Andy's Glasses

Someone published the bookies odds about the Trump presidency. You get very short odds on Trump not making it through the first term. I wonder what odds you get for him not making it TO the first term. If he can survive the next few days of scandals and accusations, surely someone can assassinate him, can’t they? Not like there’s any shortage of guns and gunmen out there. I’d bloody do it myself as a public service, if Easyjet flew to New York.

Yesterday was more scandal. Russia hacked the Clinton campaign, which we knew but for some reason saw no reason to act upon. And more importantly, Trump was involved in an ‘incident’ at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Moscow (soon to be re-named the ‘Titz-Carlton’) in the Presidential Suite. I won’t go into the lurid details of the accusations… oh, why not, they’re so funny be rude not to.

Trump ALLEGEDLY stood by whilst a group of hookers peed on each other. Having previously described Trump’s hair as ‘a golden shower’, this is almost too ironic to even consider. For some reason, what the press was most concerned about was that said allegations took place on ‘the actual bed that President and Mrs Obama had previously slept in!!!!!!’ As if that makes the perversely voyeuristic activity much worse than merely watching a few Russian anorexics pissing all over each other. Its almost like they’re actually wee-ing on PRESIDENT AND MRS OBAMA!!!!. And they would have done, if the Obamas hadn’t left that suite 17 months before. I don’t think they even had a late check-out facility.

Trump denied all this shit. As he would. And as he should. If it had been Tibetan monks pissing themselves that would be different. But Russian hookers? Nyah.

I’m bizarrely excited about the Trump presidency. Mainly because I live in London, which is in nuking distance from Washington, but not close enough to actually be part of the lunacy that is going to ensue in 10 days time. Mostly though, much as I really can’t even bear to look at the man, let alone listen to his garbage, it will be interesting for us all to see a man in the White House who knows nothing whatsoever about government or politics. A man with ‘no filters’ on what he says or does. And a man who ain’t really all that bright. Will the macho bravado in-yer-face posturing give way to something more diplomatic? Something more subtle? Ok, that’s doubtful.

But personally, I can’t wait.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

An ex-public schoolboy (only in England is this phrase wrapped in stereotype) was trying to blackmail girls to either: (option A) pay £100 into his bank, or (B) have sex with him. Otherwise… (dramatic music), he would put photos of them on Facebook!!! I’m guessing these are compromising photos, rather than said gel with grandma on the beach at Eastbourne in December, “gosh its windy here!!!” Or photos of the now ubiquitous Facebook puppies.

All that’s fine. Guy’s gotta make a living, wants to have sex with girls. All perfectly normal. Blackmail? Well, if you’re skint and all else fails?

What is tragic about this tale is the extent to which it is a crime of our times. In which everything, but EVERYTHING is done on a phone/computer. The real world only exists as a temporary pause between snapchats, facebook and a bunch of streaming sites. And thus the ‘ex-public schoolboy’ (and I’m gonna guess it wasn’t a very good public school, more one that caters to the somewhat more… errr… more dense among the upper-middle classes) perpetrated his crimes over social media. And requested that the hundred quid ‘should go into his bank account by 4.30!!! Or ELSE!!!!)

But its all ‘there’. Everything. Every word, every threat, the money, its all online, all not just traceable but available for anyone who looks at the plonker’s phone. At least with ‘used notes, non-sequential, in a brown paper bag, buried in the third rubbish bin at Euston station’ it had an anonymity about it, cloak and dagger, ‘read this note then eat it’, kind of third partiness that was there to protect innocent criminals. Allowed them the possibility of denial. This is like a mugger on the street offering you ‘contactless payment’ facility and whipping out a card terminal. “NO! Punch me, kick me, but not contactless payments!!!!!” And of course the mugger’s mate is video-ing the whole thing, just in case the police need proper evidence later. You have to video everything or its not really happening. Einstein said that.

Obama’s gone. F’rever. Didn’t hear the speech, everything the man’s done in the last 7.8 years has been a total disappointment to me, wasn’t prepared to stay up til 2am for more of the same. He was the wunderkind when elected, and it went downhill from there. I was immensely proud when Americans voted in a black President. Well, when Democrats voted in a black President. And yet the apparent racism in the police has sky-rocketted, gun crime is still at the most ridiculous level (last week, Fort Lauderdale, eg) and then, the coup de gras, he royally stuffed Israel at the already-testicle-free, anti-semitic UN. Michelle should divorce him and stand next time. Funny how her star brightened as his faded and spluttered.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I am a weekend warrior!! Its official. I’d always thought I was an old git who liked standing on a tennis court with his mates talking about football before heading off for coffee and cakes. But no, I am WEEKEND WARRIOR!!!! a new class of beast that comes complete with its own exclamation marks. Said so in the Times, but if I’m honest I added the ‘!!!!’ myself. Just for dramatic effect.

Scientists followed 64,000 British adults over 10 years. I think we all have to agree that’s a fairly valid sample size and test period. I don’t think they meant, like, ‘stalked’ them. Just probably got them to fill in forms every week or something. Asking about activities of an excercisey nature. Upon which everyone famously lies a lot. “I sat in the pub all week drinking Stout and eating pork scratchings, other than when I was watching telly, eating pork scratchings, so I’ll just put a cross by ‘3 sessions of moderate cardio activity’, that’ll please ’em”. Its the universal way of survey-taking; lie.

What they found was that although ‘regular exercise’ is ‘the dream’, its one most workers can’t attain. So what we do is play tennis/cricket/golf (I’ll include that as ‘exercise’ but not ‘sport’, obviously) on a Saturday or Sunday or both, so we can justify the ridiculous amount of food and drink we shall consume over that same period. Well that’s what I do. And they found that these WWs were a massive, humungous, life-affirming 30%!!!!! less likely to die during the study period. That’s a big ‘wow!’ Just a couple of sessions a week, a few brisk walks, and you’ll live 30% longer, or have a 70% chance of not dying today.

But during the course of the study, 9,000 of the sample died, out of the 64,000 that began. That’s a loss of about 14%. All the fat, lazy Netflix addicts. Presumably. Or so you’d think.

What I want to know is; if you took 64,000 adults over 10 years and didn’t get them to fill in any forms upon which they had to lie through their teeth and make up exercise they never intended to partake in, would you still lose 14%? Is it the study itself that is actually killing perfectly healthy, ok a bit tubby, but normal people?? I demand a re-count.

Donald Trump is unhealthy. In so many ways. He’s fat, actually clinically obese, hair-dye chemicals are notoriously carcinogenic, and his brain doesn’t work in a normal way. Well, not in a normal ‘adult’ way. He is a moron, in fact. I’ve performed my own study and that is the unquestionable conclusion. He’s almost the President of the most powerful nation on Earth, yet responds to any slight or slur by instantly ‘tweeting’ the first thing that comes into that dull mind of his. Playground shit. ‘NO; MY DAD COULD BEAT UP YOUR DAD!!!’ kind of crap.

Meryl Streep called him out for abusing a disabled reporter, itself not the most adult-like behaviour, so he tweeted that ‘she’s no good anyway’ and ‘just a big loser’. And next week he’s going to be the President.

Hail to the Chief.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There’s a new movie out either now or this week, not sure, been away, lost track. Its called La La Land and its a musical rom-com. Which is a brave movie to make, at massive cost, as the musical genre is kind’a done and over for decades. And most attempts to try and revive it have failed. With a few notable exceptions. In fact I can think of one. Cabaret. Brilliant, brilliant movie. Spectacular even. But not a rom-com. Too many nazis and jack-boots for that. And the lead man turns out to be gay, which didn’t do much for Liza Minelli’s romantic aspirations. Phah! Don’t’cha hate it when that happens?

There was Mama Mia, the film of the play of the song of the… and that was pure shite. Though, apparently, women loved it. Go figure. Does a surplus of emotional potential eliminate good taste? Not prepared to say. And even Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge was shite. Awful. And Les Mis was ok, but only because its such a fuck-off brilliant stage show and even when you cast Wolverine in it, its still pretty damned good.

So the question is: is La La Land a ‘film for women’ or are boys allowed to go too, without sneaking in the side door under cover of darkness to hide their shame?

I like rom-coms. I watch ’em, I read ’em. Unashamedly. Ok, a little shame if they’re really crappy and I’m sitting on the tube (when they fucking run!!!!) sobbing all over my kindle because the heroine who we met on page 1 (slim, athletic, fiesty, just broke-up from love of her life…) when she crashes her car into the hero (ex-military, tousled, biceps like thighs, GSOH…) and they have a big row, finally, 763 pages later, gets to shag him and love is declared.

When Harry met Sally. Sleepless in Seattle. Even Four Weddings. Great rom-com movies. Haven’t seen many in a while because they’ve all starred Jennifer Aniston. Though I’ve seen a few with J-Lo. But only because I’m madly in love with J-Lo.

So La La Land? Will I go with Mel and 250 women strangers armed with their boxes of Kleenex to watch it? Or pretend I’m going to see Death Battle of the Samurai Car Jackers with all the boys in screen 5, then sneak in when the first gunshot scares me?

For Emma Stone, I can handle the shame.

Happy tubeless Monday

A xxxx

I’m going back to work tomorrow. If I can get in. The tube strikers have conspired to increase my holiday by calling a 24 hour strike from tonight til tomorrow night. They’re striking for… errr… well, they’re striking for ‘safety of the travellers’. Probably. That’s the normal reason. And you can’t complain about that, can you. Can you?? Yeah, actually you can.

If the workers don’t get more money then the travellers are in danger. No doubt about it. Its very dangerous getting on a train staffed by workers who feel they’re undervalued. Even though they already earn 6 times the national average and get 13 weeks a year holiday, 14 weeks sickness pay and loads of overtime cos they only schedule a 4 hour week. (Figures may vary… from reality).

If they want to introduce new technology which will arguably make travel safer, the Unions complain that it would actually endanger travellers. If any job is at risk, its us who are in danger.

Jesus, if I’d have known how fucking hazardous it was down there I’d have declined my free, over-60, all-you-can-eat travel-card.

But I didn’t. I took it and said ‘thank you very much’ to each and every tax-payer in the land for their amazing generosity and consideration for the aged and infirm (gotta bad shoulder, ain’t I? Even though I used it to play tennis yesterday and today).

So really I don’t know why they’re striking. And I don’t fucking care. I hate strikes, but tube strikes? Good to be home.

And it is good really because Spurs played today in the glorious FA Cup. The oldest cup competition in the world. When it started New Zealand was still attached to Africa. Wooly Mammoths roamed around Times Square. The Romans ruled Hampstead Village. Long time ago.

So The Cup (there are others but they mean nothing any longer) is still a credible thing to want to win. But…

even with all that history, its also falling victim to the Champions League mania and thus is marginalised in our sporting calendar as a mere side-show, almost a distraction from the league. So even though Spurs beat Aston Villa (hoorayyyyy!!!!) and Liverpool were almost giant-killed by Plymouth Argyle, and there were thrills and surprises, I can only get so excited about any of it. Bournemouth lost to lowly, scummy Millwall yesterday after playing a second string team. Eddie Howe, their manager, claimed that ‘sometimes you get it wrong, you misjudge and pay the price’. But really, Eddie is probably the most intelligent and considered manager in the Premier League and he got it just right. Get out of the cup, survive another season in the top flight, don’t waste energy and fitness on a cup they really could never win.

Ok, gotta go, leaving in 10 minutes to walk to work.

Happy Sunday night

A xxxx

Arrived home yesterday morning at about 9. Managed to stay awake all day, then crashed about 10. Bed. Turned on my Kindle, nah, not tonight, turned off my Kindle and disappeared from the world of the conscious. Woke up at 2, Mel was already awake, slept til 4. Mel still awake, but really, that wasn’t my problem, selfless, caring, loving husband that I undoubtedly am, I did what any man would do. I pissed like an elephant and went back to sleep. Woke at 6.30. Felt good. A very unusual feeling for me at that time. Jet lag is not all negative.

India is 5.5 hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time. Five and a half. What’s that all about? Nowhere has ‘half’ hours. But India does. Because its big and would span two time zones. With the West side being 5 hours ahead and the East being 6. But they couldn’t handle that. Because somewhere in the deepest Gudjerat, just past the donkey as you cross the road for the chai-wallah, you’d gain/lose an hour. And you probably don’t even own a watch, nor a tv, so wouldn’t have a fucking clue what the time was. Other than ‘tea-time’. But its always tea-time in India, its worse than England. So to simplify, all of India is 5.5 hours ahead. Simple.

So at 6.30 today my body was ready for lunch. Though its always ready for lunch at any time, day or night. But instead, I went to Tai Chi. And on the way, via my radio, I learned that Paul Whassisname, the Scouse moron wot now leads UKIP, thinks its a disgrace that Nigel Farage, ex-leader of UKIP (and probably future leader too once everyone else realises what a waste of space new-guy is) should have been knighted in the new year’s honours list. Which I think is a good idea. To put Farage in the ranks of Jimmy Savile, Rolph Harris, Phillip Greene and a host of other diabolical dignitaries. Its almost a rank-of-shame. Which is why they gave one to Andy Murray.

Knighthoods simply perpetuate the ridiculous class system that probably does more to harm the progress in our otherwise fine land than all other acts of stupidity. They’re an anachronism. The only exception really should be judges. I don’t know why, its just what I think. To bestow a useless title on a has-been bongo-player from a boy-band which shone for all of 6 months, in 2003. Or a former footballer who then gets convicted of rape and ends up in jail for tax evasion. I don’t mind Bobby Charlton being knighted either because I love him. But really, unless they want to give me one, for services to… errr… to something, let them go. No value.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Ya, Houston, we have a problem.

Mel & I hardly ever argue. There’s no point. She’s stubborn as anything and I’m just the most annoying person you’d ever want to argue with. So for me its sport and then we laugh, or she punches me in frustration and gets her own way. Ha, ha, haaaa…

Except water. We argue about water. A lot.

Only in hot climates, obviously. No-one dies of dehydration in Basildon in February. But Melbourne in December? Israel in June? Or, Mumbai in January. These are hot places. Searingly so. And when we visit such places we have ‘the water conversation’ quite regularly. It goes like this:

Mel: ‘oh, there’s a shop, let’s buy some water’
Me: ‘Ok’, let’s buy a bottle
Mel: ‘better get 2- no, get 3, just in case’
Me: ‘in case of what? exactly? We’re walking 362 yards til we pass the next shop selling water, and in 22 minutes we’ll be back at the flat/hotel/restaurant where I’m sure they might have some’.
Mel: ‘well, you never know, and we can use the rest later’.
Me: ‘So we need to carry round litres of water so we can drink it later when its really warm and horrible, in case we don’t see another vendor. And we’re in a shopping mall’.

And so it goes on. I am Aquarius. The fucking water-carrier. When I should be Gemini, even though she is a real twin. Go figure. Show’s how valid astrology is.

Then I often just kind’a ‘find’ bottles of water. Every time we unpack, there they are, we brought them from Goa to Mumbai, just in case the Taj Mahal Palace doesn’t have any. And today, unpacking sadly at home, there they were; her ‘guilty little secrets’, bottles just sort of ‘appearing’ in the dirty underwear, lying unopened in the shirts. I have them lined up in the kitchen in ‘j’accuse!!!!’ fashion.

And when asked what was the ‘hi-light’ of our India trip, what was the bestest of all best bits, I shall have to say; checking into the flight at Mumbai’s brand new airport. ‘WHAT!?!??!?’ they’ll shout, but surely; the Taj Mahal, the manic streets of Delhi, the Red Fortress, the lakes of Udaipur, surely??

No, check in at Mumbai. This pic is Mel ‘in the queue’. Oh, there isn’t one. No. ‘Just sit there and relax and let me have your passports, please’, said the nice little BA chap. We sat, our luggage just there on a trolley. He came back, handed us our passports, boarding passes, some luggage labels and said; ‘don’t worry, just leave it to us, you go through’.

But! I need to queue? I need to get really frustrated. I need to strain my back putting the cases on the conveyor belt, I need… I need…

I need every flight ever to be like that.

Not so sure I need to be home but there ya go.

Happy Friday, happy home-coming

A xxxx

no time today; too fucking busy for this.

and no gloating

A xxxx

So we’re done with Goa. We are sooooo over Goa. Literally though cos we’re just flying out on the way to Mumbai. Only for a couple days, that’s all we have then home.

And I love India. Be lovely when its finished.

Which is the impression you get here. Of a massive work in progress. One day all the roads will be hole-less, all the buildings finished, or demolished, all the walls painted (to facilitate pissing) and everything ‘nice’. Throw in a few rules of the road and you could almost have a civilised nation. But then it wouldn’t be India. It wouldn’t be the place where quite literally, anything goes. Except eating cows in public, obviously. Anything else goes.

Fast forward several manic hours and we’re in Mumbai. The (Indian) City of my dreams. Its fantastic here. Perhaps its a comfort thing and I’m not the adventuring hero that I pretend to be. Because Mumbai is just a wonderful, beautiful, glorious city. Its barely like India at all. Except for the Indians. And the food. Its coastal, thus it has water, and its just wonderful. Big, but wonderful.

Okay there’s lots of shanty towns and manic motorists, but there’s a superb vibe about the place that makes you wish you could stay here longer than our allotted couple of days. But I can’t complain. Though, as a Spurs fan, I might. Its what we do.

We’re staying at the amazing Taj Mahal Mumbai (where the fuck else would it be?) and, like all hotels in India, they’re big on security. Cars get searched, bonnet up, boot open, mirrors looking underneath, then you go through security scanners like at airports, before they let you in to pay half the average Indian’s yearly income on one night in the most obscene luxury you could imagine. Its so decadent I’ve buried my champagne socialism for the duration, in fact I’ve drowned the ‘socialism’ bit entirely in the champagne half, so as not to be too hypocritical. Je suis un fascist bastard. And right now, I’m lovin’ it. The ‘floor butler’ (available 24 hours a day) just brought up some stuff that might make us more comfortable.

Can you hate yourself and love what you’re doing at the same time? I’ve tried ‘social conscience’ but sometimes you just have to give in to your inner imperialist and say ‘fuck it; its only for 2 days’.

Now all we need to make this day/week/holiday/year/LIFETIME complete is to beat Chelsea tonight.

Come on you Spurs,

Happy penultimate day in India

A xxxx

“Authorities are now worried about a new wave of terrorist attacks from ISIS.”

Holy shit! Literally. Depending on your definition of ‘holy’, that is.

I want to know how we’ll be able to discern this new wave from the old wave(s). At what point does Paris, Nice, Berlin become Istanbul? Are they different? Are some ‘ISIS’ and some a different form of sociopathic homicidal maniac(s)?? Do ISIS murderers of innocents differ in any objective way from ‘lone wolf’ killers or Al Queda motherfuckers??

Not to me it doesn’t. But it probably does to them. Different philosophies, different adherences to alternative micro-adulterations of various Koranic verses, In their world its all different. To us ‘poor uninitiated’ they are just so many different justifications for slaughtering innocent people. To them its a bit more ‘life of Brian’, in that ‘no, we’re not the people’s Christian Front, we hate them, we’re the front for Christian Peoples…’ kind’a way.

So I don’t differentiate. To do so gives them a credibility. Gives them a tacit validity that what they have to ‘say’ is in any way relevant to anything. To acknowledge an ideology, even to condemn it, is to give it the recognition it really doesn’t warrant. No-one asked Fred West or Ted Bundy ‘why’ they killed all those people. We just knew they were fucked up and evil. Thus with ‘jihadis’. ‘Holy’ war my penis.

On a more important note, Premiership referee is taking yet more stick. And its most unfair. There he is, stood standing in the middle of 22 (or in his case, generally, 21 or 20) overpaid superstupid, grossly overpaid, arrogant, obnoxious footballers, earning an honest crust and he is constantly pilloried for making mistakes. This is the list of grievances this season, broken down by type and boiled down into reality.

Manager: we should have had a penalty. Opponent manager: was never a penalty.

Manager: he should have sent of (opposing player). Opponent manager: he made the right decision.

Manager: my player should never have been sent off. Opponent manager: terrible, career-threatening tackle, ref had no choice.

Spurs do well by Mike Dean’s decisions. That doesn’t make him incompetent, biased or questionable. That makes him a God. Arsenal hate Mike Dean; had over 100,000 signatories in a petition to prevent him at Arsenal matches. That makes him a double God. LEAVE MIKE ALONE; WE LOVE HIM. AND NEED HIM.

Dinner last night at the ‘Banyan Tree’ restaurant. Wonder why they called it that? Amazing meal. Off to Mumbai tomorrow. Getting cold here. Only 93 degrees today.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx