyone, that’s for sure. And certainly not just the people we like. They don’t need one; we’re already mates, do business, agree on things, very pally. No. We give state visits to people we need on board. The people we want onside. Certainly ones we wish to engage in business with or increase business with. That’s the whole point. We don’t go pissing away 50 million quids worth of hospitality on someone who is just a ‘good person’ who maybe sat under a tree for 7 years contemplating his navel. No, Bhudda would have had a tea on the lawn of the Palace, no more.

We had the Saudis for a state visit. Nice people. Repress their women. When they’re not stoning them to death along with any gays they find. They fund about 64% of world terrorism (all figures here have been validated by a random generator in my head), engage in torture, but just for entertainment, and they send their youths here every summer to burn rubber in solid gold Bugattis outside Harrods for a month. But we trade with them. So we invited them. State Visit. Not because we like them or agree with their lifestyle. Same with China, just last year. An abusive and repressive regime, but rich. And we want their money. So, despite the protesters lining the route to scream at President and Mrs Xi, they were treated to the best of everything. So we could do some deals.

And trumped-up (no pun intended) little shit John Bercow, the ‘speaker of the House’ in Parliament, has unilaterally decided that Donald Trump should not be allowed to address parliament if he comes over. Because Donald is a bad person (agreed) and has terrible sexist, racist views (agreed) and has no respect for the independence of his judiciary (agreed) and so shouldn’t get the honour of a speech.

The same honour that Bercow himself was instrumental in giving President Xi. Standing there in simpering sycophancy smarmily shaking the man’s hand after a grovelling introduction.

We don’t invite people here just because they’re lovely. We invite them because on some level we need them.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

The problem with Donald Trump is that he says (or normally just tweets) what he thinks. No filters. The good thing about Donald Trump (yes, there is one good thing) is that he says what he thinks. No filters. When he fires off a tweet at 3 o’clock in the morning he’s just lying there in bed, possibly with Melania, possibly not if she’s in the basement lying on Transylvanian soil, and he learns something and instinctively he sends words out there. His words, his thoughts, his ideas, his complaints. Its safe to assume that although there are hundreds of others in the White House, many of them awake and working, at that time, he does not consult them. They’re not in the bed with him at the time. I hope.

And although I disagree with about 90% of what the Donald says, and find the other 10% morally repellant, I actually like the way he says it. No filters. He just shouts the first words that come into his head. And other than the fact that its him that’s saying them, I find that rather refreshing. Most politicians say nothing without 17 spin doctors working out the damage potential, the correct manner, the obfuscation of the truth, the dimming of unpleasant facts. In Trump speak; presenting the alternative facts.

So Trump is a plonker, but he’s an honest one. Like yesterday when challenged about Put’n on the basis that the Russian leader has teams of killers, Trump replied that America has killers too. And we all know that. We’ve all seen the movies. We know about hit men, we know about ‘sanctions’, we know about ‘cleansing’ we know about the CIA, and the NSA and FBI and fifty more groups of acronyms who carry guns and do the dirty work. Its just not a particularly presidential thing to admit such a thing. Yet Trump did. And although I wouldn’t have voted for him if he’d been the only person standing, I can actually see why so many Americans did. Because he talks straight. Even if he is a little detached from reality.

The only other redeeming factor in the Trump fiasco is that he’s the only world leader who is sceptical (understatement) on climate change. As any sensible person should be. Because the entire scientific field on that subject is rife with ‘alternative facts’. Its like the measles scandal all over again. Most ‘climate research’ is flawed, we now learn. Because if it shows what people want it to show then further, and very lucrative, grants are then forthcoming. So ‘studies’ become altered, facts become distorted, the ‘truths’ are redefined. All of which spoils it for the good guys. Because now we feel we can’t trust any ‘facts’ about global warming. Which is happening TO A DEGREE but nothing like its being promoted to be. An entire, yes, Global, industry has been built upon very little concrete data.

Happy Monday; its fucking cold today, no danger of global warming this morning

A xxxx

Last year at about this time of the season, Spurs found themselves in the lofty and a bit unexpected position of being the team ‘chasing runaway leaders’ for the title. Long way to go, 14 games or so, but there we were, second in the league and chasing… a pretty much lost cause. Last year we decided that we’d have a startlingly brilliant run, breezing past all who came before us, home or away, with flair, style, strength and brilliance. And then, for our encore, we’d totally self-destruct into chaotic and hapless oblivion. Or ‘third place just behind Arsenal’ as its known in certain parts of north London.

Many saw this as ‘typical Tottenham’, there was suddenly too much oxygen, couldn’t take the pressure (what pressure??), unaccustomed to the lofty heights, blah, blah, blah. I saw it more from a ‘bottom up’ perspective. In that we were usually much lower, and we’d moved up in the world.

To find ourselves, albeit a bit sooner, in a similar position; second in the league to runaway leaders, represents a brilliant improvement in my team. With particular credit to me, personally, for not killing myself, as I’d felt like so often during the dark years. Suicide is painless and is also one of the only things that gets rid of Arsenal. Unless you go to hell when you get to spend all of eternity listening to Arsene Wenger telling you about every foul that wasn’t given, every bad penalty decision that went against his team, all the injustices ever witnessed through the really bizarrely impeded eyes of a serial Frenchman.

Yesterday he saw a ‘foul’ when no-one else did. Thus everyone else is wrong. Obviously. Chelsea annihilated his team, mainly because half of them didn’t turn up. Well, Ozil certainly was somewhere a long way off. And as Spurs Paul commented, Arsenal can only bully poor teams, which they do, and then wimp out against the proper ones. I’ll check but I don’t think Spurs Paul an Arsenal fan.

Liverpool have crumbled. Just lost it totally as they have given up on winning ways. Both Manchesters are under-performing tragically and Everton, despite scoring 6 yesterday (and conceding 3?), are a bit short of the mark.

So once again its left to my boys to try and keep up with the leaders in an attempt to maintain some kind of interest in the rest of the season, for everyone in the country. Even though we’re not doing so in any really impressive way at the moment. But heh, who cares? Free points is free points, innit?

Ahhhh, fairly happy Sunday

A xxxx

Last night during my nightly tv-surf, I chanced upon Bullitt. The late 60s Steve McQueen cop movie. Which contains, arguably, ‘the finest car chase ever filmed’. Better than the one in the French Connection, better than the Blues Brothers (279 police cars smashed up en route), better than Vanishing Point even, which was an entire movie-as-car-chase, better than James Bond. Because really, who needs voices when a supercharged V8 says so much more? The words of the finest of bards fail completely to match the sheer elegance and poetry of that ‘glug-glug-glug-VROOOOOOOM!!!!’ that is produced when such an engine is given to the wind. The sound of angels. On horses. Lots and lots of horses. In the case of McQueen’s Mustang about 400 horses, whereas for the Dodge, about 500.

It was, in reality, a bit of a mismatch. The Mustang was a great and fairly dangerous car. In that they stuffed a 6 litre engine in a body designed for half that, added a few tweaks, nothing that would arrest that power surge, so nothing like better breaking or suspension, and off ya went. As long as you drove it in a straight line not too much could go wrong.

But the Dodge Charger was really something else. Same concept; basic body, stuff the biggest engine that can be crammed in, in this case over 7 litres. And just in case that’s not sufficient (is it ever??) why not stick a supercharger on it as well? No brainer. Extra 40 horse power at least for the blower. That was what Dodge called the R/T version. As in ‘road/track’. The engine used in that model, known as the ‘Hemi’, didn’t just redefine high power output from car engines, but is still the engine they use in all the top drag racing cars today, 55 years later.

I grew up in the 60s. The 1960s, in case you wondered what it meant. And we watched the new genre coming to (just 2-channel) tv, American Cop Shows. The English ones were ok too. But we noticed that in Dixon of Dock Green the police rode push-bikes or if they were sufficiently senior, had Morris 1000s as their ‘rides’. Whereas on the American shows they drove these fuck-off monster-powered Chevys and Dodges and Cadillacs that roared and groaned and throbbed and burnt rubber. Britain was a petrolhead underclass. Our ‘sports cars’ were tuned up 1600 engines. Their ‘family cars’ were V8 gas-guzzling supercars. Disguised as Ford Cortinas. And I wanted one. In fact I wanted 6. But my dad went and bought a Triumph Herald instead.

So that’s my excuse. Why I laugh at a Toyota Prius. Why I have nothing but contempt for anything electric that won’t make toast (ok, Tesla excepted) and why I love gas guzzlers, but only the one I’m driving. All the others will destroy the planet.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As an almost qualified clinical psychiatrist (I read a book about Freud in 1984), I have chosen, as my most recent case study, the person hereafter and forthwith to be referred to, in order to keep professional standards up and personal expenses down, as ‘Jose Morinho’. Even though his real name is ‘client X’.

Mr Morinho was always what is euphemistically called ‘special’. As in ‘special needs’, ‘special consideration’, ‘special requirements’. He showed sufficient levels of self-awareness to make everyone aware that, psychologically, all was not strictly ‘normal’ within that Portuguese mind. But he came here, he was successful and we mistakenly accepted his use of the term ‘The Special One’ as some form of conceit, of trumpet-blowing. Because like so many with his condition, he has periods of lucidity and tranquility when all does indeed seem ‘normal’. These periods are know, in psychiatric terminology, as ‘when he’s winning’. Inevitably, when this period reaches some kind of change or transition, the patient’s underlying condition becomes manifestly apparent.

So he left Chelsea after a while and took his increasing levels of paranoia over to first Milan and then to Madrid. Where pretty much the same effect was noted. Massive mood swings of a truly bi-polar nature, often induced with merely one kick of a football. Or of someone’s shin.

At which point he returned to Chelsea, upped his medication and tried once more to appear normal but still special. Which was going fairly poorly and then exploded into ‘Doctor-gate’. When Jose poured all his scorn, venom and blame for all of his team’s woes on the fact that a team doctor had run onto the pitch to tend a wounded player. In the resulting ‘shit-hitting-fannage’ that occurred, Mr Morinho left Chelsea once more and changed his ‘shrink’ to one recommended by Arsene Wenger. A head-doctor who could train the mind to only see what it wanted to see and ensure a happy place.

So Jose moved to Manchester. Sadly, this only added to his paranoia as the ‘world’s biggest football club’ continued to play shit even with all his specialness. He chose to vent on the referees, on the Football Association, on crop circles, black holes, Elvis’ ghost, the Ayatollah, anything rather than accept any responsibility for his teams failings.

And that’s where we find Mr Morinho today. In the midst of an all-encompassing paranoid crisis, sitting in a padded physio’s room at Old Trafford, waiting for the men in white coats to inject him with something that might make him a little more normal, and a lot less special.

Footnote: there has been no merit given to hypothesis involving the deprivation of breast-feeding from an early age of his life. Despite those photos that emerged of Jose with Eva Carneiro.

Happy Thursday

Dr Conway
xxxx

Went to see the movie Denial last night. Had to. I’m Jewish. Its about the holocaust, or in this case, denial thereof, and its in our contract that we go see all relevant films. No choice. And it had Rachel Weiss in it, who is adorable, and Tom Wilkinson, who is brilliant and Timothy Spall who is probably the finest British character actor of his generation. Playing uber-shit-head, Hitler-lover, holocaust-denying anti-semite and all round proto-Trump racist, David Irving.

And its not just a ‘true story’ in the American movie sense in which ‘there were indeed two people in real life who had these names and one was in real life a woman, but everything else has been changed to increase viewing pleasure and happy endings’. No, this was a ‘true story’ in the sense that it was stunningly, almost obsessively, BBC-ishly (they produced it) accurate. The trial scenes were verbatim from the original trial transcript. That accurate.

And its about the trial of Deborah Lipstadt, American holocaust historian professor, who called Irving a ‘holocaust denier’ in a book, so he sued her for defamation. Even though he consorted with skinheads and other right-wing scum. He chose to defend himself (and they say the person who does that has a fool for a client) and Lipstadt had as her counsel, top QC Richard Rampton, played by Wilkinson.

Holy Shit!!!!!!!

As the name was spoken on the screen and his face appeared, I had a ‘special moment’. A flashback about 2 years. A phone call at work. “Hello, I’m the third props director’s second assistant’s under-secretary and we’re making a movie about a trial. And we’ve been interviewing the (now retired) QC and we want his glasses, because they’re ‘his thing’. Round, gold glasses. And you are his optician. Can you get us a pair?”

I immediately thought of ‘patient confidentiality’ and ‘database protection’ and the right to anonymity, of course, and said: “which credit card would you like to use?”

And I’d forgotten completely, as you do. Sold a few other pairs of specs since then. But as his name was spoken I realised that there, on the massive screen, were ‘my’ glasses. The Rampton specials. I wanted to tell everyone else in the cinema, in the whole world; I DID THOSE!! but instead just whispered it to Mel. Who said, with all due pride: ‘shhhhhh’.

The movie is ok. Rachel Weiss didn’t make her character work for me. But I never knew Deborah Lipstadt so maybe she is a strange mix of feisty-New-York-intelligensia one minute and quivering, whimpering timid thing the next. And, made by the BBC, it indeed had the feel of a tv documentary about it. Never mind, great story, they’ll remake it in Hollywood next year with guns and car chases and Terminator. Wearing my glasses.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

The much lauded ‘magic of the FA Cup’ is a euphemism for total mis-matches. We love them. Because it elevates (or perhaps ‘lowers’) the concept of ‘underdog’ to levels not normally encountered. When Chelsea play Watford, (or in fact when they play Liverpool, as they do tonight), the team not Chelsea is the underdog. Because the West London horribles are much much better. In theory. On the night, anything can happen. That’s why they’re ‘underdogs’ and not just ‘fucking losers’. Because there’s always a chance that they may not lose. That the team 16 or 17 places below the leaders in the league might just pull off some miracle.

The FA Cup produces much bigger mismatches. Because every team plays. Not just from the top 4 leagues but from all the lesser, lower, never-‘eard-of leagues below them. Thus on Sunday did Sutton United, currently lying 14th in the ‘Vanorama’ Premier (ish) Division of the National League, beat Leeds, currently fighting for a playoff place in the Championship. 84 places higher.

Sutton’s reward is a first ever match in the 5th round of the Cup. And to the victor comes the spoils, in this case Arsenal. Who spoil a lot of things. And will probably rain on Sutton’s parade in a fairly large and emphatic manner. But in the meantime we can dream.

And if you reckon this match, for Arsenal, is just a ‘pass through to the next round’ card, then you’re probably right. But we can all dream. And Arsenal will not like this match at all. Firstly they have to take their precious superstars, famed for their fragility, onto a lumpy, cluggy, mashed up pitch in the wilds of Surry. There’ll be no hair conditioner in the showers there, for sure. And the showers probably only run cold anyway. Sutton will play a different kind of game from Arsenal. A little more ‘industrial’, a bit more ‘tasty’. I certainly hope so, at least. And then there’s the pressure of expectation. If Arsenal do anything other than win very convincingly then they’ll be shamed by the media. And certainly by me. Mercilessly.

Sutton don’t care. Have nothing to worry about. They can do no wrong, whatever happens. And they’ll get lots of money for their day in the sunshine. I couldn’t find any recent figures but in 2003, Sutton United’s turnover was about £250,000. For the year. Many of Arsenal’s superstars earn more than that every 2 weeks. So a big payday looms for Sutton for packing their little stadium and for the tv rights. Which makes the match massive for a club, like all others in the nether regions of our national game, life-saving. Giving them a monetary respite which is essential to their survival.

In 1971 Arsenal played Yeovil Town in the Cup. Same kind of deal. Big team vs minnow. Such was my fervour that I joined the ‘Green & White Supporters Club’ of Yeovil. Just to get the little badge for my school blazer and annoy my mate Martin, the rabid Gooner of 5F.

But if it all goes funny, if things just go haywire and the world tilts on its axis for just 90 minutes on that match-day, then possibly…

Happy Dreams

A xxxx

Donald Trump has banned all Syrians, Iranians, Somalians, etc, etc, from entering his country. We only want to ban one person. Him.

The petitions have started, the protests and marches will be appearing at a Trafalgar Square near you any time soon, to stop the President of the Unaaarted Stayytes of Aaaameyrica coming to these shore to visit with our Queen. And just because he’s an isolationist, muslim-hating, mexican-bothering, anti-abortionist, misogynist, racist, sexist pig.

Virtually as soon as the words had left Theresa May’s lips on Friday, extending the state visit opportunity to Don J and Squinty Melania, an online petition had begun. It already has well over the 100,000 ‘signatures’ required to start a debate in parliament about it. I would imagine a lot of these signatories would be muslims, women or… people.

Before the royal visit, which may or may not happen, the Trump camp have already started making demands. For his diva-ship. He doesn’t want to meet Charles. Well neither did Diana but it didn’t help her much either. The Royals are a package. Ya don’t get to cherry-pick. But why Charles? Because Charlie is a renowned tree hugger, global warmist and flat-earther. And Trump is worried that Charlie will ‘lecture’ him. At which point Don will ‘lose it’, according to his people. Yes, the great statesmanship and diplomacy that is almost the benchmark with the Presidency, ended 10 days ago. This one, rather than make his point, rebuff an argument, state his case, just doesn’t want to get started on it because he’ll ‘lose it’. Just like any spoilt, petulant brat of a child.

Its a great time to be in the placards, posters and marker pen business.

Meanwhile yesterday in Melbourne, 2 veritable kings engaged in 5 sets of jousting in the Australian Open final. It was like 2010 all over again. As, from the ashes, both Rafa Nadal and Roger Federer (now 83 years old… or so you’d think to listen to the pundits) battled royal for the championship. Amazing game; missed it all, and Fed won. The greatest tennis player ever. And though I love Rafa too, Federer has that wonderful elegance, grace and perfection of every shot which only a few of US can ever really produce.

Over here we had giant-killing weekend in the FA Cup. Liverpool were the biggest of the Titans to fall, almost followed by Spurs, but (thank Gawd) not quite. Lincoln beat Brighton, Watford and Hull lost to lower league opposition and Sutton, mighty(???) Sutton, part-timers from the Tandoori Nights of Esher League, division 2, beat Leeds. Ahhhh, the magic of the Cup.

Great, done that, now let’s get back to agonising over the Champions League.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

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