Andy's Glasses

There are times when single events have massive, world-wide repercussions. That’s how wars start. Franz Ferdinand gets killed in Sarajevo, the next thing we have World War 1. They never called it ‘1’ at the time, that only came when the next one started and they needed to differentiate.

Similarly events in Cuba 50 years later almost resulted in World War 3, with the Russians and Americans on the verge of pushing the buttons.

And yesterday, the Turks shot down a Russian jet. My first thought when I heard was ‘ooooohh, you don’t wanna do that’. My second thought was ‘where’s the nearest air raid shelter and can I take my car in there too?’ ‘Oh, and my family, maybe’.

This is a bad thing. A very bad thing. Turkey indeed has a right to defend its air space and apparently gave 10 warnings, in perfectly clear Turkish, to the Russians that they should basically FUCK OFF OUT OF TURKISH AIRSPACE, LIKE NOW!!! They didn’t and ka-boom, the world went all Roy Lichtenstein.

Oh well, never mind, Russia’s got loads more planes, I’m sure Putin’s hardly even bothered.

Yeah. Right.

A rescue helicopter was sent to help the 2 pilots who’d wisely ejected from their plane. And it was also shot down. Not by the Turks but by the anti-Assad, not-ISIS, Syrian rebel forces. Who hate the Russians. Because the Russians bomb Syria to protect Assad, even though they claim its to attack ISIS. The Russians are very anti-ISIS, nominally, because it sits well with the Americans, and they’ve used the Sinai bombing as a great excuse to let rip with some serious hardware because of ‘the terrorist threat’. But they like Assad.

We (us and the Americans) hate Assad. Or we did. We even almost started bombing him when he was gassing his own civilians to try and suppress the uprising. But Parliament wouldn’t agree the bombing. So now we’re putting it through the government again, this time against ISIS, which helps Assad, which almost makes us allies with the man we wanted to bomb last year. Such is the ever-changing face of the middle east.

At the moment America and Russia appear to be on the same side. But appearances can be deceptive and allegiances change in moments in Syria. Similarly America’s ally, Saudi Arabia appears to be on the same side as its own nemesis, Iran. With the Saudis declaring hatred for the ISIS that they pretty much fund.

Meanwhile Jeremy Corbyn has decided to sit in bed for a week, with or without Diane Abbott, and sing ‘all we are say-ing, is Give Peace a Chance’ repeatedly until everyone kisses and makes up and takes their horrible weapons back home.

Happy Wednesday, let’s hope its not our last

A xxxx

There’s a new, new, NEW Star Wars movie out next month. I think its the 7th. But probably will be called Star Wars 3.2, because they have a habit of bringing out prequels, sequels, before-they-were-all-borns, born-agains and a whole mish-mash of chronological confusion. Doesn’t really matter though; what’ll happen is that a bunch of planes/rockets/spaceships will fight and the good guys, the ones who don’t suffer from acute asthmatic conditions, will win!!!

Anyway, as its December, with Christmas coming, the Church of England decided to advertise in cinemas. Yes. Advertising to… errrr… increase… hmmm… or get more… something. But advertise. So they constructed a 55 second advert in which the Archbish of Canterbury and numerous other Christians say the Lords Prayer. I’ve seen snippets of it on the news and its not exactly a ‘wow’, like a Cadburys Flake ad, or captivating like the Guinness ads of old, but its sweet. Bunch of people reciting the Lords Prayer between them. Bless.

And its been banned.

Well, not exactly ‘banned’, more withdrawn. They won’t show it. Its ‘offensive’. A fucking prayer. How offensive can it be? And that’s the point. The advertising agency have stated that ‘it may cause offence’, presumably to non-Christians, so they won’t show it.

Everyone’s complained. Muslim groups, presumably those deemed by the advertisers ‘offendable’, have spoken out against the withdrawal. As has everyone else. Of all religions, or of no religion. To stop the ad is the worst kind of cowardly fascism. Its the Lords Prayer, for Gods sake (oh!), it can’t offend anybody.

Yet even if it was to cause offence to anyone, is not the freedom of expression, the freedom of religious beliefs, what makes Britain special? What separates us from ISIS? Because we allow everyone to pray, worship, express their beliefs, unless human sacrifice or eating babies is involved.

They’re saying that ‘its being forced down people’s throats’ by showing it immediately before the start of the film when everyone’s seated and ready. I think they’re mistaking the prayer with popcorn. And the truth is, everyone is busy talking, eating, playing with their fucking phones, in the minutes before the credits roll for the big movie. Showing an advert to a group who really aren’t paying much attention is hardly an attempt to radicalise a bunch of Christians, is it?

Otherwise they’d only be showing ads for Volkswagons. Which are much more harmful.

Blessed Tuesday

A xxxx

Leicester City are top of the Premiership.

This is not some oddity on the first day of a new season when the Foxes happened to play the early match, beat Stoke 1-0 and go above all those still in alphabetical zero hell. No. Leicester have won matches. Loads of them. Jamie Vardie has scored in 10 consecutive matches, a feat only achieved once before, by Ruud Van Nistelrooy. And he’s not even fully fit.

Manchester City looked simply awful against Liverpool on Saturday, who in turn looked sublime. Chelsea won a game. The fact that is even worth mentioning indicates the weirdness of this season. Because they haven’t won many.

Arsenal lost a match and yet another player to injury. Their 26th so far, out of a squad of 29. Next weekend Wenger’s cleaning lady is playing holding midfield and Martin Keown is being brought back to the defence.

Manchester United are shit, dull, drab and boring. But keep winning in very unspectacular fashion. As they did at Watford.

And Spurs…

What about Spurs? We beat West Ham. In case you missed that, or didn’t hear me screaming all afternoon. And we beat them well. But most importantly, we played brilliantly. Stylishly, effectively, mercilessly, and it all paid off. 12 matches unbeaten. Wonderful. The team look confident, play well and most importantly, they look fit. 95 minutes of high pressing football takes its toll, yet press they did. Let’s hope that after our Europa match on thursday we can produce the same energy against Chelsea next weekend.

Everton look good, but there again Aston Villa look awful, new manager or not, so most teams look pretty good against them.

West Ham, without Payet, looked awful too. Spurs played well but West Ham looked decidedly uncomfortable throughout. Some would say that was a good thing.

And Barcelona beat Real Madrid 4-0 at the Bernabau. Messi only came on as a late sub, when they were already 3-0 up and Madrid had given up, because he’s been injured. You can imagine how that must have gone down in Madrid. We’re 3-0 down and can’t even get the ball and oh, here comes the world’s best player for a run-a-round.

But there’s a malaise at Real this year. Too many good players. They don’t know how to accommodate them all in the same team at the same time. What a terrible problem. What do I do with the two most expensive players in the world? Ronaldo wants to come to Spurs. To be a bench-warmer for Harry Kane.

What a super weekend

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I only joined Uber, the taxi service thingy-app-wotsit and care home for ageing Toyotas, a few weeks ago. I don’t get a lot of taxis. But I felt I should get in the Uber groove. So I did. Not easily because nothing that happens between me and smart phone is easy. In fact I got guy in the O2 shop to do it for me. Even though I’m an EE guy.

So I was up and running. Ready for Uber. Ready to call. And I did. We were in a restaurant, paying the bill (not me, thank God, someone else f’ra change) and I gave the younger daughter my phone and said: uber me up, baby. Not in so many words. By the time we’d retrieved out coats and walked outside, there he was; the man of my dreams, Essem, ready to take us all home. Brilliant. And very cheap.

Like heroin; one hit and I was hooked.

Thus last night Mel & I prepared to go to the wedding reception, and trust me, I looked fucking gorgeous, I hit the Uber app. There were 3 drivers within 3 minutes of home and the price quote was very very cheap, as always. Bring it on.

Normally I might have driven to the West End, but parking… cold weather… high heels… plus they never named Park Lane after the easiest thing to do or find there. Otherwise it would be called Sleazy Fat Arab Lane. Mercedes Lane. Call Girl Lane.

Anyway. Me, Uber, app me up daddyo.

“PLEASE VALIDATE YOUR CREDIT CARD”.

Oh. What does that mean. Its the same credit card they held on file for the last trip. It hasn’t changed. It has a ridiculous credit limit. One that can certainly stand the £14.85p fare, I felt sure.

“GO TO YOUR PAYMENTS PAGE AND VALIDATE”

I eventually managed to find that place and it wanted to scan my card. No other instructions. So scan it it did. Rather clever, I thought. Then I went back to call the Uber and:

“PLEASE VALIDATE YOUR CREDIT CARD”.

I went to the page, did it again and

“PLEASE VALIDATE YOUR CREDIT CARD”.

Rinse and repeat for about 20 minutes. We’re now running late and I’m standing there shouting “JUST FUCK OFF WITH YOUR VALIDATE BOLLOCKS!!!!” at my phone. Still looking gorgeous though.

Eventually, having called the normal local taxi service; “about 30 minutes for a car, Sir, the usual unregistered Syrian Jihadi rapist”, we just jumped into the car and drove to town. Parked in a car park, for an eye-watering cost, in Shepherd’s Market, the one time scene of Jeffrey Archer’s long-ago dalliance of the oral variety with a very dirty person, and hoofed it, on me heels, to the Hotel.

It would have taken three Scotches to calm me down, but I was FUCKING DRIVING so settled for one and some chicken tikka instead.

Uber’s Ober. We’re done. Can’t trust them. Hate them. Sent them an email this morning telling how they RUINED MY ENTIRE LIFE. Don’t like to overstate things. Their shares will doubtless plummet as a consequence. Can’t be helped. They were worse than useless. They sent me to techno-Hell. A place I don’t do very well in.

Now COME ON YOU SPURS; this is the day of our destiny. Arsenal lost. Man City lost. Chelsea won but that doesn’t count, Leicester are top of the league, for God’s sake. We must win. We shall win.

Happy Sunday, except for Uber, may their car batteries all go flat.

A xxxx

Ah well, man plans, God laughs, as they say.

I should be in the West End, suited and booted, enjoying the third hour of my great friend’s son’s wedding. But it didn’t happen. A minor (ish) catastrophe at work (Mel’s, not mine) meant we had to call off the morning part of the today’s weddinginess. We’ll be there this evening, but this morning was not to happen. Which is a shame but…

Within 20 seconds of hearing about the cancellation I’d rearranged Tai Chi and tennis, so after fighting the wierd and wonderful snow-storm this morning (snow?? when yesterday it was still summer??? where the fuck is ‘mild’ when you really need it?) the sky had cleared by the end of martial arts madness to reveal blue sky and sunshine. Perfect for tennis. So you’d think. Until you realised that the winds I’d so revered the other day had come back to bite me right in my tennis court.

I did wonder, as Spurs Paul & I warmed up, why all the other courts were empty. ‘Bunch’a poofs’, he said, for which I had to reprimand him severely for lacking the political correctness that almost defines our time together. We played. It was a joke. The ball shifting laterally 20 feet from shot to bounce. Its a forehand; no its a backhand; shit, its hit me in the bollocks. Ooooofffff!!!!

I should be in a ceremony. Praying to Hindu gods. They have loads. Many look like post-nuclear elephant-human hybrids, many-headed monsters, horses that can play the sitar. I don’t care, I’ll pray to anyone. Or not. As I’m not there.

Last weekend I was in synagogue. Only one God there. Barely an elephant’s trunk in sight. The Jewish God is old and has a long beard. Smiles a lot. Has a pot belly. Loves his grandchildren.

But where was he when Paris was under attack? Where was the lightening strike at Jihadi John just as he was about to perform a beheading live on video? What’s the point of all that omnipotence and omniscience if you don’t use it? Its like taking a Ferrari to go to Sainsburys. Or a Range Rover to take the kids to school. All that wasted power.

God doesn’t do miracles, doesn’t interfere, doesn’t show off. Well, perhaps he should. Or She should. Whatever.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

They asked all the Times sportswriters to name their predictions for The Top Four in this year’s Premiership. Out of 8 writers, all but one had Spurs in that Top 4. Holy cow. I hate that. It puts me under immense pressure, gives me performance anxiety, it changes the game. I’d rather we just came ‘out of nowhere’. And yet… and yet…

With Chelsea in meltdown (must end soon, surely? in fact probably next weekend when they play Spurs) only 2 had the Blues in their list. One even had Southampton. None named West Ham. Because however well they start a season, it inevitably turns to shit and leads to a relegation struggle by March. We hope.

Starting this weekend when the Hammers pay us a visit. In a 6 pointer. At very least. A real must win game for us against a team who’ve beaten Arsenal, Liverpool (not that they’re much), Manchester City and all other big teams. Though lost to Bournemouth and numerous other not such big teams rather pathetically.

Spurs definitely have the talent. And we have growing confidence now, having gone unbeaten for 10 games, including the one at Arsenal where we really should have won.

And that’s generally the issue. The problem. When the final tally is made, the silly points dropped. The draw against Stoke when we were 2-nil up, the Arsenal game, others too where we just didn’t quite… when it just failed to… when another goal would have…

The would’a should’a could’as. The curse of White Hart Lane.

Yet I remain optimistic. But only with the aid of certain pharmacological enhancements.

Tomorrow we’re going to a Hindu wedding. Small affair. Just 650 people. In Park Lane. Kick off at 9.30am. Ends long after midnight. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, Bollywood Nights, dancing, saris and curry.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Ken Livingstone is a tosser.

That’s no news to anyone. The former mayor of London, erstwhile radical and all round plonker, ‘Red Ken’, has a long and consistent history of being a total plonker. Long because he’s too old and is now a living advertisement for just the kind of involuntary euthanasia that people protest about, and consistent because he has consistently been wrong in virtually everything he’s ever done. The GLC was disbanded after his years at the helm because he is insufferable.

But what Ken has never been very good at is apologising. Nor at understanding that a simple but sincere apology at the time of offence is worth all the retrospective retractions in the world.

Years ago Ken was pissed off with a journalist on his doorstep and likened him to a Nazi. The journalist was Jewish, his family holocaust survivors and Ken knew both of those facts. He refused to apologise. The matter went to inquests, expensive and unnecessary, and Ken refused. Such fucking arrogance is sufficient to reinstate capital punishment. That and driving at 35 in the fast lane.

So yesterday, Ken is appointed by great mate, Jeremy Corbyn, another ‘red’ and overt anti-semite, to head up the Labour Review on the Trident missile renewal. A big bone of contention. The Scottish Nationalists and the Red Labourites don’t want to renew our nuclear capability. Because they’re all pacifists. Which you can tell because pacifists don’t know how to apologise.

The more normal Labourites agree with ‘the nuclear deterrent’ because otherwise we’re a vulnerable nation. Though granted, the world’s in a very peaceful place at the moment.

In an argument, Ken stated, with all due sarcasm, that opponent on the committee, Kevan Jones, obviously needed ‘psychiatric help’ for his views on Trident. Sadly, Kevan Jones has a history of depression and psychiatric episodes. Oh dear.

Ken refused to apologise, for a change, until Corbyn himself forced a reluctant apology. And a reluctant apology is worth…

The Labour party is in enough trouble without adding Ken into the already rather inflammable mix.

Jonah Lomu has died. If not the best, certainly the most spectacular rugby player ever to step on a field. And by all accounts a total mensch. 40 years old. What a terrible thing.

Happy but sad Thursday

A xxxx

Great Britain lives in the Dulux Paints 3rd Division (North) of world weather. We talk of nothing else yet ‘suffer’ nothing more than months of grey, loads of drizzle, mild, mild, fucking mild. A horrible word whose flexibility means its never far from our weather reports. Not too hot, not too cold, just bland, boring, moderate, dull, mild.

I suffer from weather envy. A terrible and debilitating condition affecting many Englishmen. Whilst New Orleans suffered HURRICANE KATRINA, over here, ‘winds in Nuneaton today reached almost 7 miles per hour. A local lady, Edith Maythorpe, almost lost her hat!!!! But it was retrieved by her neighbours Rottweiler. Who ate it’.

We never warranted Hurricane Reginald or Kirk or Zadie (they’re alphabetical, hurricanes, amazing that hurricane Derek never overtakes hurricane Eric, but that’s the wonder of weather), we just had sodding mild.

Until last night. When Barney arrived. Yep, a real name. A storm worthy of a title. The bubble had burst. Quite literally when I came out from Tai Chi last night, the weather bubble that covers four outdoor tennis courts had torn and was flapping around on the ground as if a group of giants was having an orgy under a giant bedcover.

And it was windy. Fuck me was it windy. Trees blew down, my patio table was rearranged half way down the garden and my car, so lovingly washed on Sunday, is filthy with debris from the trees.

Barney had come. And left once more, leaving us with another lovely, bright summer’s day. But in November. Very mild for the time of year.

I missed the England/France football friendly at Wembley last night. The match that simply had to be played, in defiance of the fucking terrorists. Not only played, but attended by Prince William, David Cameron and numerous other important people. Oh, and three battalions of artillery. Everyone present sang La Marseillaise, French, English and even foreign. It was very moving. Very united. Very defiant. And I was proud. That I, er, missed it totally.

Delli Alli scored a supergoal, Eric Dier was wonderful, Harry Kane amazing.

Defeat terrorism; support Spurs.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

As ISIS move their deathly way across Syria and Iraq, they not only sweep aside all who stand before them, but they also destroy wonderful, irreplaceable historical artefacts and monuments. Like the beautiful temple at Palmyra. Our history. The world’s history. Gone forever. Because it doesn’t align with the perpetrator’s warped and sick view of the world, therefore is unnecessary and evil. A reminder of a horrible past. So its gone.

There’s trouble in Bristol. Colston’s Girls School is under fire. Not literally but almost, as pupils are attacked, verbally if not physically, on the streets. Why? Because Edward Colston, the founder and funder of the school was involved in the slave trade. Among other things. So therefore, 350 years later… what? Burn down the school? Change the name? Destroy all links to that evil industry that died hundreds of years ago?

How is that different from ISIS? Getting rid of our unpalatable past. How does it help?

At Oxford they’re protesting about Cecil Rhodes. I don’t know why. But in his time in Southern Africa he probably did bad things. So some students want his statue removed, his building renamed. It doesn’t say whether they’ll give back their Rhodes Scholarship money and opt for a life of poverty and begging instead.

Again, ISIS would be proud. Destroy the bits of history that we’re not proud of, that were shameful, hurtful, that basically lack moral integrity as judged by today’s standards.

Well it doesn’t work. And it shouldn’t. History is history because that is what happened then. If we don’t like it now, tough shit. Nothing you can do about it.

The Royal family’s antecedents did some pretty horrible things to English peasants, but we don’t demand the Queen be locked up. Maybe we should. Alfred Nobel, he of the Peace Prize and many other wonderful gifts for worthy individuals, made his money out of dynamite. Should he be banned?

The Kennedy family made their immense fortune out of bootlegged liquor during the prohibition. Yet they are revered in America, a nation far less inclined to judge errors of the past. Perhaps because they’ve made so many.

Leave history alone. Good and bad. Its what we learn from. Its where we came from.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m still ‘in Paris’. Can’t get away. Its all I read, all people speak about, its everywhere.

More details have emerged, none of them particularly pretty or nice, but as always, this kind of horrific event will always bring people together. The world, well, the civilised world, has aligned with France. Minutes of silence preceded every sporting event over the weekend, except the Brazilian Grand Prix. For some reason, even though Christ the Redeemer had been bathed in a tricoleur light show, those boys at F1 can’t add a minute anywhere. Impossible. The world would end if the race started 1 second late, let alone 60.

But generally, we’re all in shock.

Paris was ‘selected’ because the French are bombing Syria. But really that’s not the real reason. The real reason is that Paris epitomises our cherished values of a happy, liberal, affluent and free society. People sit and drink there all day. Coffee, wine, beer, water, whatever they want. And they sit beautifully. Parisiennes do everything beautifully. Even mourn.So an attack on a Friday night; party night, is the one that hits hardest. Because people were out having fun. Watching football, eating in restaurants, listening to a band. Attacks at work (9/11) or on the way to work (7/7) are horrendous. But attacking folks enjoying their leisure time, although the same tragedy in human terms, is a much more potent cultural attack.

I took this photo on the way to work this morning, outside the High Court. Because its funny, its eye-catching (as intended) and it kind of defines life in a free environment. Protesters. Moaning about euthanasia. Not whether we should allow it; I think we’re all agreed on that. But whether to amend our ‘assisted suicide’ bill to provide a little more ‘assistance’ than may have first been on offer. In the Dutch mode in which the actual decision can be made by a judge or a doctor, rather than just by the… the… errrrr… the victim/volunteer/suicidee him or herself.

No-one gave the poor 120 in Paris the choice on Friday night. Nor the 200-odd injured. Nor the thousands who’ll live with ‘survivor guilt’ or just the nightmare of the tragedy probably forever.

Death has many faces. Most of them really fucking ugly.

Happy monday

A xxxx