Andy's Glasses

We’ve all been there. (Some of us far more often than we’d like). You get to your tube station and head for the escalators to take you upwards, skywards, streetwards. And there’s fifteen hundred people in the way (always) queuing to take the right hand side of the escalator, the ‘standing still’ side, and four people (me, Mel and 2 unknown hyperactives called Ron and Joan) barging through to get to the left-hand side, the ‘walking up’ one. And I’ve never understood why that is the case.

Do these people just ‘stand’ on their stairs at home? Do they just stand on ladders? What’s the point, you don’t get anywhere. Ahhh, but these stairs move for you. Yes, but if you move as well, its a very simple relativity equation required to show you that you will get there quicker. And its good for you.

There are signs. FAT LAZY BASTARDS ON THE RIGHT!!! Aimed mainly at tourists who require gentle nudging to get them off the walking side so they can enjoy the wonders of London from the stationary, fat bastard and foreigner side. And fit, healthy people, or even people who wish to become that way, head to the right.

Women in heels don’t count. Many can’t count. But all can possibly get stuck in the steps due to ridiculously impractical footwear. They can stand still as they like. They’re generally nice to look at as you walk past.

But the situation is such a problem at the ‘big, interchange’ stations that they’re trying something new at Holborn. No walking up allowed. How does that work?? Both sides standing. Hmmmmmm.

Because so few actually bother to walk up, they can’t load sufficient fat lazy bastards onto just one side quickly enough. So bugger the walkers, we can heap twice as many porkers onto the escalator as we could down just one half. Thus by stopping the one in twenty who actually appear to have somewhere they want to be, it actually increases the speed of passenger movement and prevents the big congestions.

Its just a n’experiment for a month. To see if anyone dies as a consequence. Which would only be someone like me who might explode due to frustration of being forced to keep still for 22 seconds.

But its so wrong. Why not just educate people (do they really not know this already???) that its good to MOVE YOUR LARDY ASS. That its quicker, better, nicer. And then ban people from standing still. Shoot them. Tip them off. Walk up both sides or take the bus. Disabled? Pregnant? Get a taxi.

Alternatively, whilst you have so many people milling around at the bottom of the escalators, a captive audience, sell them stuff. Food. Croissants. Bacon rolls. Cream buns. Bottles of coke (original, not lite).

I blame my mate, The Legend. He changed those lovely advertising posters that hadn’t changed since 1975 for flat screen digital moving advertising on the escalator walls, and as the general ‘nob on the street’ lives for staring at screens, they increase screen-time by standing rather than walking when you might be missing all that… er… something really riveting.

Won’t Leicester EVER lose????

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I don’t think I’m a bad person. I love my family. I give to charity. I help old ladies across the street. Then mug them. I give people the benefit of the doubt. Then hit them anyway. And I try to do the right thing at all times.

So why does it make me so happy when Arsenal lose a game of football? It was a cup match. It didn’t have any effect on me, my life, my team, my wife, nothing. Yet I was happy for them to lose. Maybe (he says trying to justify the indefensible) because it will affect their confidence which in turn will indeed help Spurs in the league.

Yet even if it had no effect there either; I’d be happy. Deliriously, deliciously happy. You’re right, I must be a very bad person.

And I take my punishment for it. If not exactly like a real man, then at least like a snivelling little 7 year old girl.

I’m punished by my car. Which, like me and many other things that are very old and very beautiful, is a little idiosyncratic. To say the least.

The problem stems from water. Everywhere, but ne’er a drop to drink. I don’t wanna fucking drink it, I wanna dry car. Water leaks into the boot. From where we do not know. And in the boot, buried, is a special pump. A vacuum pump. Oooohhhhh. And when it gets damp it blows a little fuse. Which affects the central locking system, the roof won’t come down and other little things don’t happen that should. But that’s ok. I keep a box of those fuses in the car specifically for the purpose, and the fuse box is located just behind the driver’s seat and the process takes (now, after doing it 235 times) about 30 seconds.

Then last week something really odd occurred. The central locking didn’t work. Fine; change the fuse. But the fuse box wouldn’t open. Nor the glove box, the central console or the boot. All centrally locked. Seemingly on a now permanent basis by the wonderful little pump in the boot. And the petrol filler cap; locked. On a car that does about 7 miles per gallon. Ahh, but there’s a manual petrol cap release. Its inside the boot. Which is also locked.

I found a mechanic who knows the car. Its not an uncommon problem. He was old. Like the car. “Need to change the fuse, mate”. I can’t open the fuse box. “Oh”. “Never mind, there’s another way in”. Ahhhhh, this is what we wanted to hear. As long as it wasn’t followed by ‘just take out the seats, remove the exhaust, lift the camshaft…’ Or worse still: ‘just costs £4,073.27’.

There’s a panel. Looks like trim on the side of the fuse box. Pulls out. Eureka. We changed the fuse and the world was sunny once more. And to prove it, I could even take the top down. And THEN, better still, Spurs won at Villa Park and went within 2 points of Leicester, 6 above Arsenal. I know, they have a game in hand. But that’s really only relevant if they win it.

Happy unlocked Monday, or ‘Mel’s birthday’ as its known round here.

A xxxx

Yeah-haah. This weekend every time I turn on the tv (other than the rugby; oh the wonderful rugby), its been country music. “But I don’t like Country music”, I think. Who does? A few inbred, cowboy-hatted truck driver rapists and their peroxided sisters/lovers/wives/rape-victims, (as if there’s a difference in Kentucky.) All in lines doing silly dancing whilst some good ole boys are shootin’ pool, a few others dressed in white robes are burning crosses and some limp, lame bearded has-been moans on about his dog dying so tragically, to the accompaniment of a teeth-jarring slide guitar played by a one-legged Vietnam vet draped in a confederate flag.

I don’t think that picture invokes any prejudice or preconceptions whatsoever.

And then they showed Dolly and Kenny singing ‘Islands in the Stream’, the most sickly, slimy saccharine of any song ever written, this one by, of all terrors, the Bee Gees, making it, quite frankly, the total Donald Trump of songs.

But I love that song!!!! Really love it. How the fuck did that ever happen? It represents everything bad, sad and tragic about the entire music industry, the poppiest, the loveliest, the singalong-est of all the trite, banal and useless songs ever. And I sing it loud and clear. Its a triplet: Dolly, Kenny and Me.

I’m ashamed to even admit such a thing. Not just that I like some Country songs, but that I like THAT song.

It was on a program about ‘duets’. Most of which are country. Though they also had a great film of Wayne Rooney and Ashley Young singing ‘still missing you’ and the classic of Ethel Merman and Kanye West singing ‘who the fuck are YOU???’

Never mind, when its over, there’s a programme with Bob (sharp intake of breath through the teeth) Harris. The man who inspired my entire youth. The man who gave us The Old Grey Whistle Test, where they played real music. Not pop rubbish. No singles. Nothing sweet. Proper ‘LP music’ for the rock devotees, for those who wouldn’t ever be so uncool as to watch Top of The Pops. And where’s Bob now? Today? For this programme? He’s in fucking Nashville. Sorting out Country Music. Would you adam’n’eve it? I watched it because it was on BBC4 and on the grounds that ‘I’ve already paid for it’, I might as well. Brilliant. Totally brilliant look at the Nashville scene.

But on principle, ‘thank God its over’, so I can revert to my ‘don’t like country music’ persona. Except on the other channel there’s Shania. Is she still alive? Is she still the one?

She looks fab. Gorgeous. Not quite as gorgeous as she once was (only George Clooney and Me get away with that) but acceptably ‘ok’. BUT, and its a big ‘but’, its a recent concert she gave at Caesar’s Palace in Vegas. Oh dear. The place where reality is suspended along with your bank balance and ‘old stars’ get the opportunity for one last gig before they die. Elvis did it. Tom Jones is still doing it. David Copperfiled’s been doing it so long he’s now a reincarnation. So Shania did it too.

And she came on stage on a horse. A fucking horse. To which (to whom??) she in fact sang ‘still the one’. She still loves her horse. That’s good to know. And in the old days Shania would pitch up on stage; just her, a stool and her Guiiiii-taaaaah. They don’t do that at Vegas. They had ‘SHANIA’ in fifty foot illuminated letters, dancers, a few orchestras, lazar lights, spotlights, fireworks, the full: ‘I may not be able to sing as well as I used to but LOOK AT ALL THIS SHIIIIIIT!!!’

I’m going to buy a stetson.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

In the ‘old days’ when Spurs played in grey, Arsenal in grey, Chelsea in a slightly different grey and Newcastle in black’n’white, football managers bossed the clubs. They also wore long, grey overcoats and grey hats. Underneath were suits and ties. All grey. Always. We watched them on tv. They were called ‘the Boss’ or ‘the Guv’nor’.

But they had power. And more importantly they had respect. Of the players, of the owners, of the fans. In fact the owners were generally families who’d owned the clubs for generations. They install a manager and it was a job with tenure. Bill Nicholson, Bob Paisley, Matt Busby, Bertie Mee, Don Revie, Brian Clough (though he moved clubs) were given clubs to manage and that’s what they did. Win or lose. Survive or get relegated. It was their sole responsibility.

Then came The Premiership. Then came money. Then came Sky. The devil’s (that’d be Rupert Murdoch, then) own quest for national, if not world, dominance.

It was a seed change. It was a revolution. The cash just flooded into the game. Players went from earning merely ridiculous wages to entering the film-star region of the super-rich. Football clubs became trinkets for the insanely wealthy to buy as a new hobby. You’re an oil sheikh with untold billions and not much to do with your life? Buy Manchester City. You’re a Russian Oligarch looking to launder some money and raise your profile high enough that Russian hit-squads can’t hit it? Buy Chelsea. You’re an American Sports Franchise serial addict; by Manchester United. Its easy.

Thus the manager, once esteemed, untouchable, revered, now faced a growing dilemma. The players, buoyed by their new wealth, became more difficult to deal with. They didn’t just do what the manager said; they questioned. Even though they were, in the most part, inexperienced and educationally sub-normal. The owners were not just there to perpetuate an institution and keep it an essential part of a local community. Now they wanted ‘success’ because that was where the riches lie. Even though they were seriously fucking rich to start with. But not content with owning a football club!!! they now wanted to ‘win the Champions League’ as the latest measure in the penis measuring world in which they live. And if YOU, Alfie Englishman, can’t win it for me, with your black’n’white flat cap, then I’ll go and find Johnny Foreigner who wears shell suits in bright colours and won with Athletico Dubrovnik!!!

And now managers who fit the bill, who have a Euro ‘pedigree’ have themselves become stars. Their salaries now match those of the players. But there’s far less of them to go around. There’s only one Jose Morinho. Thank God. And there’s only one Mauricio Pochettino. AND HE’S FUCKING OURS, SO PISS OFF CHELSEA, YOU CAN’T HAVE HIM (even after last night). There’s also only one Rafael Benitez. Sacked by the world’s most unforgiving club, Real Madrid, two months ago for failing to win anything for 3 weeks, he is in line to start work at Newcastle by the weekend, so tis reckoned.

And that is a whole other proposition from ‘how do I maximise Ronaldo and Bale in the same squad for effectiveness? This is more ‘what the fuck can we possibly do with this band of misfiring misfits?’ Rafa will be a very brave man to take that on, I feel. It could affect his own future worth.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As a liberal, left-leaning pseudo-Tory capitalist-socialist (I think that covers most of it), I struggle to see how the proper ‘left’, those more Marx than Blair, more Livingstone than Lenin, how they view the world. I get some of it. But where I struggle is why they’re always so keen on terrorism.

Jeremy Corbyn is known to be ‘anti-democracy’, itself a rather strange position for any democratically elected, UK leader of a mainstream party. So perhaps he sees anarchy as the most expedient way to achieve ending democracy. Thus he aligns with any group anywhere, regardless of their tactics, who are seen as having ‘ a cause’.

Why else would he have a personal history of fraternising with the (then) IRA? Why the excessive sympathy for ISIS? Hamas are his mates. Hezbollah. Its beyond me.

The other day Labour reinstated party membership to Gerry Downing. He was kicked out of the party last year because he stated that the 9/11 bombers must never be condemned. Nice. But he also shared an article online entitled: “Why Marxists must address the Jewish Question concretely today”.

Well what is the ‘jewish question’? I always thought it to be: ‘why is this night different from all others?’ (Jewish joke) Or, “can I buy that wholesale?” But apparently not.

Apparently there’s a question and it needs not only answering but doing so in a concrete manner. This is from the article: “the Jewish-Zionist bourgeoisie, from Milton Friedman to Henry Kissinger to the pro-Israel ideologues of the War on Terror, have played a vanguard role for the capitalist offensive against the workers.”

And you can’t argue with that. Nor would you want or need to. Its neo-left-wing-bollox-speak which says precisely nothing but does so in really elegant sounding phrases. The mere tone of which is very accusatory.

But the shift has occurred in the hard-left narrative. From: ‘anyone with an anti-establishment cause’ being worthy of support, to now, ‘anyone who blows things up, murders, maims, kills innocents, destroys half of New York, MUST have a cause worthy of our support’. Don’t they? Must do, surely? Well, let’s support them anyway; we can always find something downtrodden, something anti-establishment, something worthy somewhere between their petrol bombs and suicide vests.

Gerry Downing has now been kicked once more from the Labour Party. Twice in one year. He should be my hero for that alone. But he’s not. He’s a rabid motherfucker who makes you almost hope that he gets killed in a terrorist atrocity. Just for the sheer irony.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Gwyneth Paltrow is launching something else. Something new. Something other than the 72,000 things she already produces in the diet, nutrition, fashion and book publishing lines. She’s getting into ‘skincare’. Never one to not maximise her Oscar for Shakespeare in Love in about 1975, she keeps that rollercoaster rolling, consciously coupling with new ideas all the time. Can’t criticise her for her industry.

And an industry it is. This time, her skincare products, marketed under the name ‘GOOP’ (Gwyneth Orlando Oxelaide Paltrow?) will start, for a cleanser, at $90. She’s obviously after the low-end punters. Primark. Tesco. Walmart. And her products are made ‘entirely from natural ingredients’. Wow. That’s impressive. No refined diesel then. No radioactive isotopes. Just ‘natural’.

Well, dead babies are ‘natural’. As is cow-shit. Moss, slime, algae, the smallpox virus, cancer cells, snot, bile and snakes. So I think we need a bit more than ‘natural ingredients’ Gwynnie, to convince us to buy your vile potions and lotions.

The other blonde-of-the-moment is poor Maria Sharapova. As more ‘facts’ emerge. Not like the ones I spoke of yesterday, I made most of those up on the grounds that its easier than waiting for the real ones to emerge.

But whilst we’re waiting for such a time, Maria has lost her contracts with Nike, Tag-Heuer and various others, collectively worth about 200 million quid over 5 years. They’ve abandoned her in her hour of need. And that’s doubly cruel since she has some previously unheard of heart condition that required her to take ‘meds’ designed as a 6-week course, for 10 years continuously. Oh, and one ‘side effect’ of that drug is to give you the stamina of superman, the strength of 10 grunting bimbos and make you play tennis, as the manufacturers claim; ‘like a motherfucker on speed’. They may not have phrased it precisely that way.

One sponsor, rather than abandon the Russian Babe in her hour of need (she’s down to her last 197 million), are just putting things on hold. That’s Porsche. Which is owned by Volkswagen. Itself no stranger to failing tests.

Porsche should actually increase its sponsorship of La Sharapova as together they are the perfect fit. Sleek, fast, high-performance. And cheats.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I haven’t mentioned this before, because its rather shameful, but I have to admit that last December at my tennis club I tested positive for caffeine. We don’t so much have ‘random drug testing’ like they do at Wimbledon, more that in a club with an average age for members of about 79, incontinence is a bit of a problem, so they just test all the discarded shorts. Eeeeuuuuuuwww.

They found traces of numerous banned substances; statins, blood pressure meds, heart pills, memory meds, viagra. And caffeine. Which is a stimulant, increases metabolism, hence can be considered a ‘performance enhancing drug’.

I was immediately ‘stripped’ of my title of ‘winner of the alternate saturday afternoon round-robin doubles tournament’ and asked to return the prize. A bottle of Waitrose slimline Prosecco.

“But I’ve ALWAYS drunk coffee before playing tennis!” I cried in appeal. “The coffee shop is on the way here, and they only banned caffeine last year!!” Then the kicker: “I DIDN’T KNOW!!”

Poor Maria Sharapova. She’s been on ‘meds’ for 10 years, prescribed by her doctor, and they banned it in January. About a week before the Aussie Open, at which she tested positive for the drug, Meldonium. Which sounds like a Roman Empire World Heritage site on Hadrian’s Wall, but its not. Its a drug. For heart stuff. Apparently. That’s why Maria takes it. For her heart. Though she doesn’t really appear to have a heart problem. She takes it because of a ‘magnesium problem’ and a ‘family history of diabetes’. Well if Meldonium was a cure or preventative for diabetes, we’d all be taking it.

She was very sweet and open and teary and honest at the press conference she called yesterday to announce this to the world. Herself and alone for her ‘mea culpa’ moment. And she’s a gorgeous blond thing, which doesn’t hurt when you’re appealing for being a fucking cheat.

Maria is a 20 million dollar a year industry. She’s a phenomenon in sponsorship deals. She has lawyers, advisers, managers, advisers, dieticians, stylists and doctors. She may not have ‘realised’ that they’d banned her drug of choice, but they did.

And she took Meldonium because she’s Russian and that’s what they do. Ten years ago, when she started taking it, she was already a winning professional. She was ‘prescribed’ a then-legal drug because it enhanced performance. the only odd thing is why she’s still taking it now, after they’ve banned it.

If only it had stopped her grunting.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Do you remember when Volkswagen did that whole cheating thing with emissions testing of their diesel cars? Remember? Of course you do, it was only a few months ago. During which time nothing much has happened. Other than Jay Leno demanding someone goes to prison for the offences. He would. He’s American. I’m only surprised he didn’t demand the death penalty.

The level of sophistication of the cheating was so cynical by VW that normally I’d be crying out for dead Germans too. But they were also victim of the world’s obsession with compromising car performance over exhaust emissions. Breaking the cardinal rule that: cars should always be made as fast as you can possibly make them. So the VWs appeared to be emitting pure oxygen lightly scented with Chanel No. 5 during the tests, whereas on the road they churned out more shit than 17 London buses.

Hateful thing to do. Except for all the smugger-than-thou diesel buyers who suddenly found themselves shut out of Green Party meetings, Tree-Hugger Association camps and Vegan Support Groups. They’ll eventually receive compensation for all that emotional distress, but for them the damage is done and they’ll never get to heaven. Or if they do it’ll look like Shanghai with clouds of pollution clogging up their wings.

And now, in an effort to redeem themselves to the world, VW have brought out a new car. A proper one. One that doesn’t pretend to be ‘cleaner’, makes no mention of ’emissions’ whatsoever and comes with a guarantee that if you breathe anywhere near it you will die.

But its fast. Oh, fuck me, is it fast.

The Bugatti Chiron (Bugatti may sound Italian, may have an Italian heritage, but, just like Lamborghini, its now VW through and through) is the car that replaces the Veyron. Which was the first production car to produce 1000 horse power. And was such a remarkable feat of engineering achievement that even though it looked, so some thought, a little ‘normal’, was spectacularly wonderful in every way. So with this new model, they haven’t gone the full ‘Lambo’ and pimped it up like a space rocket, but it does indeed look the bizniss. Which it emphatically is.

This one gives (just) 1,500 horse-power. Is it enough? It goes from 0 to 60 mph before you take the handbrake off, and is ‘limited’ in road use, to just 261mph. I hate limits. You do get a ‘speed key’ for when you need to go faster. Jesus. And all that for a mere 2.3 million quid. What a bargain.

I’m going to trade in my old, sluggish, diesel, rusty VW Mertersacker and buy one tomorrow.

The Premiership got a whole lot more interesting this weekend. Particularly the whole 4th place thing. Man City should still do it, Arsenal probably will. But if either stumble or stutter, despite Man United making every effort at total failure this season, they’re hanging in even with the recent onslaught by West Ham (in Europe?? Whatever next?) and even Liverpool who seem to be cheating their way rather nicely up the table.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Yay though verily didst become
the Season not finished strange and undone
And inst such turmoil, The Arse didst arrive,
at the Lane of Whitest Hart in the hope they mightst thrive.

Though chastened by resultage poor of late,
For this match those Goons indeed could not wait
The chance to level the points, balance the score,
even in semi-disgrace, they rushed through the door.

Yet Tottenham greeted them with fast and furious start
Arsenal bewildered; ‘what’s that all abart???’
Yet against all that is holy, all that is right,
Ramsey scored, he’s not even a knight!

One nil at half time, oh woe and sadness and horrid
But what would ensue was to be truly torrid.
And thus on minute 55, Francis Coquelin saw red
so walked away from the battle, in his hands his head

In shame and disgrace, a sinner forsooth
banished henceforth to the naughty booth.
And such was the power of the Lord
Who’d personally ensured this with word and with sword,

That the Arse were smote, not once, nor thrice,
but in the 2 minutes that followed, indeed t’were twice
First Sir Toby, of Belgium descent
Then Sir Harry hisself, the man Heaven sent

The Spurs 2-1 up, the angels didst sing
what more could this tournament possibly bring?
Yet the battle raged, in tooth and claw
The nobles singing loudly for us to score more

Yet t’wasn’t to be, a tragedy occurred
Sanchez scored for Arse, that dog-eaten turd
Thus the battle ended at the Lane,
A 2 all draw at the end of the game.

Itself not a tragedy in any classic sense
But the Lord was angry at such dissent
Then to cap it, to verily twist the knife,
Leicester won at Watford; such is fucking life.

And so, good people and Arsenal fans too
one measly point is just so much poo
Yet all the while, as I continue to grieve
I look at the table and I STILL BELIEVE.

Happy Sunday

Shakepeare (big Spurs fan)
xxxx

This is everything. This is the season. This is MY FUCKING LIFE!!!!!

All distilled into 90 minutes this lunchtime. Everything else is irrelevant. There is no ISIS. Donald Who?? Euro-bollox; who cares? National Debt?? Global warming?? All meaningless.

I’m off to play tennis now. In the rain but I don’t care. I don’t really care about anything. It all comes down to two halves of football; 12.45 at the Lane. Nothing else matters.

I may return later.

There again, I may not.

Anxious Saturday

A xxxx