Andy's Glasses

Have you ever bought any Polonium-210? Do they have it in Sainsburys? Will Ocado deliver it? Amazon, maybe?? No. Generally radioactive substances are not in common circulation. For fairly obvious reasons. And, like all radioactive stuff, they don’t exactly grow on trees. They have to be made. Created in labs. Polonium can in fact be processed, but the largest quantity ever made by this produced 9mg of the stuff from 37 tons of radium residues. What could be called ‘a poor yield’. And not really something you could do in a hotel room. Well, maybe if the room was on the ground floor near the car park. “I’m expecting a delivery today, will you have it sent to my room please”.

So we’ll establish that Polonium-210 is not readily available. You need to have it. And who is more likely to have some, ready prepared and pre-dissolved in acid (the only way to transport it)? A vicar? A traffic warden? A waiter on the staff of a west end hotel? A chambermaid (with or without requisite uniform)? Or a former (ish) KGB agent? Answers on a postcard…

Furthermore, Comrade Lugavoy, the KGB man, had flown in from Moscow that very morning. And it must be understood that Lugavoy, though doubtless deadly with a kalashnikov, a garrote-wire, ice-pick or blade, is something of a klutz. Because his hotel room was covered in radioactive residue. Not available in the mini-bar. So whilst preparing his poison of choice, Andrei splashed it all over the fucking place. Mel hates it when I splash shower gel all over the sink, can you imagine how she’d be with radioactive isotopes??

The trail then moves to the Milennium Hotel. And its an easy trail. By the very nature of radioactivity; its active. In the case of Polonium-210, it has a half-life of 138 days. Which means in that period, it loses half its potency. In the next 138 days it halves again, becoming a quarter the potency of the original. You following this? You should know it from year 9 physics, ya dipstick.

The teapot used for the victim’s tea set the geiger counter into a frenzy. As did the cup. And, later, Litvinenko’s body. And then, as would be expected by any murderer, thug, hit-man, traitor, no-goodnik or any other vile and evil creature; they went to the Emirates to watch Arsenal. Where the trail of radioactivity continued. And oddly, this trail ended only when Lugavoy left the country the following day. What a coincidence.

As a ‘whodunnit’ its not a very good one. As a ‘why-dunnit’, Litvinenko was basically a traitor to Russia and hated by them all. The only interesting bit is the ‘who-sanctioned-it’? And when it comes to such things, in fact to everything, there’s only one man for whom the buck stops. Vladimir Putin.

We should… we should… hit men on British soil!!!!… we should… British subjects (he’d acquired his citizenship just days before the event) murdered in broad daylight!!!… we should…

I don’t know. What should we do?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Tina Fey had the easiest job in the world. Satirising Sarah Palin. Because Sarah Palin says the most ridiculous things, all Tina has to do to get loads of laughs is just repeat them. Sarah did all the work, back when she was running to be vice-president to John McCain in 2008, creating the easiest path for Barak Obama to win his first election.

“If God had not intended us to eat animals, how come he made ’em out of meat?” she stated. And its a good point. One with which I heartily agree.

“The only thing that stops a bad guy with a nuke is a good guy with a nuke”. Another statement that, whilst lacking subtlety (Sarah NEVER does subtle) is something that appeals not only to the gung-ho predominant spirit of middle American, but has a certain home truthism appeal to everyone except Jeremy Corbyn and Emily Thornbury (his new shadow defence secretary).

Sarah knew nothing about the economy. Not much about policy. Agreed with waterboarding. Loves guns. Shoots animals. For fun. And is more prone to malapropisms than was George W Bush (and that’s a very high bar).

Yet masses of Americans loved her. For her normality. For her hockey mumminess. For her ability to make a point they could immediately relate to and agree with, even if it was brutally unencumbered by any concession to political correctness or even common decency. She spoke her mind. What there is of it.

And like Nigel Farage and most of the far right, making outspoken soundbytes is an easy way to score points on a ‘gut reaction’ level’. That’s the success of the Daily Mail. To say things that most think but won’t say out loud. Things that don’t bear much scrutiny, aren’t in any way practical, but just ‘feel good’ on a very superficial level.

Sarah is now 120% behind Donald Trump. They are kindred spirits. Mind speakers. Joint believers that everything America ever does is right and good because America has done it. No other reason is required. A good nation can only do good. They’re not into objective validation. Not at all.

“People have a constitutional right to burn a Koran if they want to, but doing so is insensitive and an unnecessary provocation. Like building a mosque at Ground Zero”. Sometimes even Sarah gets it right.

Oddly, though I generally detest all hard-right people, I really like Sarah Palin. Probably just because she’s funny, but I kind of admire not only that some of what she says is indeed what we all think, but also because she makes no claims to be anything she isn’t.

But I just hate Donald Trump. He’s like the unfunny version with a stupid comb-over. All the spite and venom, none of the wit and humour. You can relate to her; not to him.

Happy Thursday, after a magical win for Spurs last night. Shame we didn’t get 3 points for it, but that’s the magic of the FA Cup.

A xxxx

What do you do in your spare time? Do you have any spare time?

Because there’s a lovely picture in the paper of Arsenal player, Jack Wilshere, doing visits at Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital. Ahhhh. But Jack has lots of spare time. Nothing but spare time. He’s almost retired from football now, having not played since… well, long time. And I don’t know what the going rate is, pay-wise, for a chain-smoking, tattooed, night-club loving, permanently-injured midfielder, currently, but I reckon its gotta be 50 to 80 grand a week. So well done Jack.

Whereas West Ham star striker Diafra Sakho prefers going out in his spare time, driving round in his £200,000 Lamborghini Hurrican, and visiting fans. Rather unconventionally maybe, but the wall he smashed through in his supercar (apparently writing it off) belonged to a family of West Ham fans, who were (almost) thrilled that of all the garden walls, and cars in driveways (that got rather damaged too) in the country, Sakho chose to destroy theirs. What an honour.

Who said ‘there’s too much money in football’? Come on. Own up, who said it???

The second music star to die in 7 days. The third serious ‘celeb’ to engage in bucket kickage occurred when Glen Frey died yesterday. The man (co-)wrote ‘Hotel California’. You can’t be more brilliant than that. And he invented The Eagles himself. Created them, kept them together through the drink, drugs and women years, brought them back again after the inevitable ego/power/artistic difference/royalty wrangle break ups and was, by all accounts (that’d be Don Henley then) was the driving force behind the band. Great singer, wonderful guitarist, brilliant songwriter, what a fucking loss that is. And only 67. He didn’t even wait the extra 2 years to be the third in the ’69 Club’ with Bowie and Alan Rickman.

There again; he was always his own man.

Gambling corruption in tennis? Whatever next? Cricket??? Oh, done that already. Football? Been there. Athletics? Rife with it. Snooker? Pretty much every tournament.

I’ll come clean. In 2003 I played a tennis match against me mate Gersh and I threw the first set. Just like that. Threw it. A far eastern syndicate (Mr Chan from the take-away down the road) had bet a fiver with his mum on me to lose it and he gave me £1.24 to do so. Well, an extra portion of special fried rice. Which was never really that special anyway. Such is the constant pressure on us sports stars.

RIP Don Henley. You can check out any time you like; but you can never leave.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Every time I go on holiday I return with a suntan, peeling skin on my legs, a bottle of some ‘local’ variety of rum/vodka/whisky, a sombrero (not after the Scotland trip, granted, bought a sporran, kept falling off me head) fifteen boxes of the locally grown tea/coffee/herbal shit/whatever that will never be consumed in the UK and will be summarily dumped, unopened 15 months later… and a beard.

I don’t understand it either. I do nothing and it just grows. As if by magic.

Maybe it has something to do with not shaving. You do da maff.

But shaving is a chore. Therefore, in holiday mode, I try and avoid the normal, certainly the mundane, the trivial, the unnecessary. So I don’t shave. Neither does Mel. Who never notices that I’ve grown a beard. Today’s ‘shadow’ is tomorrow’s stubble is the week hence’s beard. It sneaks up on her. Or maybe, familiarity just does breed contempt. And if nothing else, I have always been worthy of contempt.

Then back home, the first visit from the daughters, or ‘the beard police’ as they’re collectively known, brings a hail of ‘eeeuuwww, get rid of that beard. Its horrible. Its yeuchy. Makes you look old!!!’ They know precisely which buttons to push, my gels, bless ’em.

So I thought, oh well, I’ll shave it off. Then I opened the paper today. And realised that my beard could save my life!!!

Ok, overstating a touch, as ya do, but really it was there in black, white and wishful thinking. An article by a doctor, no less. And apparently they were examining beards in a lab, pretty much so they could slag them off as ‘dirty, unhygienic things’ like the guy in Roald Dahl’s ‘The Twits’. Full of rubbish, old food, snot, pollution, coke cans, old car tyres, broken fridges, all the usual. But what they found was that in among the multitude of bacteria contained in the beard (same as on an unbearded face, so don’t get smug, Ladies) there were indeed other, more beardy bacteria too. But they were good. They were healthy. They were even natural anti-biotics. Could fight infection. Save my life.

So the beard is staying. Even though its more ‘old rabbi’ than young hipster, I don’t care. If God had intended man to shave, he wouldn’t have set the price of razor blades so ridiculously high.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There are very few teams that Arsenal can’t beat on their day. But one of them is Stoke. On pretty much any day. So for that reason alone, I like Stoke. Not the place; I’ve been there, its horrible. But the football team. Mark Hughes’ boys. Stoke City FC.

They’ve always been seen as a sluggish team of thugs, louts and overly physical leg-breakers. And quite often this view has been pretty much spot on. Its what they were. Particularly under Pulis. When, one sunny afternoon, Ryan Shawcross did in fact break Aaron Ramsey’s leg. It was a fair tackle. For Stoke. Anywhere else it was common assault.

The defining Stoke players, for me, other than Shawcross, were (both have left now) Robert Huth and Charlie Adam. Both good, solid players, both born without the filter that helps with certain decisions of a physical nature. Both prepared to do anything to get to the ball first, or ensure that if they don’t, the person who does ain’t goin’ nowhere with it. Both great exponents of the backarm smash. Like the old forearm smash in wrestling, but done with the leading arm going backwards; away from the referee. Into the head, chest, groin of the man they’re marking.

And Arsenal, who always favour fast, light, agile players, could never answer Stoke’s brutal physicality. So instead they moaned (well; Wenger moaned) that ‘this is not football; its more like rugby’ on one instance.

But Under Sparky Stoke have not so much changed as evolved. A little. Though still closer to Neanderthals than Homo Sapiens on many levels, the manager has introduced players who are actually footballers rather than cage fighters. Just a few. A scattering.

But its enough. They now play football. And they play it well. With Bojan, the ex-Barcelona player running midfield and the threatening Arnautovich up front, Stoke now play a faster game, more of a passing game, more of… an Arsenal game.

So yesterday’s meeting of the two was not the usual man versus beast struggle, the pretty little Luke Skywalkers against the might of the Stormtroopers; no this was two teams with converging styles. With Stoke inevitably a bit stronger, a bit slower, a bit more violent. And for a nil-nil draw, it was good to watch. Best of all was the feeling that Arsenal remained throughout the entire match, rather uncomfortable.

Shame Man United beat Liverpool and closed the gap on Spurs, but that’s life.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

My mate Nathan knows more about movies than anyone else I know. I’m not talking about naming the third Tarantino (Jackie Brown) or who played a one-line walk-on part in The Graduate (Richard Dreyfuss), cos everyone knows dat shit. Nathan knows EVERYTHING. Who the first grip’s second assistant in Gone with the Wind was married to before the sex change. Where the plane at the end of Casablanca was bought, and from whom. Where the Marx Brothers had their barmitzvahs, and who catered. Everything.

And he hates the Everyman Cinemas. Hates them. “Coffee shops with a movie screen” he scathingly accuses. And he’s a judge, so he knows about accusations. So he won’t go to the Everyman. He is the ultimate movie-snob, refusing even to go to where most movie snobs (that’d be me, then) find sanctuary and comfort from the multiplex masses of popcorn munchers.

So I wonder what he’d make of the Picturehouse, Crouch End?

I went there last night and it is fantastic. Saw ‘Joy’ which was pretty good, but the whole experience was just fab.

It only opened in November so that explained why I’d never heard of it before. They’ve kind’a kept it quiet. Not the cleverest marketing tool. Yet it was busy. And its got 5 screens. The one we sat in had 21 seats. Really comfortable, individually reclining seats with lots of room. And the clearest screen I’ve ever peered at for 2 hours.

But there’s a coffee shop on the ground floor. Oh dear. And if that won’t have Nathan scampering off to the NFT on the South Bank, then the restaurant on the first floor probably would.

The place is minimalist heaven, bare brick walls, open scaffolding in orange, like a giant Meccano set, and it is just fab. Two full bars, you can eat, drink and slurp to your heart’s content, BEFORE the movie.

And its cheaper than the Everyman. Go there now.

Though how can you when Liverpool kick off against Man United in just a couple hours? And then Stoke, my team for the day, play the Arse at 4. And all after Spurs fairly wonderful-ish win yesterday????

Joy is a joy. But Jennifer Lawrence is something way beyond that. In most of the movie she’s scruffy, unpolished, almost ‘au natural’ but with clothes on. Primark clothes. And yet she simply mesmerises. Her presence, and her wonderful voice, simply possess you. Ok, they possess me. Whatever ‘star quality’ may be, J-Law simply has it in vast abundance.

Happy snowy sunday (my tennis courts at 10 this morning, when I went to check them out).

A xxxx

You kind of accept the world as it is. Things change and generally, you just go with the flow. You don’t shout that someone’s of a certain race or creed in public, you rarely call someone a ‘poof’, and never if he is a ‘poof’, and you don’t call women bitches. Even if they are or can be at times. Never. Not on my watch. Not in 2016.

Because we’re into the ‘post-feminist’ era. Meaning its already happened, equality is rife (like influenza and terrorism) and within about 200 to 300 years there may even be equal pay in the City. Well, not everyone can move at the same pace.

But we accept feminism as a good thing. Equal rights for all. Even (however reluctantly) women.

So I thought.

Then on Monday night I watched a really cool guy on the BBC going round finding anti-feminists. Not just people (like the vast majority) who go with the flow, who don’t care one way or another, who maintain their chauvinism but keep it quiet; down the pub; between the boys. No, these are outspoken anti-feminists. They hate feminism. They think its gone to far. The feel that men are now downtrodden and given less rights. Or they are just rapists (according to the true feminist line).

But he found anti-feminists. People who not only hate feminism but stand at Hyde Park Corner to announce that to the world. And also, obviously, hook up on anonymous web sites using anonymous names which really shows their level of commitment. Feeling that feminism has ‘gone too far’. Interesting things like: there is in every European community ministers responsible for women’s rights. There are laws protecting women’s rights. Yet no equivalents for men.

Then the other day, Emma Watson, who retired as Hermoine the witch (not ‘bitch’ but the jury’s out on that one) to become the UN ambassador for women, tweeted after the death of her mate and former Hogwarts teacher, Alan Rickman, her sorrow at his death. And posted Rickman’s quote about men being feminists.

And anti-fems immediately attacked her for ‘pushing her own agenda’ and ‘using his death’ and such tosh.

I really think anti-feminism is the way forward, but behaviour like that against a good looking woman could really set their cause back decades.

Happy knuckle-dragging

A xxxx

Now this is funny. In a rather ‘odd’, even macabre way. But we all look for patterns in life. Particularly in tragedy. I don’t know why, they’re not particularly comforting, but we do. Its the human condition. One of them, anyway.

So Amy Winehouse died at 27. As did; Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Kobaine, Janis Joplin, Bryan Jones and a host of others. We look for ‘reasons’. What happens at 27 that doesn’t at 26 or 28 or 32? No idea. Just a coincidence? Or a pattern. None of them died of old age, nor illness in the normal sense of a terminal illness.

Then this very week, the ultimate Hero, David Bowie dies at 69. And yesterday the wonderful (didn’t know him at all, never met him, but the ‘wonderful’ really describes his stage personae and the image conveyed therein) Alan Rickman also died. Aged… 69!!! Snape is no more.

Maybe God has culls. Of famous people (no-one counts the millions of other deaths that inevitably occur every year, however tragic each and every one may be in his/her own household). Kind’a ‘thinning out the herd’ of rock musicians, artists, actors, due to over-supply which may cause problems in the food chain. And that’s different from when politicians die because of problems on the gravy-train.

Alan Rickman. One of our favourite actors. So suave. So smooth. So definitively British in every way. Even when playing an American villain, or a French courtier, he did it in English. Plummy English. Unapologetically so. And funny. So deliciously, wryly funny.

And so back to Bowie. Another fabulously English man. Born in Brixton. He never really left. Other than in every real sense of the word ‘left’. Yet he too was a definitive Brit. He always sang in ‘English’. Which may sound like, er, obvious. But its not. Most British singers sing in American. From Robert Plant to Mary Hopkin. American is the language of rock, almost the language of song. But not Bowie. He stuck with his proper pronunciation throughout his career. Ground Control to Major Tom. In English.

Even the wonderful Adele sings in English. Most of the time. But for her that is an accent of choice. And different from her natural tongue, which is cor-blimey, strike-a-light, Cockney scumstress. And if you doubt that, please check out this fantastic link to the goddess of the modern ballad singing and chatting in the car with James Cordon. It is not only brilliant but is in such ‘proper’ English that it required subtitles so Americans could follow it.

http://www.buzzfeed.com/scottybryan/james-corden-adele#.qdmzZ04B84

Happy Friday

A xxxx

What day was it yesterday? Must have been a Saturday because there was a full fixture list playing. But if it was Saturday why was I working? And because of that, Spurs lost. Because I didn’t have the time to agonise, analyse and consider all the possible implications and ramifications and potential consequences of the matches. Things that are very important for my team’s success. I failed them.

And they failed me.

HOW CAN YA FUCKING LOSE TO LEICESTER CITY????? It was all set up. We softened them up on Sunday in the Cup and had them just where we needed them (??) We just had to have lots of possession; we did that; we needed loads of strikes on goal; we did that; and we needed to score loads of goals. Hmmmmm. Didn’t happen. Couldn’t score even one.

We went round to friends for dinner. Left home at 8.15 and the Spurs match was 0-0. Whereas over at Anfield, Liverpool were 1-0 up against the Arse. So far so good. Chelsea were 1-0 up against West Brom.

We had drinks, nibbled some nibbles, and I fretted. We sat down and had some soup. Very nice soup, in fact, but that wasn’t the point and it didn’t stop me fretting. Mark’s phone was on the table. I kept staring at it. Trying to act normal. Trying to ignore it and the secrets it held. Trying to act cool.

FOR GOD’S SAKE GET THE SCORES UP!!!! I said in mid-soup-spoonage, thrusting his phone in his face. And Liverpool were 2-2 with Arsenal and Spurs still 0-0.

I was enjoying some other food some minutes later but couldn’t concentrate on my eating. Was trying to keep cool, “oh, so Florence was in Australia, how lovely for her, blah, blah, blah”, “terrible thing about the Cuban missile crisis…” (Cuban Missile Crisis??? what the f-? try to concentrate!), “have you seen the new Pochettino… sorry, Tarantino movie yet?”

Grabbed the phone, Leicester had just scored. Arsenal were 3-2 up, the fucking world was ending right there on that stupid little screen. Man City were 0-0 which would have been good except we were 0-1 which was not good. Not good at all. Very bad.

At least Liverpool pulled one back at the end. As did West Brom at Chelsea. But not us. Not Spurs. Not my team.

The fruit salad was fab, but tasted like wood in my mouth. The world went dark. The rains started. Even God was pissed off.

I love football.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I love a good strike. No, really, its one of my favourite things. Dummett’s last minute strike last night against Manchester United was a thing of beauty, a thing of glory, a thing of wonder. Especially as it kept United well below Spurs in the table. And added yet more misery to the Old Trafforders already horrible season. Though at least they managed 2 first half goals. Which is 2 more than in the first halves of their last 10 games combined.

But this isn’t about striking. Its about striking. Workers’ rights. Trade unions. Militants and protests. More money, less hours, more rights and the new one: ‘work/life balance’. Ooooh, that’s very post-milenial. Very Zen. Very zeitgeist.

We have two strikes currently on display. I can offer you the junior doctors, or I can throw in the Tube workers. Buy one get one free. January sale on withdrawing labour.

And whilst I have absolutely no sympathy for the tube workers, or rather, for their obnoxious and toxic leaders and think they should sack every single tube worker who carries a union card and just start again, I’m fully in favour of the action by the hospital Docs.

This is not just because I’m an every day tube commuter but not normally a hospital patient, but that may have something to do with it. Nor is it because doctors are good people and tube workers aren’t. Its not even because I agree with the reasons for the hospital strikes (which I really do) and completely disagree with those for the tube strike (which I do).

Its because the Doctors, as well as having a very good point to make, striked (struck? stricked??) for the first time in 40 years yesterday. Oddly, ‘to save the NHS’. Oddly because Jeremy Hunt, the health tosser, sorry, health minister, has refused the demands from the doctors ‘to save the NHS’.

The fact the doctors are having this rarest of strikes outlines the severity of their problems. They don’t ‘lay down tools’ for no good reason.

Whereas we have a tube strike about once a month. During ‘strike season’, which runs from January 1st to December 31st every year. They strike for more pay. They strike for less hours. They strike because Boris announced a 24-hour tube service. They strike because a driver was sacked; for being drunk three times whilst driving a train. They strike when a worker was dismissed for being ‘on sick leave’ for 3 months whilst being filmed on the golf course and at the gym every day. They earn shit-loads of money, work about 6 hours a week so now its all about ‘work/life balance’. Which for them is tipped rather heavily in the ‘life’ side.

However… I can’t understand why reasonable people can’t resolve their differences without resorting to a withdrawal of labour. The Tube union leaders simply are not reasonable people. They’re barely people at all, in fact. But the doctors are reasonable. And not money-motivated. Not as juniors anyway. Therefore Jeremy Hunt must be unreasonable. Its just logic.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx