Andy's Glasses

I’m really not a technophobe. I hate most of it, granted, won’t use Facebook, never had a twitter, resist downloading apps until I’m physically forced to at gunpoint and generally view ‘change’ as a bad thing. Not ‘changes’; that was a great song by Bowie… ahhhhhhh. But change; bad thing.

So why do I need a car that drives itself? And can I still ask that question whilst really appreciating the incredible significance of what such a creation represents?

Because a car that drives itself is really the pinnacle of artificial intelligence. Not like my own version in which I pretend to know lots of shit about everything but really learned most of it from a Cornflakes packet or Wikipedia. No, proper AI.

They have ‘robots’. Mainly in China and Japan. They’re obsessed with them. And they sweep the floor and walk up stairs, which is all well and good but its not exactly R2D2, is it? High tech, lots of programmed responses, its not AI. That starts when independent interaction takes place and the ability to respond independently to changing environments. Learning as it goes along. The wonderful gap between an ipad and the Terminator scenario when the computers take over the whole world and blow it up. AI is the ‘happy medium’. Computers that can act independently but don’t control weapons or have ideas above themselves.

Tesla have made a car that drives itself. Better than Google’s. Better than everyone’s. Because that what Elon Musk does. He invents amazing things that work not just better than everyone else’s but are 20 years ahead of what anyone else has even thought of.

You ‘summon’ the car with a remote. And it comes out of the garage and finds you. Bit of a problem if you don’t have an electric door on the garage, but these are technical details. You will, in time, be able to summon the car across great distances. Like from New York to San Francisco. The car will leave, charge itself up along the way at various points and arrive in California with no speeding tickets, no hitch-hikers, just the car. Maybe wash itself, I don’t know.

Ok, it might be easier, certainly quicker, to just, rent a car. But this is about potential.

Apparently on you-tube there are loads of videos of the test drives of this new car. And they’re funny. Changing lanes for no reason. Bit of a swerve here and there, probably because the guy in the next car was getting an email and it upset the Tesla’s electronic wizardry. I’m not saying the car’s perfect. Apparently its ‘not very good with small obstructions’. I need more information about that, lots more information. Like, what is a ‘small obstruction’? A cat? A lamppost?? A child???

But its early days.

One last question. What do I do whilst the car is driving itself? What is my purpose in life? Why am I here if I’m no longer needed? Would I sit in the back and pretend I have an invisible chauffeur? Or let the car drive but sit there panicking in the driver’s seat in case something goes wrong?

Is having a car that drives itself like having a dog that shits for itself? Deep philosophical questions.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

David Bowie is dead. And this is not like ‘Ziggy Stardust is dead’ or ‘Aladdin Sane is dead’, this is for real and permanent and forever.

Yet when celebrities die, its different from when, like, Uncle Morty dies. You don’t know them. You don’t speak to them. You’ve never met them, other than perhaps some fleeting glimpse over a million heads at the Hammersmith Odeon. So you ‘know’ these people through their work, be they singers, artists or actors. And their work lives on. Forever. Uncle Morty had a factory making knock-off Burberry handbags, so his work lives on for a little while, generally about 3 months til the strap breaks because the leather’s not real.

Yet I was really shocked this morning when I heard about Bowie. Because although I never met him, he was part of my life. Perhaps an even bigger part than Uncle Morty because he provided the soundtrack for my youth. A big part of it. Something he shares with Ozzie Osbourne, John Lennon, David Byrne and Shawaddywaddy.

I saw Bowie in 1972 at Romford Odeon. He was Ziggy Stardust. I went in plain clothes. In disguise. But I came out as Ziggy Stardust having been truly blown away as no concert since ever blew me quite that far away.

It was almost RIP for Spurs’ FA cup aspirations yesterday, with a last minute penalty by the one and only Harry Kane saving our blushes. Was it really a penalty? Ball, hand, that’s penalty to me. No point overthinking it.

But what about Oxford United? 2nd division rubbish beating premiership (strugglers) Swansea. Me mate Welsh Judith won’t be happy, that’s for sure, but that’s the magic of the FA cup.

And its not just magic. Its survival. Clubs like Oxford will have an annual turnover less than Wayne Rooney’s wages. They dream of just simply reaching the 3rd round of the cup and they pray that they meet a ‘big team’ because then the money they receive will keep them afloat for another year. To reach the 4th round will ensure their survival for a decade. I hope they get Man United. And beat them.

Happy Monday. Gotta go to work some time, I s’pose.

A xxxx

Wow!

That’s all you can say about Star Wars, part 14, The Empire… becomes empirical? Eats people?? Does something dastardly against furry creatures??? Whatever they call it, the latest Star Wars movie is simply brilliant. I loved it. I lived it. I hadn’t been in an x-fighter jet since 1973 but, like riding a bike (I fall off a lot), it just came back to me as The Force surged through my veins, my bones, my very entity.

The gel, Ray, is more than a little Keira Knighly in appearance, and like her lookalike, she’s not much of an actress, having no expression in between sunshine smile and frowning grimace. But who cares. She’s not there to act, just to run around in front of explosions. Which she does really well. Everyone else in the movie is great. And its funny. Its wry. It has the quick wit of the original and half the cast of that too.

Princess Leia returns, with a re-built Carrie Fisher looking not quite as in control of her facial movements, nor her girth, as she was 40 years ago. Quel surprise. Harrison Ford was a slower, quieter Hans Solo and only went on one run, and not for very far and he didn’t exactly do it like Mo Farrah. But he tried.

Its inevitably very action-packed and exciting. In fact its bloody wonderful. Illogical, nonsensical, but you’re not there to look that deep. Its a feelgood movie with a happy ending. Not in that way. Yet it also leaves everything open for part 2 of the next trilogy. Or part 8 of the series. Or when the Empire does something else.

Who cares what they do, long as they do it that well.

Off to another (frikkin) airport soon. Home in time for tennis tomorrow.

Happy… yeah, right

A xxxx

So as the honeymoon begins for Johnny and Tali today, the honeymoon for the weather here in Israel changes. Yesterday it was Mediterranean spring, today its Midwest Hurricane. Wet, dark and really really windy. But heh, we never expected summer here; not in Jan, and other than yesterday morning, we didn’t get it.

Thus we’re going to see Star Wars movie tonight, down the road in Ramat Hasharon. As ya do.

The wedding was fab. It took place on a kibbutz. Which are vast, sprawling places of industry and commerce that work as a collective. Its an old socialist ideal that worked pretty well in the 40s and 50s when everyone who hated fascism was a socialist or communist, and the state here subsidised the kibbutzim to keep them viable. By the 60s and the cold war most socialist ideals had evaporated into one kind of American dream or other so the kibbutzim either turned a real profit or dissolved.

The one last night has, among its other enterprises, entered the world of ‘party venue’. So you drive into the kibbutz (always on massive, thousands of acres, plots) and you go off-road down an unpaved driveway for about a mile into the fucking wilderness (like Moses in a rental Peugeot) and darkness and then, ka-boom, there’s a massive (you could have probably up to about 1000 people seated at tables in there, I reckon) purpose built hall. And it is magnificent and beautiful and opens on three sides to the lovely countryside and just wow!

There were only (its only ‘only’ if I’m not paying) about 250 people there and that was just comfortable and great. The only potential problem was that, in deference to the groom’s veganism, this was a strictly vegan wedding. Oh. Hmmm. How d’ya like yer lettuce leaves, fried or boiled? Two asparagus tips and a vat of sodding tofu. Great.

Yet, to my and every other carnivore’s great surprise and pleasure, the food was absolutely brilliant. So brilliant that I’ve decided not to eat meat until tonight. As a show of solidarity.

Today, going down in the lift we were talking to a ‘cable guy’. Israeli, unsurprisingly. ‘Oh, you’re going for a walk’, he said. ‘Do you have a gun?’ Do I fucking need one?? To walk??? He pulled up his t-shirt to show us the automatic holstered on his hip. Yeah, you may need one. The reality of life in this otherwise laid-back, chilled-out, cafe-societied foody heaven by the seaside.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So we flew once more. Arrived at Ben Gurion airport, ran out, grabbed the car (in reality this took an incredibly impatient and frustrating 40 minutes, for a car pre-booked and arranged) drove into Tel Aviv (20 minutes on a good night) and arrived at the restaurant for the ‘pre-wedding; friends-from-over-somewheres dinner’ just an hour late. Do not pass ‘go’, do not collect 200 sheckels, do not shower, shave nor change. Then we had to park. By which time it was another half an hour. But who cares? We’d arrived. And they hadn’t served the main course yet. I’d packed a doggy bag just in case. A great night. And fortunately not a very late night. As we still had to drive elsewhere to bed down. Tonight is the wedding. Ahhhhhh.

Meanwhile, what’s happening back home? Its all a disaster. Jeremy Corbyn is turning into a true communist leader. Everyone who disagrees with him is taken to the river and ice-picked in the ear before being dumped in, laden down with bricks. Three more of his ministers were sacked this week. Ok, not murdered in any literal sense, but Jeremy ‘the great listener’ has become Jeremy ‘the great listener of people who say exactly what he likes to hear’. Like Stalin. So say what you like in praise of the IRA or Hezbollah, accuse ‘the West’ of being the problem responsible for terrorist attacks in Paris, but say anything outside the left-wing, anti-tory, nuclear disarmament line and, in the words of Alan Sugar: you’re DEAD.

But there’s good news on the horizon. The result of Saudi Arabia and Iran falling foul of each other is that oil prices have dropped yet further. I’m hoping for all out war then we might get to gas up for under a quid a litre. Surely that’s worth a total nuclear bloodbath, no??

And its a quite ridiculous situation out there, or perhaps ‘over here’ in the middle east. As Iran has upset the Saudis in response to the Kingdom killing Iran’s favourite Imam. Although when you’re ‘executing’ 47 people in one go, they may have just pulled the wrong beard out of the crowd. Who knows. So diplomatic relations have been severed between the two nations. The biggest Sunni country in the region, Saudi, and the biggest Shia anywhere, Iran. And as the Saudis are now almost seen (as they should be) as baddies, its time that the nation who are (other than North Korea) the second most oppressive and barbaric on the planet, should not be viewed as ‘our ally’ because they buy a few of our bombs. They invented Wahabism, the satanic version of Islam upon which every jihadi group is based. The extreme version of sharia. Women don’t drive, vote, study there, gays are executed, though taxes are low, if you’re looking for a sound financially beneficial move.

So Iran have become almost ‘the good guys’ in this.

And that’s when you KNOW that the world is in big trouble.

Off to a wedding, happy days and mazzletovs

A xxxx

So we arrived back this morning. Landed 6am. At (fucking) Gatwick. An airport designed to be as inconvenient and inaccessible as possible for me. There’s no easy way to get there; there’s no quick way to get there. There’s not even a relatively shitty way to get there. But heh? Small (ish) price to pay for such a wonderful holiday.

Which we booked last January. We like to book ‘next Christmas’ as early as possible. So we did.

Then, in July I had an email from my bestest and oldest mate, the one who lives in Montpellier, whose son was engaged a little earlier. ‘Jonathan’s getting married’. Yippee. ‘In January’. Oh. ‘Early January’. Ohhhhhh. ‘In Israel’. Oyyyyyyyy. But fortunately it was well doable. Because the wedding’s not til the 7th and as we were arriving back today, the 5th, that was never going to be a problem. Loads of time. Almost 30 hours between landing at Gatwick and taking off from Luton. Or, 26 washing machine cycles, as we call it. Ok, as Mel calls it. I’m happy to take dirty stuff with. Israel’s dead casual.

And on that long, seemingly never-ending drag round the M25, all the talk on the radio was of the Jihadi-Babi. The four year old kid being used in the latest ISIS video. A new low for the lowest group of people the world has ever known. This poor kid was born, in Britain, unlucky enough to have a jihadi-daddi who married an utter-nutter; a white Christian who converted to Islam, had four kids and took them all to Syria with her in 2012. For… a better life? For a land flowing with golden opportunities? Even though it looks like rubble? No, she took them there so that she could bring them up, in between making recruitment videos herself, in an atmosphere so toxic, so violent and so revolting to any evolved human being that these poor kids have no hope in life. They stay there and get killed. Or they come home and forever resent being taken from mummy and daddy.

They may even resent Rafa Benitez. Though all he did was fail to win anything at Real Madrid in the last 6 months, so he’s gone. Possibly opening the door for Gareth Bale, a big Rafa fan, to leave? Wow. Queue here. All you need is the probable £150mil they’ll want for him. Oh, and another 15 mil in yearly wages.

Be interesting to see how Zizou fares as a manager. His first proper job in that sphere. So why not use the biggest club on the planet for practice. Good luck Zinedine. They love you in Madrid. For the moment.

Happy fucked-if-I-know-what-day-or-time-it-is… day.

A xxxx

We’re in Negril, Jamaica. In a place called ‘7 mile beach’. I really don’t have to explain why its called that. If we walk 5 miles along the beach, we’re in Negril. Big town. 34 people live there. But its not about the town (which is why we haven’t bothered going there), its about the beach. Because in the 5 miles that we have walked numerous times, there is not one stone. Not one seashell. No seaweed, no leaves from the trees. Nuffink. Just soft, golden sand. So perfect that it actually takes a week before you realise that you are on one of nature’s places of perfection. Nothing to step on other than sand. And the wasp that Mel managed the other day, but you can’t blame the beach for that; it was God’s will.

If you go 2 miles in the other direction, the beach ends, it peters out. And the last half mile is not nice, sand-wise. Bit gritty for my spoilt feet. Bit rough. Not as pretty. Its only accessible through a guarded gate. The only way to enter…

Willy Beach.

Its actually a resort called ‘Hedonism’ (it really is, I kid you not). And its a naturist beach. So we entered. Fully clothed. Well, a swimsuit between us. Because we wanted to find if we could get beyond Hedonism to further up the coast. Honest. Which you can’t.

I have no issue with naturism. Just with the type of people who pursue it. Walking round with your dick hanging out in public is, for me, anything but natural. And oddly, a woman in a bikini is a glorious thing (or can be), whereas a naked 60-year old with varicose veins and weight issues, is not. Not ever. Its horrid mummy, make it go away. What was most odd though was that all these fat, old, wrinkled, saggy Germans (surely they were Germans; ALL nudists are German) spoke with American accents. Bizarre.

We fly home today. And arrive back early tomorrow. Which is Tuesday. I hope. Because on Wednesday we fly to Tel Aviv. More later. Much, much later, whatever fucking time-zone I might be in.

Happy Days

A xxxx

The thing with resort type holidays is that the days are all (fabulously, miraculously, divinely) similar. Whether we choose to swim first, then walk a few miles up the beach, or go cycling in the gym before breakfast or before lunch, or which restaurant you eat which meal in, is all subject to whim. And to limited availability, which really, is what you want. And you see the same people pretty much on the same part of the beach, every day. And you try to ignore them as much as you can, obviously, but sometimes that is rendered impossible.

By something so simple and mundane as a Spurs cap.

Noticed by the doctor from Manchester on my first day. His wife is a Manchester United fan. Shame for her.

‘Oh, you’re a Spurs fan’, said little ginger-haired, pink-skin burner from his factor 80’d up patch of shade. ‘Well, Nick’ (guy in the cabana next to mine; bloody cheek) ‘is a massive Everton fan’. Which could be misconstrued as rudeness because Nick carries about 7 stone excess round his waist. Or, another, small Everton fan, perhaps, to keep up numbers. And, of course, Spurs play Everton tomorrow. Big game. They’re all big here. Just big for different people. Or big for different big people.

Little sun-burner is a Liverpool fan. Insanely so. The sanity in question due to his heart-felt belief that the red scousers could win the league this year. Should win it. Almost inconceivable that they won’t. Even after his heart-shattering defeat to West Ham today.

Whereas on the very next sunbed is Siddy Sunderland (not his real name; that’s withheld for legal reasons and because I don’t know it). Who was leaping for joy as his lowly team actually managed to win a game against the only team currently lower, Aston Villa.

I haven’t so far (thank God) found any Arsenal fans. Maybe they hang out on a different part of the beach. A special part reserved for the very top teams’ fans. I haven’t been invited there so I wouldn’t know. And you can generally find an Arsenal fan because some poor northerner who supports Bolton or Port Vale or some such is punching the merry shit out of him shouting “shut the fuck up, you SMUG, ARROGANT BASTARD!!!!!”

Big game tomorrow. Come on you Spurs

A xxxx

I’ve been watching BBC World News service out here. Because I like the news. No, I love the news. I’m a news-whore. Can’t get enough. And you realise, watching BBC World Shit, that there actually isn’t enough. Not for me, and not to fill 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, f’rever and’ever.

So they repeat it. All the fucking time. If you watch it for more than 50 minutes, you’re back where you came in. I actually sent the BBC and email on monday complaining that the world service on tv is not just mind-numbingly dull and repetitive, but also almost completely void of football. I mean; what the f-??? Its British. I pay my license fee but just happen to be in Jamaica. I need a round up. I need the goals. I need English football. And I can’t get any from the British Broadcasting Cretins. I want my money back.

So I turned over to CNN. And Fox News. Both of which are currently engaged in a Cosby-a-thon. Up to 97 hours of solid coverage of the ‘Bill Cosby affair’. Or ‘affairs’. Or ‘rapes’. Allegedly. Lots of allegedlies. One lawyer out of every 4 in America is currently on tv news channels questioning the validity of 24-year-old evidence; its relevance, whether the judge should be censured if he accepts it…zzzzzzzzzzzzz…

This isn’t underage stuff; even the Americans can’t compete with has-been British celebs on that count. And its not mere ‘groping’ or mild-mannered-molestation. This is ‘he fucking drugged me and raped me’. Holy shit.

He gave the girl in question quaaludes. Which, back in the day was the Americans’ drug of choice for a great night out. Drop a ‘lude and its party time. Have a few beers, smoke something pungent and way-hey-hey.

Unless you’re with Bill Cosby, in which case that same combination renders you unconscious and raped.

Bill Cosby was the biggest something or other on American tv. For decades. The Cosby Show. And now he’s old and a bit rickety. Though still must be accountable for his past actions, if they were naughty. Which they might have been. But how are we ever going to know? I wasn’t there. Were you? No, only Bill and the bird. He’s saying it was consensual, she’s saying not. In fact she’s shouting ‘HE DRUGGED ME!!!’ rather loudly.

At least it gives the news channels something to do in the quiet times.

Happy New Years Day 2016

A xxxx

So another fine year draws to its inevitable close. New Year’s Eve. And with it the obvious need and desire to work out whether this year past was a good one, whether improvements need to be made to ensure next year might be made even better. Changes to lifestyle, to diet, to plans and aspirations.

Naaaah; fuck dat, BRING US ANUVVER RUM’N’COKE, JAMAAL, AND PLENTY ICE.

There’s always been an unnecessary importance placed on New Years. As if it, and it alone, of the 365 days each year, has the power to change, influence and somehow affect the gods, the stars, your fortune, in a way the others lack. Just because you get more drunk, stay up later, watch a few fireworks, throw up and almost guarantee that the first day of the new, exiting, pulsating, filled with unknown promise, new year starts with a hangover and the mother of all headaches.

Even as a teen I felt unduly pressurised by the whole ‘new years’ thing. That it had to be the best, most exiting, most wonderful evening, filled with fun and friends and snogging and fun and more fun. Otherwise you might just as well not bother with the next 364 days, they’d be written off.

No longer. If we’re in bed by 11 tonight then so much the better. Who cares? Don’t like to be a killjoy but it is what it is. I may stay up a bit later and listen to the reggae band, or watch the fire-eaters, see a few fireworks. But I may not.

I’ve actually managed to upload a photo today. Is there no limit to my technical brilliance? And its a good one. I paid those two pelicans for their guest appearance in my sunset. Pleased to say they didn’t let me down.

So anyway, Happy New Years to everybody. 2016 is just about to begin.

A xxxx