Andy's Glasses

In the bad ole days of football, the early 1970s, extreme right wing organisations would recruit from football fans. It was easy. No mention of politics, ideology or social justice was required. Just the fact that if you joined the National Front (which no longer exists, being replaced by the also defunct British National Party with the remainder going on to UKIP), you would get the opportunity to fight. Lots of people and very often. Where do I sign? Will a ‘X’ do? And thus the skinhead movement, which had started as a kind of extension of the Mods for those who preferred reggae to R&B, became hi-jacked by the Nationalists and later the two became blurred. I’m not sure if you can still be a skinhead without nazi affiliation, I need to read the rules.

The point is that sociopathic nutters are not born political, they’re just born plain nasty. Or possibly raised in an environment that accentuates their nastiness. And are easily exploited by evil political, or quasi-religious organisations who offer them what they really want, which is the opportunity to act in a sociopathic way.

Mohamed Bouhlel, the Bastille Day murderer, was just such a soul. Mentally unstable, violent and sadistic and pretty much a worthless individual with no value system. He became ‘radicalised’ 2 weeks before his suicide mission. 2 weeks. Not really sufficient time to embrace the entire mis-reading of the Quran from a jihadi viewpoint, just long enough to be given a fantastic excuse to perpetrate an horrendous act of mindless violence.

He hadn’t even lived as a Muslim. He was bisexual, actively so, drank, took drugs, beat his wife and, (this is always mentioned so I feel I have to), ‘ate pork’. As if acting outside religious dietary laws is a strong indicator of militant tendency.

So in 2 weeks he grows a beard, just to show which side he’s now on, and learns how to increase his own violent leanings in an exponential way.

ISIS claimed responsibility but they would. They’d claim a fender bender in Wyoming if someone got hurt. There is no evidence that Bouhlel was approached or in contact with ISIS. He didn’t need to be. All he needed was some radical tosser telling him that his worthless life can not only have value but, that if he dies a martyr all his previous sins and misdemeanours will be forgiven.
As if any ‘god’ of any religion, any colour, any stripe, would condone such a thing. And Mo had some ‘form’. Lots of it, crimes, drug offences, many blots on his record and was in need of some forgiveness.

Mohamed Bouhlel was a disaster waiting to happen. He could just as easily have become a killer for the Front Nacionale or the IRA. The cause was irrelevant. He was simply a violent act waiting to happen. He just needed the right ‘push’.

And he was pushed. And it did happen.

That’s even more worrying.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There’s only ever been one atomic bomb fired ‘in anger’. It hit Hiroshima in 1945 and a couple months later the war ended. You may have heard of this event. It was big. Sorry, it was BIGGGG!!!!!! And horrendous. Awful. Three generations later, they still haven’t got over it completely. Nuclear matter doesn’t ‘die’, it lives for thousands/millions of years. As we now understand a little better than we did when Oppenheimer’s ‘deadly toy’ laid waste to thousands and thousands.

In a way Hiroshima was a good thing. Obviously not necessarily for the former inhabitants, but as ‘the precedent’. The warning. To provide the ultimate threat. A threat to put fear into the hearts of even National leaders. And the entire ‘cold war’ and the ultimate military structure of the world today is based upon that threat. If you fire at me it will destroy me, but before it does I’ll have launched one at you. Won’t make me any more ‘alive’ but it’ll make us all feel a lot better. Ish. Don’t get mad; get even.

So are nations that don’t possess ‘the nuclear deterrent’ at greater risk than those who do? I have no idea. Never want to have any idea. Happy in my ignorance.

And our nuclear weapon of choice, and necessity, is a trident missile. Launched from a submarine. And our subs are 25 years old, bit rusty, probably leak a bit, barnacles, who knows what 25 years underwater could do to a lump of metal. So we need to replace them. Replace the Trident System completely. Or not. So they’re voting today.

To replace it costs (approx) £35billion. Haven’t looked on ebay to see if I can get it cheaper yet but it does sound a lot. To replace something we’ve never used and will probably never need. But…

You kind’a have to have a deterrent. Otherwise those who are nuked up can nuke us without fear of reprisal. And reprisal is all. Or the threat of it. We can have movable sites to fire from, but they’re not very good, or we can have hidden silos. But for the latter, apparently, you’d need ‘an area the size of Wales’ to get an equivalent protection to the subs. Well, if it saves a few bob, let’s use Wales then. Now the football’s over its not like it serves any other purpose.

Decision today in Parliament. To nuke or not to nuke. That’s the real question. Do we want to maintain our presence as a nuclear force, or wimp out into Corbynland and remain unprotected to the Putins and other nutters, of whom there are sadly many.

Happy Monday; LET’S HOPE ITS NOT OUR LAST!!!!

A xxxx

Have you played the amazing Pokemon Go yet? NOOOO???? Where are you? 1975?? For fuck’s sake stay with the plot. Pokemon Go is the biggest thing since the wheel. Since the bicycle. Since internal combustion engines. Since the death of internal combustion engines. Since Wales in the Euros. Ok, its big, you get the idea. And its only been out for about 10 minutes. Massive. Everyone’s playing it. Although no-one I know has actually paid for it. Not the point. Its the newest of new video games.

Just what the world needs; you think, in your tragic ignorance. Another reason for Little Lard-ass Junior to sit staring at another fucking screen for 6 hours eating Doritos and M&Ms, chugging back all the high-sugar fizzy drink colourants he/she can wrap his/her gob around and generally zoning out, oblivious to the world.

Well that’s where you’re wrong. Those genii in Pokemon-land have made a game that makes you walk. You’d think kids would hate that. Any kind of forced movement is generally viewed as punishment by the young. But in this they have to get up, move around, leave the house and go a-wandering to find those pesky Poke-men. Because the Pokemons just pop up on your screen, but like, in the real world. So you see one against your fridge. Where you bounce a ball to kill it/ dispatch it/ whatever the fuck you’re supposed to do to it/with it. And then you go find another. Might be by the front door, in the driveway, down the road, in the park anywhere. You roam, you search, you find them. Brilliant.

So the good thing is that your children are no longer sitting down glued to a fucking screen all day. No. Now they move around glued to a fucking screen all day instead. And they search for these pokemons. In fields and parks and shopping centres, in the homes of local paedophiles, child molesters and cannibals, they search off the edge of cliffs, down ravines, across motorways whilst the lorries and trucks are pounding by. Its brilliant. And obviously addictive.

Thus the bad thing is that Pokemon Go now sends another zillion phone zombies out onto the streets already filled with countless other morons who already stare at phones all day.

Someone has fallen off a cliff. A guy in New Zealand has given up his job to become a professional Pokemon finder. Although ‘professional’ normally implies some kind of payment, but obviously not in this case. I found 7,000 Pokemon. And starved to death. He claims to have ‘seen’ loads of new towns in his hunting. In fact, he has walked through those towns staring at his phone, so not sure how much he’s actually ‘seen’. Some churches are telling people to attend because the place is filled with ‘virtual’ Pokemons. Obviously Christian Pokemons. Other places are telling Pokemon hunters to stay away and fuck off. They’re in the way.

I’m going to treat Pokemon Go-ers just like I do everyone else walking down crowded pavements oblivious to the world and staring at their phones. Shouting at them, elbowing them and trying to hurt them in as many ways as I can.

Happy hunting

A xxxx

I worry for the world. All of it. Ok, my bit of it. Its fucked. Totally. By people intent on death and destruction of ‘the western way of life’. And I hate them. Simply hate them. Not enough that I would take my own life to destroy them, or to meaninglessly destroy some symbol of them, but an attack on people enjoying life is an attack on me.

ISIS claimed responsibility for France. They would. To them it represents some form of ‘glory’. So even if it had nothing to do with them, they’d be happy for it.

What we need to do is find out who is funding ISIS. You can’t run a sustained war on about 6 different fronts with pocket money. With ‘looted funds’. You need proper money. MONEY! And it comes from somewhere. Whether, as rumours have it, that is from Saudi Arabia, always keen on Sunni domination in any form, or from Qatar, we need to know. And then that is upon whom we declare war. Either diplomatic war or the real thing. Until the funding of ISIS stops. Oil or no oil.

Sadly that won’t stop every unbalanced jihadi-scumbag from doing things like that which occurred in Nice on Thursday night. That, tragically, is the end product of a vile ideology. But its a start. As they say in all the best fiction: follow the money.

Turkey is more interesting. A nation desperate to join the EU, to embrace the Western end of its middle-eastern geography, with the freedoms and democracy that go with such a move. Yet the pull of the East is strong in that one, my Lord, and the President tries to inch ever more closely to an Islamic state under sharia law and autocracy. Like its neighbours before the ‘Arab spring’ which rapidly became Arab autumn and is now for the main part, lingering in an Arab arctic winter.

Turkey, even in the guise of a ‘democracy’ (which over there simply means: ‘between coups’), has imprisoned more journalists than any other country. And now they’ve imprisoned all the judges, as well as half the army. Lot of work to be done there, I feel.

Sad and depressing Saturday

A xxxx

We need to talk about health. Mine. Because its important. And having just survived a possibly near-fatal dose of man-cold, I feel qualified to relate useful information, dispel some popular myths and tell you of my heroic struggle against this horrendous disease. The ISIS of the nasal passages.

Monday night I have a sore throat. Not pleasant, not the end of the world. By Tuesday night it was the end of the world (as we know it) and was accompanied by bunged up snottiness of the highest order. The entire house was knee-deep in discarded tissues.

In the paper that morning, as I post-nasally dripped my way through my morning rituals, was a warning that if doctors see people with sore throats, take it very seriously as IT MAY BE SEPSIS!!! Holy shit, I’ve got sepsis, and I have no idea what it even is. I just thought I had ebola or something trivial like that (well, I’m a man, its what we do; we extrapolate). Ah, no, with sepsis, I learn, you can’t pee. And in our nightly wee-wee competition (Mel & I are always very competitive), I was 7-nil up by 2am. Phew, not sepsis. Not sleep either. Too much running nose to sleep. Even though I was exhausted.

We have drugs. For, quite literally, every ailment known anywhere in the world. Mel collects them. So going to the ‘man-cold cupboard’ she found some worthy things. Decongestants, dryer-upperers, anti-virals, and I duly took them all. Everything I could find. Overdosing is for wimps. I need to work, I need loads of meds.

I mean, I was ILL. Really ILL. So ill I cancelled bridge on Tuesday. I mean, bridge? Failing a fitness test for a game typified by Care Home dwellers, and I just couldn’t find the energy.

Yesterday was awful. I’d taken my meds, all fucking day and all fucking night, but nothing happened. After my second sleepless, nose-runny, coughing night, I felt like shit. And then had a really busy day at work. So I cancelled Tai Chi last night. Which made me officially a ‘tossa!’ which is in fact way better than I felt.

Desperate measures were needed. All the products of modern-day pharmacology couldn’t help me one little bit. Ok, I thought, let’s do what the ancient Scots would do. And I poured myself a rather large ‘dose’ of a very nice, slightly smoky, single malt whisky.

I slept like a baby. Alright wetting the bed’s not really acceptable at my age, I realise that, but otherwise I slept like a baby. No snot, no bunged-uppiness, no coughing. And this morning, though not 100%, I don’t feel that horrible weariness and muzzy-headiness any longer.

So next time you’re ill, don’t go to the doctors, nor the fucking hospitals, they’re all a waste of time. Go to the pub. You’ll get better. Trust me.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Summer’s here. Well, its sunny this morning, that’ll have to do. All the sport’s finished now. Ok, we have the Olympics coming soon, to a Zika virus near you, (can it be transmitted through the tv??) but they’ve basically removed all sport and replaced it with golf. Great.

Usually politics winds down too at this time as Parliament goes into summer recess.

But not this year. This year its all happening.

We have a new Prime Minister and he is a she. Who has now started appointing her inner circle with some rather interesting surprises. George Osborne, dull-as-dishwater Chancellor for as long as anyone can remember is out. Replaced by the only man in the history of politics to be even duller; Philip Hammond. There again, as Osborne proved, you don’t have to be interesting to do a pretty decent job on the economy. Amber Rudd is Home Secretary, Liam Fox is Trade and Industry and Boris is the new Foreign Secretary. His ‘time in the political wilderness’ following his sudden departure from glory and the leadership campaign, lasted about 4 days. Such is life ‘a la Johnson’. Boris once again proves that 24 hours is indeed a long time in politics. And much as I have many issues with the tragically self-serving blond buffoon, I think this is a good fit. The Americans love Boris, the Europeans hate him. He’s a good ambassador. I hope.

Yet over in Camp Labour all is not so sunny. Its still winter. Siberian winter really as our self-destructive opposition party declares war on itself. But not, one feels, in the usual, metaphorical sense. This is war. Angela Eagle challenges Corbyn, someone puts a brick through the window of her constituency office. All those MPs who withdrew their support from their esteemed Chairman Leader are now receiving threats of a very nasty nature. Particularly the women among them. Because what Corbyn has stood for his entire political career is an anti-establishment paradigm. He’s a ‘protester’. Against everyone. Used to belong to ‘Militant Tendency’, who have kind of re-risen under the guise of ‘Momentum’ and are a nasty bunch of anarchists. Thus leading Jeremy and co. (errrrr, that’ll be McDonell then, its about all the ‘co.’ he has now) to take their party ever-Leftwards, away from socialism towards pretty much fear-induced Stalinism.

You have to think that if Corbyn wins the leadership battle, the rest of Labour will separate and re-form as something more electable. And if he loses, then the hard left will probably detach itself from the mainstream party and become the lunatic left fringe to which they really aspire.

All happenin’

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I’d never heard of the Spratly Islands until I saw a BBC news report in which they sent a little plane over the area to film recent developments on these gorgeous little, uninhabited islands in the South China Sea. Suddenly a voice boomed out of the plane’s radio, heavily accented but if there was any ambiguity in the words, there was none whatsoever in the tone. “YOU ARE ENTERING CHINESE WATERS AND ARE CONSIDERED A SECURITY RISK TO THE CHINESE NATION”. Basically: ‘NOW FUCK OFF!!!!!” “OR DIE, western muthafuckers!!!”

The reporters were there because China has been building on these islands. Some oil exploratory stuff on a few, military installations and runways on others. Ever looking to expand its income stream and widen its effective borders. And it was actually an ecological report, at that time, because the buildings had killed the coral which had originally formed the islands and had been still very active. But coral is always sensitive in a way that 14,000 tonnes of concrete for a runway simply isn’t.

The islands are actually off the northern coast of Brunei. And just to the west of the Philippines, who make historical claim upon them. As do the Bruneis. As do the Vietnamese over to the west and Malaysia because… because it wants to. China is in fact the furthest of all these from the islands but because of the nine red dashes on some map dug up a century ago, the Islands and all the sea (with lots of fish, unsurprisingly) belongs to China.

So yesterday, the UN Court of Arbitration, independent even in the somewhat slanty eyes of the Chinese, declared that the Islands do NOT belong to China. But to the Philippines. Who have a security pact with the Americans. Who are all shooting each other at the moment so might be deemed ‘busy’.

China had already stated that it would not listen to, take heed of, adhere to or do anything but ignore any court ruling anyway. Why not? They’re China. Do what they fucking want.

But as statements of intent go, China made a big one yesterday. As well as verbally attacking everyone very aggressively through ‘diplomatic’ channels, they also made a more emphatic statement. They fired weapons. Shitloads of weapons. Not little ones, so popular in America, but big ones. Canons on ships, missiles, rockets, fucking great everythings ripping across the lovely, peaceful South China Sea. It was the most unpopular nation on Earth (other than South Korea, obviously) basically saying: YOU WANT SOME’A DISS????

I’ve got a man-cold, its awful, don’t need to worry about China too. Make them go away.

Happy sneezy Wednesday

A xxxx

The ‘big’ question in Today’s Times relates not to our newly promoted Prime Minister, nor to the Labour party leadership battle which enters litigation mode today, nor even about the official sighting of Andy Murray, post-Wimbledon, actually, publicly, smiling (statistically a rarer event in the natural world than a giant Panda giving birth to identical triplets). No. Today’s ‘big question’ is: ‘should you wear ripped jeans at any age?’

And this is very relevant. Because I do wear ripped jeans. At any (fucking) age. I do so not out of any desire to be fashionable, nor because 60 is now the ‘new 33’ as far as torn jeans are concerned. I don’t need any fashionista’s permission to wear them. I don’t seek counsel before dressing. Unless thongs are involved. I wear torn jeans because I’m too mean to replace them just because the knees are starting to shred. Which, for Levis, is approximately 12-14 years after you buy them.

The implication is that if you’re really on trend, you will go to a shop and buy a pair of jeans. You want ‘pristine’ ones; £276, but the same ones in torn/slashed mode: £422. Well, all that slashing don’t come cheap. It can take 2 Chinese children, on $5-a-year, up to 3 minutes for a proper ‘slash’. I’m sure that homeless people, who often wear such items, pay a lot less. Maybe they get a subsidy benefit from the style council.

Felicity Kendal wears torn jeans and she’s about 200 years old. Kris Jenner/Kardashian wears them and she’s 60. But has the body of a 40 year old. Transplanted last year by her plastic surgeon. Yet the list for men, Bieber (20s), Beckham (40s) stops at Antonio Banderas (55). And that is PLAIN FUCKING SEXISM AND DISCRIMINATION.

Coincidentally, my favourite ripped jeans (I have many) were bought in Vancouver 15 years ago. I never buy them in the UK because they’re half price everywhere else. And Canada is important this week because my lovely mate Dave (the Toronto one; just so you know) was upset that I haven’t mentioned Milos Roanic, everyone’s favourite Canadian after Celine Dion. Their most famous sportsman since Ben Johnson. He’s the (very big) dude that Murray beat in Sunday’s final. A Canadian import from Montenegro who stood on the verge of greatness. And fell off. So I’d just like to say a big ‘well done’ to Canadia’s latest loser.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Be careful what you wish for; goes the saying. And yesterday’s bride wished beyond all else for an ‘outdoor wedding’. Not for her the finery of a West End hotel. She wasn’t interested in Country House splendour, that’s not what vegetarians crave. They crave the wilds of ‘the outside’. And so chose, along with her now husband (of 15 hours), the son of one of my best mates, a ‘farm in ‘ertfordshire’ as their venue. Not, like, the cow shed, nor indeed the farmhouse. Just the farm. In particular, one field of that farm. A rather beautiful field sitting next to a lake. Surrounded by trees. Grass. Greenery. All that countryside stuff. Fortunately no animals sniffing round, that would have been one cow-pat too far, methinks.

Of course, this is England (not ‘Britain’, nor ‘Europe’, certainly not ‘Europe’!) so when the day dawned wet and rainy and windy and then more wet, things were not looking promising for our ‘day in the countryside’. More importantly, for the bride & groom’s day in the countryside.

And yet the rain stopped, they opened the roof at Wimbledon, and they put the chairs outside the marquee for an al fresco wedding ceremony. Which was fantastic. The wind blew. And blew and blew, but the sun shone and the marriage took place under a canopy held in place by eight strong men charged with not letting it blow into the lake. And was wonderful. Amen.

Meanwhile, Andy Murray was on his way to victory. He wasn’t at the wedding. There was a strict ‘no Scots’ policy in that part of the countryside. A brilliant victory for the man who, Djokovich aside, played the consistently best tennis of the tournament. A victory for speed and agility over brute strength and power.

We danced. We certainly drank. We ate. Vegetables. But they count, they’re food. Nice food too. And the football kicked off in Paris. I’d forgotten about both Heather Watson, who won the mixed doubles for ENGLAND, and Lewis Hamilton who’d won the British Grand Prix, and focussed on the celebration of togetherness, and the football. Though, to be honest, I didn’t really care whether the French won, just didn’t really want the Portuguese to win. But heh, 9 out of 10 ain’t bad for a day’s work.

Happy Monday. Sport has now officially closed for the summer. Nooooooooooo…

A xxxx

The next leader of the Conservative Party is to be a woman. Hence the next Prime Minister of all of Great Britain (and its empire?) will be a woman. Though maybe a woman with children is ‘more of a woman’ than one without?? As implied, then denied vigorously, by Andrea Leadsom yesterday. Who then won the support of ‘Britain First’ (no, I’d never heard of them either) a ‘far right party who hate Theresa May because she wore a headscarf when visiting a mosque!!!! Making her a closet jihadi. In the mind of Britain First. Assuming they have one.

Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership of the Labour Party is being challenged by a woman who is to stand against him. And I’m sure Angela Eagle won’t mind me commenting that she has as much gravitas as Charles Hawtry in Carry On Up the Khyber, as much class as Barbara Windsor in Carry On Up the Khyber and as much statesmanship as a dustpan and brush. Which she in fact resembles. In certain light.

And now, Suzanne Evans (who?????) the ‘most famous of all female UKIP… people’ has announced that she wants to lead the party after Nigel (Mr UKIP) Farage’s departure as that shabby organisation’s head. Furthermore, Suzanne’s aims are to ‘rid the party of racists, homphobes and sexists and stop it banging on about immigrants’. In other words: UKIP will simply cease to exist. There will be nothing left at all. Delete those things from their manifesto and you are left with the blankest of blank pages. Which is all fine anyway because Suzy is currently suspended from her party anyway. So its all even more bollocks than it already was.

Should Hilary Clinton become president of America, the first ever ‘Mrs President’, making Bill Clinton ‘The First Man’, like Adam, or the First Gentleman? Very doubtful; ask Monica Lewinsky. Maybe, in line with all this sudden political egalitarianism: The First Person.

Should Andy Murray win at Wimbledon today (if it ever stops faaaarkin’ rainin’: though I s’pose they could put the roof on) I wonder if that’ll raise his popularity sufficiently to get a waxwork at Madame Toussauds. Where the runners up from the last 17 ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ are displayed, the milkman from Clapham Common and various bloggers who no-one’s ever seen. But not Murray. Why? Because, according to London’s most visited total waste of time and money, ‘he’s just not popular enough’. Bastard, French, anti-Scottish bastards. (Andy Murray is not a girl. He just acts like one. And I mean that in a completely non-sexist, non-judgmental, non-stereotypical way. Of course.)

Happy Sunday

A xxxx