Andy's Glasses

this is what ‘up north’ looks like. Ooooohhhh, you think, that’s pretty. And green and flowery and big and nice. And very wet. Obviously. Pissing down. Up norf, innit. And the hotel we’re holed up in serves as a metaphor for all of up north. Looks great from the outside, but you really wouldn’t wanna go in. Nice view though. Its like someone took a national park and stuck it in the middle of Coronation Street. Out here in the countryside between Barnsley, Rotherham and Halifax. Not a premiership team between the lot of ’em. Its that bleak.

Never mind. Its not a holiday. We’ve come up to pick up the father-in-law from Leeds and bring him back to civilisation for a week. So we thought we’d do an evening in the Dales, or Moors or whatever they call big green stuff up here.

But first you have to get here. Ah, that’s easy, just get on the M1 and ‘sail’ up for a couple of hours and you arrive. In theory. In reality we hit four lots of roadworks. 50mph speed limit, ‘average speed cameras’, the kiss of death. Normal speed cameras you can ignore, but those muthas; at your peril. Oh, and one accident by Nottingham; 2 lanes closed. Nice way to spend 20 minutes in the East Midlands rain. Tempting to pop into Leicester and celebrate. Even though they’ve finished the celebrations there now and moved them over to Thailand. As ya do. When yer owned by a Thai.

Yet here I am, near Halifax/Rotherham/Barnsley, watching the end of the FA Cup Final. Used to be the biggest game of the year. Now its, kind’a ‘nyeahh’. Don’t know how that happened. Probably to do with football’s obsession about the new holy grail: the Champions League. And you get that by playing league games, not cup ones. Cup only gets you into the Europa League. And no-one wants that. Unless you’re in it then its brilliant.

Oh well, I suppose dinner won’t eat itself, even in Yorkshire. Work, work, work…

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Legend has it that Groucho Marx once sought membership to a posh, schprauncy Beverley Hills golf club. They refused him (in nineteen twenty-whatever) because they didn’t allow jews into the club. “But I don’t even play golf” pleaded Groucho, “I just want to use the swimming pool”. Sorry, Sir, that’s our policy. “Look, I’m only half-jewish; can I just go in up to my waist?”

Wonderful story, no idea whether its true or not, don’t care either. It makes a point. That for some reason the last bastion of Political Incorrectness (long may it live) is to be found in Golf Clubs. Ok, bit ambiguous; not the clubs you use to hit the balls with, or in Tiger Woods case, the ones your wife uses to beat the shit out of your car, but the Golf Clubs, as in the institutions in which golf is played.

They’re not workplaces, they’re not community centres, they’re private members’ clubs. And as such are not subject to the vast rules and laws, British and European, about equality. They have no equals. You’re either a stuffy, crusty old git with a tweed jacket and horrible stripy tie, or you go hit golf balls elsewhere. With the commoners.

To be a member at any ‘respectable’ Golf Club you have to be voted in. And, basically, if you don’t look, act, think and smell like those doing the voting, you ain’t gonna get in. So Groucho wouldn’t get in, because he didn’t pray to a different God to the one the Beverley Hills members didn’t pray to. Golfers don’t go to church, or synagogue, because they’re on the course at such times a praying generally occurs. I wonder how many black, Asian or any ethnic minority group members there might be in all the golf clubs in Britain? What about trans-genders? Where would Bruce/Caitlin Jenner play??

And what about women? Surely the wives and lovers of the crusty old farts have some time off when they’ve done all the ironing and cooked dinner? Can they play 9 holes??

Of course they can. But not as members. Only as guests. If they imposed such rules at my pole-dancing club it would be a disaster.

Muirfield Golf Club in Edinburgh is one of the best courses in the world. And, of course, doesn’t allow women members. Thus it has now lost its chance to host the Open tournament. A massive money-spinner for club and for the local environment, they reckon about £70million. But the club refused to change its ‘no women members’ policy. One member summed up the situation, and certainly the attitude of the Club when he said “if you’re a woman and you want to play here you’d better marry a member”. Good advice. Because a wife, as ‘goods and chattels’ of her man and keeper, bit like a dog, can go hit a few balls with him. Unlike the dog, who’d run away with the ball between its teeth.

The real problem is that women simply talk too much. About nothing. All those feelings, emotions, dilemmas, all those frills and colours and tampons, its just too much. I won’t stand for it. Not in my club.

Women wear dresses. But in Scotland, so do men.

Wear your ‘BAN THE BITCH!!!!’ t-shirt today, in solidarity with Muirfield and the Honourable Company of Edinburgh Golfers. And other anachronistic fascists.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The Government yesterday stated its plans to ensure ‘high speed broadband’ for the whole country. Just like gas, electricity, water, the access to broadband is now deemed the stuff of life. Which indeed it is. And this is great news for those poor wretches, currently hooked up to a modem with half a kilometre of wire and getting a ‘page’ on their screens every 10 minutes. Those in the western Scottish Isles. Welsh farmlands, outlying northern villages (they’re always northern) and other bleak and desolate places.

Like my house.

We have broadband. We fucking should have, I live about 5 miles from Marble Arch, which (so many think but no-one actually knows for sure) is ‘London’ from a signpost perspective. So “London 53 miles” will actually take you to Marble Arch. Anyway, London, awash with broadband, more phone signals and wifis round here than anywhere in the (un)civilised world. Brilliant.

And yet my broadband runs at about 1.5 thingies per whatever, when David Cameron is promising crofters from John O’Groats about 55 or more.

When BT introduced its ‘Infinity’ service, I was the first person in the world to apply. Textile workers in Bangla Desh, earning just 20p a day for making Beyonce’s t-shirts, already get about 75mps and their phones/tablets work just fine, thank you very much.

‘Sorry’ said the BT people, ‘you can’t have it yet. We need to put up cabinets and they’re not in your area yet’.

‘Well fucking build them then! What’s the problem?’

The problem is that I live in a conservation area. And the tossers in power (very small men with very small penises who’s passion in life is just to ‘obstruct’ because they can) won’t accept the standard cabinets. They’re not ‘sympathetic with the environment’. Like lamp-posts and phone cable pylons are, presumably, let alone manhole covers and the horrid grey power and water boxes all over the place.

Eventually they designed a ‘sympathetic’ cabinet. Great. But its not going to be put near my house. Fucking anti-semites! Why not??? Because its too expensive. The cabinets cost 7,000 quid each and your area is not marked for one. GRRRRRRRRRR!!!!

A committee was formed; its what you do in suburbia. In inner cities they go to the offices with machetes, round here we form a committee. And for about 50 quid each we could buy our own sodding cabinet. Great. End of problem.

If only. Then there were scheduling issues, then the cabinets were rejected by someone else, then our MP got involved, because that’s what happens just after the committee is formed but before the machetes come out. And Mike Freer MP writes to me about every week with ‘updates’. None of which ever say: “… and its coming tomorrow!!!”.

At last the government are addressing my problem at a national level. My human rights are being impaired. I can’t stream away Spurs games from Albanian mafia sites. They keep freezing.

Happy Thursday from the 4th World. (because the 3rd world has fab broadband)

A xxxx

I just read a great piece about Norway. Small country on the left hand bit of mainland Scandinavia. Has lots of fjiords. And blondes. And herring. Like all Scandi-countries. Probably has lots of murders too because its dark half the year and all that Scandi-noire stuff, Girls with Dragon Tattoos, Wallander, The Bridge, must be based on some kind of Abba-esque reality, surely?

Norway is not in the EU. Never has been. Goes its own way… ish. Is ranked 1st on some (probably meaningless) global prosperity index. And thus is the ‘model’ for maverick Europeanism of the non-EU variety. How ‘we’ could be, should we leave. Except…

Norway’s never been in the EU.

Twice had referenda, twice blew those Eurocrat bastards out of the water. And yet they trade extensively with Europe and have never once failed to adopt any European laws. And as ‘Europe’ is nothing if not the world’s most efficient and costly law-making machine, that amounts to 10,000 legal acts since 1994. Norway allows free, passportless passage from ‘Europe’ and allows Euro people to work there without visas. They are thus part of the Schengen Zone, which we aren’t.

So Norway would appear to be a totally EU nation in all but the fact that they’re not. They’re outside. And thus pay the EU £680 million a year. Whereas Britain, less of an EU adherent, but ‘in’, pay £8.5billion!!!! a year. That’s fair. 10,000 laws don’t come cheap. Even though we hate 9,999 of them and spend another 8 billion a year trying to overturn them.

Ok, so let’s become Norway. The best of all possible worlds. Aligned to the EU but not part of it and thus not robbed by it every year and bound by its often stupid rules, regulations and laws. I’ll change my name to Oleg, see if I can find a fjiord somewhere near Bromley, and fish for herring. Brilliant. Job done.

The difference is; we’re IN. Have been for over 40 years. And if we come out, our status would be vastly different from those Norwegies who’ve never been in. We’ll need to be punished. And in a way big enough to deter half the 27 other member states from jumping ship too. It would have to be shown that leaving the EU is like leaving the Church of Scientology, leaving the Mafia, leaving ISIS; generally not a great idea. And certainly not one without repercussions and costs.

And so although the Norway model is appealing, and Norwegian models are particularly appealing, we simply can’t ever be ‘them’. So indeed we have to look at the real costs of leaving. And no-one knows what they might be. Not a clue. Not Cameron. Certainly not Boris who’s totally lost the plot, not Farage, no-one.

Thus I look at simple short-termism. How will leaving the EU affect ME? And what will definitely happen, because its already started, is that the pound will fall and share prices will drastically drop. So my pension ‘pot’ will take another fucking ‘hit’. Maybe not quite as big as the one it took in 2008 but along those lines. And my holidays will become more expensive.

Selfish? Short-sighted?? Yes, all of the above. But as no-one can come up with any more rational and coherent reasons for in or out, that don’t predict World War 3, beheading the Queen, post-nuclear apocalypse, a world without croissants, that’s all I have left.

At least until tomorrow when it’ll all change again.

Happy pre-referendum days

A xxxx

I don’t do Eurovision. Never have. It was always and still is, way beneath me. I’m better than that. I listen to ‘proper’ music. Not nauso-pop played in ‘plink-plonk’ style by a troupe of lederhosen clad Germans, bearded Greeks in long dresses or Uzbekistani dwarves dressed as the Smurfs. Its crap. Its bollocks. Its an affront to the senses. If they’d had Frank Zappa on it, I may have watched. Talking Heads. King Crimson. Maybe the Clash. But Cliff Richard? Brotherhood of Man?? I made one notable exception. Abba. Nothing to do with the music; everything to do with Agnetha in skin-tight satin pants. I ‘listened’ to Waterloo with the sound off. Seven thousand, six hundred and ninety-four times.

But now the Eurovision has become seriously politicised. How did that happen? Its about music. Which is art. Which is escapism. From life’s harsh realities. They don’t write songs about single-parenting with no money in a dank council flat that leaks. Its not what Euro-viewers want. They want realism they’ll watch the News. They want tragedy; listen to Country & Western.

I had no idea that the Contest was even with us on Saturday night. Had a barbecue with some friends. Sampled a few nice single malts. Got drunk. Ate too much. Wonderful. It was only Sunday morning when I saw the winner on the News. And learned of the ensuing scandal.

Things I never knew about the Eurovision (mainly because I just don’t fucking care):
Australia is now part of Europe, but only for nauseating song purposes.
The voting is no longer solely with ‘panels of judges from each nation’ but now includes a populist, phone-in vote as well.
Terry Wogan is dead.

The three kind’a ‘finalists’ apparently, the three who were neck & neck as the last votes came in, were Australia (I know, I know), Russia and the Ukraine. It was so exciting some viewers even woke up. And so in a move destined to really upset Putin and the Russians (though to be fair, virtually everything upsets Putin and the Russians, unless they’re bombing people), Ukraine won. Not only won the contest but with the most terrible song ever. A 1944 song, allegedly, about the Russian invasion of the Crimea. Not so much a song as a lament. Its awful. Depressing. And, if you live in Ukraine, rather relevant. And a ‘terrible insult’ to the Russian people.

Good, they need to be insulted. Hard and often.

They evacuated Old Trafford on Sunday, half an hour before the kick-off. A ‘suspect bomb’. Endless talk of terrorism, the threat to our way of life, increase of paranoia in football fans, blah, blah. Then it turns out, having sent 50,000 people home for the day, that it was a ‘fake bomb’ used by the security people to test their anti-terror systems. They’d left it there. Forgotten to take it with them after the test. COME BACK!!! Oh, its too late, 12000 of you have already headed off for the 250 mile jaunt back to Bournemouth from whence you’d come. Terrible.

And yet: it showed the efficiency of the evacuation process; no-one died; they didn’t know it was fake until later; and the guy responsible made the most sincere apology ever.

I think Luis Van Gaal planted it to extend his career by three days.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Pfizer, the drug giant, have refused to sell any more of their ‘lethal injection’ stuff to American prisons. Its a stand. A moral crusade. Itself very unusual for any drug company that they even know how to spell ‘morality’, let alone act upon it in the face of potential profits. So without the Pfizer ‘super-dead!!’ meds, the entire death penalty thing will obviously collapse completely. Surely they won’t be able to come up with alternative methods for implementing death. I would say ‘bring ’em here and throw them in front of tube trains’ but it would be messy and they might use the Northern Line, which would indeed be awful.

So the debate now is ‘the death penalty’; right or wrong? Good or bad? Evil vengeance or proper justice?

We don’t have it in the UK so its not my immediate problem. Here we have ‘the death of hopes’, the murder of dreams, we have THE FUCKING END OF FUCKING EVERYTHING AT ST JAMES FUCKING PARK!!!!! and we have ‘life sentences’ (supporting Spurs). But we don’t institutionally kill people.

Its not British. Not any more. Used to be, then we stopped. 50/60 years ago. But its always an interesting debate. Because most people are not opposed to the death penalty. What they can’t tolerate is executing the wrong person. Killing an innocent man or woman. So the main objections aren’t about the morality of ‘taking a life’ under any circumstances, but more a total lack of confidence in the judicial system’s efficiency and accuracy.

And in reality a ‘life’ sentence is far worse than the death penalty. Well, it should be except ‘life’ means about 3 weeks, after time spent on remand, good behaviour and parole are factored in. Though when you hear about mass murderers, about child-killers, about serial sadistic monsters, about habitually condescending and patronising Arenal fans, it does bring out the inner hang-man in all of us.

Boris Johnson is someone else who doesn’t seem to learn from his and others (very) recent mistakes. Having seen Ken Livingstone, another ex-mayor, get kicked out of the Labour Party for making stupid ‘Hitler’ comparisons, Boris addresses a Brexit group by telling them that a federalised Europe was the dream of Napoleon and of Hitler. So the EU is basically a modern day version thereof.

On a scale from 1 (good person) to 8 (total tosser) Boris is a nein.

Football; me; we’re over. Finished. Its competitive pole-dancing or nothing from now on.

Happy fucking Monday

A xxxx

If Spurs had been about to win the league, in with chance to win the league, even if there had been a glimmer that a 14-nil victory for Spurs coupled with a 97-3 loss by Leicester could possibly make us champions, I’d be on my way to Newcastle right now. Probably on the train with elder daughter and Tory Boy, who are somewhere near Rotherham right as we speak. Sitting quietly in their seats whilst all around 20,000 other Spurs fans, who’ve doubtless been drinking since 6.30 (last night; this morning; either works for me), are singing, shouting, chanting and, I sincerely hope, persecuting anyone ‘neutral’ or unaware who has the terrible misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The younger daughter is also there. She went yesterday. She’s a recent Geordophile. No, its not a pervert, though she may be. Its someone who loves Newcastle. So the offer of a seat in the box offered by Tory Boy was accepted like a drowning man accepting air. Watching Spurs after a night in the wild clubs and bars or that town was too much for her to resist. And she’s not very good at resisting things anyway.

And thus my family is heavily represented at St James’s Park for the last match of our season. A match that, like so many, doesn’t matter a jot. Other than one little, pesky thing. If we win or draw we finish the season above Arsenal. For the first time since the Premiership began, 20 odd years ago. Both teams go the Champions League, neither has to qualify, its just a matter of ‘technicality’. Some things are just more technical than others.

For Newcastle this will not be a good day, not a happy day, not in any way enjoyable, win, lose or draw.

Relegation is sorted, the winners are sorted, all that’s left the not insignificant battle for 4th place.

Because even if you ignore (as if you can) the massive prestige and financial bonus of playing in the Champions League, which 4th place brings and 5th doesn’t, this year its even bigger. And between two of the most hateful teams in the league. If City beat Swansea then its theirs. End of story. If they draw, unless Man United beat Bournemouth 12 nil they’re still ok. But if they lose and United win, the latter go fourth. Ooooooooh.

So if United don’t qualify, Van Gaal, their seemingly hapless and dour manager will go. Which will be bad for Spurs. Because he’s fucking useless and that’ll be one less team to worry about next season if he stays. But if City don’t qualify it’ll be even funnier because the Great God that is Pep Guardiola will be managing a team who aren’t in the top tournament. And he won’t be happy about that. Good managers always like to inherit greatness and riches, its much easier than earning it.

Also, and probably more significant, I can’t find it in my really dislike Man United. But City? There’s no apparent limits to my contempt for them.

3 o’clock today. The end of the season finale.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

How awful it must be to feel that your life is so worthless, meaningless and disastrous that it just can’t go on. There’s only one way out. Kill yourself. Terrible. Tragic.

And never more so than when you do it by jumping in front of a train. Worse still if its a tube train. And totally unforgivably stupid, selfish and damnable-to-eternal-fucking-hell if its a Northern Line train in the morning rush hour.

For the second time this week someone jumped under a train at Kennington station yesterday morning. So I had plenty of time to consider the problem of suicide as I waited for half a fucking hour for a train so packed you couldn’t squeeze one single ear in there, then waited longer as there were, even by Transport for London’s normally fantasy assessment, ‘severe delays’.

Ahhhhh, you think, how heartless. Its such a shame that someone is driven to kill themselves. How tragic for the family.

But suicide is always selfish. If your problems are so bad, suicide simply dumps them onto that loving family. I’ve ‘ad enough. Let them sort out my mess. Yet obviously these people are not thinking in any rational way, it all just gets too much for them. So they create tragedy and aggro for the family and worse still, what does it do for the tube driver? Who’s been used as an unwilling ‘weapon’ in all this? He has to live with that image forever. Poor sod.

So if you feel at all suicidal, and you live somewhere between Morden and High Barnet on the north/south axis, just call me and I’ll send you a pill. Or a bottle of my new hedge spray which comes with more warnings than a trip to South Korea. JUST DON’T JUMP UNDER MY FUCKING TRAIN!!!!

Because before I learned of the disruptions, I was involved in serious contemplation of gender issues. Specifically, the ‘big questions’. What do you call a ‘man’ who really feels like a woman, trapped in a man’s body? And I don’t mean, ‘an Arsenal midfielder’, in this context. No. Here you’d call him Bruce Jenner. Trapped for 60 years in the ‘useless’ guise of a man. Fathering dozens of supermodels, winning gold medals, shagging various Kardashians (female ones, just to be clear). Poor man.

So what do you call someone who then sheds the lie and says emphatically: “I AM NOW A WOMEN, AS I’VE ALWAYS REALLY FELT AND NEEDED TO BE”. You call them Caitlin Jenner. He was honest, sorry, she was honest, and faced the ridicule and the world as the ‘woman he always felt he/she was’.

So what do you THEN call a man who’s become a woman who then decides he was a man all along and never got his head round the whole woman thing really? You call him an attention-seeking, media-whoring, imbecilic tosser. Or, Bruce Jenner. Again.

Happy Saturday, Bruce

A xxxx

I wonder what other nations think of the British? Because of late, we’re really learning what ‘we’ think of them. First the Queen calls the Chinese ‘rude’ and then Cameron tells that very same Queen (we only have one) that Nigeria and Afghanistan are ‘the most corrupt nations on Earth’.

The thing is, they can’t get upset because all those allegations are true. The Chinese are fucking rude. All 1.6 billion of them. Not a manner in sight. Pushing and shoving, though not necessarily Her Majesty, spitting all over the place, making demands on state visits, not appreciating the irony of being a communist leader obsessing that the bottled water provided is the wrong brand. And worst of all, they speak Chinese all the time.

I can’t speak about Afghans, I only know one. He makes my coffee every morning and he’s lovely. So I’ve never actually witnessed much ‘corruption’. He doesn’t put skimmed milk instead of semi and pocket the fat difference.

But I do have some experience of Nigerians. Having worked next door to their High Commission for 30 years. Yet its the emails wot dunnit. From my ‘lost cousin’ Obafemi, who wants to launder $35million in my bank account that he’s managed to steal from his government. And I’ll get 5 mil!!!! Honest!!!! Just for being… a schmuck. But we’re not calling some conman chancer ‘corrupt’, there’s no debate. Cameron was calling the country corrupt. Different thing altogether. And their president, rightly, took issue with the comment. As he stepped out of his diamond encrusted private jet (one of 3) and climbed into a solid gold Rolls Royce, probably with Arsenal decals on the red leather seats. And as his country starves, he builds another presidential palace, his 9th.

I wonder what these foreign dignitaries think of the girl, a temp receptionist sent to work at accountants PwC for the day, who was turned away because she was wearing flat shoes and not the ‘regulation’ 2-4 inch heels? Such a thing is not an issue in the wild jungles of provincial Nigeria because PwC don’t have an office there. And with the population there surviving on just over one dollar a day, heels, as such, are not the main issue. Where the ‘rich’ have one shoe.

“ITS SEXISM!!!!” yelled the girl, who went home after refusing to go and buy new shoes. Yeah, it kind’a is. No man has ever been told to wear high heels at work. There again very few women have ever been told in workplaces, restaurants, clubs, that they ‘must wear a tie’.

Dress codes are indeed fairly silly things. But they’re not ‘rape’. They’re not misogynistic, they’re just silly. For both sexes. Women working for me can wear any shoes they like. But must wear a skirt no lower than 9 inches above the knee.

Sunderland survive, Newcastle take the walk to hell along with Norwich. Its almost all over.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

The latest ‘victim’ of the Panama Papers is Emma Watson. Hermione from ‘arry Potter, as she was known. She bought a little house for £3mil, as ya do, but it was actually acquired by a company in the British Virgin Islands. OFFSHORE!!!! The most lethal word/2 words in the world of shame. Of course, she is no longer Hermione, she long ago hung up her magic wand and witches cape to become ‘Ballbreaker in Chief of the Whole World’. Or, ‘UN ambassador for women’s rights’ as it is alternatively known. Yet by buying the house from ‘over there’, the stamp duty liability of about 400k magically disappeared! So she hasn’t completely lost her touch. Though her main motivation for using such a devious tool was to protect her anonymity. If her name’s not on the land registry, as it would be if it had been purchased here, then stalkers, pervs and sickos can’t find where she lives. Well, until today when its in all the papers, of course. Now its open season on retired magicians. I might pay her a visit myself.

But the football… it keeps coming back to haunt me. West Ham beat Manchester United last night, and beat up Manchester United last night; well, beat up their coach at least, to make the battle of Manchester very interesting and right ‘down to the wire’. Because now, if Manchester City win their last match on Sunday, they go to the Champions League next year and United will suffer the Europa League, doubtless under a new manager. But if United beat Bournemouth on Sunday and City lose away at resurgent Swansea, then those places are reversed. Ooooohhhhhh.

There is a bizarre set of circumstances in which West Ham could finish 4th and knock both Mancs out, but its complicated, involves scoring 17 goals in a match and I can’t be bothered to work out such a silly long shot.

Tonight is a truly massive game as Sunderland play Everton. And if Sunderland win they stay up. Its THAT simple. Sadly, for teams down that end of the league, winning is not ‘simple’ or they’d have been doing it all season and be up at the top. But its ‘in their hands’. However Norwich also play tonight and if they beat Watford, surely an easier task, and Sunderland don’t win, then it all comes down to Sunday, yet again. Newcastle have but one game left. Against Spurs. And, depending on what happens tonight, that could be their chance of salvation.

Spurs are in the Champions League, whatever happens. But I’m still in semi-disappointed mode because we’ve taken 2 points from our last possible 9. And so need a draw at least on Sunday to guarantee second place. Otherwise…

Let’s not go there.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx