Andy's Glasses

Jeremy Corbyn (labour leader, tosser, beardy-lefty-creep, tosser, revolutionary, power-to-the-people tosser) said that if he were Prime Minister (God forbid) he would never press the ‘nuclear’ button to launch atomic weaponry. Never. Pacifist. See ‘tosser’, above. He laughed off such things. “We are no longer in the Cold War”, he said.

At probably the precise moment yesterday when Russian bombs hit their first targets in Syria.

Ok, that’s Syria. Bad place generally. Its not like Putin bombed America.

Is it???

Putin obviously forgot, when he was talking for 2 hours to Obama on Monday, that he actually had his planes lined up and loaded to the max, when he spoke of probable solutions to the Syrian crisis and the Isis crisis. Maybe he felt he didn’t need to as America’s been bombing there for months (and that’s working well…), so they could bomb together. Must’a slipped his mind.

Except…

Syria is royally fucked. Royally.

There’s Assad, the governor, and he’s in control of The Syrian Army. Such a bad man that America and Britain have been arming his opponents. Until they turned into ISIS. Well, some of them did. Others became various other groups of The Free Syrian Army, non-ISIS Jihadis, Kurdish armies, Buy-one-get-one-Free Syrian armies and half a dozen more groups, factions and fighters.

So ‘the West’ are anti-Assad. Everyone is anti-ISIS. The other players are people who just want to overthrow the President. Because he’s a mass-murdering, chemical-weapon-deploying, genocidal scumbag.

Putin is pro-Assad. He loves him. Sees nothing wrong in killing a few hundred thou of his own nationals. He’s a man after Putin’s own heart. Assuming he has one.

The Russian bombing was allegedly upon ISIS. Allegedly. In reality it was against the anti-Assad armies. The ones America and Britain are supporting. ISIS took the day off. Catch up on some housework.

This situation is now so ridiculous that it should be funny. But its not. It could become the next proxy war between super-powers. Another Vietnam. Heaven forbid.

Or Afghanistan; America armed the Taliban to fight the Russians, then 5 years later they’re fighting against their own very impressive weaponry in the hands of the same Taliban. The Yanks armed Iraq to fight Iran, then went to war with Iraq.

History repeats itself. And the lesson learned is NO-ONE EVER LEARNS THE FUCKING LESSONS.

I hope that’s cleared it up nicely for you.

Happy Thursday (let’s hope there’s a Friday)

A xxxx

On Sunday evening a group proclaiming themselves ‘Class War!!!!’ (my exclamation marks, but warranted, I feel, to represent aggression and attitude. Without them its just ‘class war’, a wet and wooly phrase from a bygone era) chose to attack a cafe in Brick Lane, East London. The cafe was full of people, lots of kids, and the mob, carrying flaming torches, threw paint bombs and rocks and by all accounts it was pretty scary. Very classy.

The store was called Cereal Killer and it sells cereals. Like cornflakes but better. Cereals from all over the world. 120 different kinds served with 30 different milk options. All those fabulously bright-coloured things that American kids love; your kids can overdose on artificial colourings too in Cereal Killer. But its a great idea and its very successful.

No-one is ever forced to go there. People choose to do so. If and when they want to. That’s the general idea anyway.

But Class War (with or without !!!!!) decided that Cereal Killer represents the worst kind of ‘gentrification’ of a ‘poor area’ in which the poor and hungry are being priced out. Because a bowl of Tiger Flakes will cost you £3.20 with chocolate flavoured almond and soya goat extract.

Personally, I wouldn’t pay a quid for a bowl of cereals anywhere. If it wasn’t mooing, bleating, swimming or barking (ooooh) yesterday, I don’t want to eat it today. That’s my motto. I make exception for embryos. Only cos I love eggs. But I appreciate cereals are popular. Even in the evening?

It is true that Shoreditch has become very popular, very up-market, very ‘gentrified’. If you can call hipsters ‘gentry’. But that’s what happens in a free market economy. Supply and demand. The more people demanding something the more expensive its likely to be. Like housing. Same is happening (has happened already really) in Brixton. Rents are on the up there too and the peasants are revolting.

There’s social housing. There used to be council homes but we don’t build them any longer. Not enough anyway. But there are still plenty in Brick Lane. And in Brixton. Therefore we’re not talking about the ‘poor’ and ‘starving’, mainly because if anyone starves in England its because they’re stupid, they want to be a supermodel, or both. If people can’t live precisely where they want because rents are too high, then welcome to the world and go live somewhere else.

I have every sympathy with left wing views. Always have had. Not in a practical sense but I like a fair world. But the radical left (like the radical right or the radical anything) are fucking arseholes. And attacking a shop run by two working class brothers from Belfast (where random explosive violence is all too familiar), a shop filled with children, is simply imbecilic and unlikely to further any cause except the ‘stiffer penalties for being an arsehole in public’ one.

Unfortunately Jeremy Corbyn has given a mandate to tossers like Class War!!! to dust off their placards, dry-clean their balaclavas and get the red flags flying high.

Even though he can’t even use his own speech at the Labour conference, instead using a recycled one from 1974.

England are doing well in the Champions League though, so that’s a good thing for national pride.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

“FOOK OFF, REF!!” he shouts in vicious spite,
“I WAS NEVER OFFSIDE, YOU ARE JUST SHITE!!!”
Another episode from Wayne’s World
The flag was up, the ball beautifully curled.

But another yellow card, to go with the collection
for violent temper tantrums are the man’s true predilection.
He scores lots of goals, of that there is no doubt,
but the screams and abuse; what’s that all about?

Yet Wayne, it transpires, has another side,
revealed for tv by none other than his bride.
The man who resembles a potato crossed with a poggle
has a poetic charm, a romantic side, that would make your eyes boggle.

He pens poems, odes of undying love
leaves them for his beloved, as if delivered by a dove
She reads the words and goes all swooney
for the man of her dreams, sweet and tender Wayne Rooney.

“Colleen, Colleen, luv of me fookin’ life
I’m so bleedin’ happy I took yas for me wife
yer tits are gorgeous, yer thighs divine
so even though yer norra granny, I’s so fookin’ glad yas mine”

He’s soft, he’s sweet, a man of passions burning bright
declarations of love and devotion expressed in words wot he rite(s)
Even though those words are generally written in Scouse,
don’t dismiss the man as just another stinking rich louse.

Wayne Rooney is a deep and complex soul, often troubled at times
so he chooses as his release to express himself in ryhmes.
Not to be dismissed as an obstreperous northern git
he has many levels and layers, though most degenerate just to so much shit.

“I fookin’ hate Norwich City they always gimme a kick
so much fookin’ aggro, makes me fookin sick.
So I scored three, made another, punched the goalie in the arm
all for my love of you, so gerron yer knees and thrill me with yas charm”

The next Lord Byron, though he never scored more goals than Bobby Charlton.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

When Monty Python’s Life of Brian movie came out in 1979, there was minor outrage. Ok, there was major outrage. It was blasphemous. It was offensive. It was irreverent to the point of abuse. Yet still they wanted to ban it. As if those things weren’t good things.

But heh, its a movie; how much harm can it do? People likely to be offended by such a film have the power to, kind’a, just ‘not see it’. No-one’s forcing them. Its a bit like church. It exists, some people find it offensive but no-one ‘has’ to go.

The film was effectively ‘banned’ in the lovely seaside town of Bournemouth. By the council who insisted on it carrying the highest censorship rating they could impose so cinemas wouldn’t show it as most of its target market was banned. So a kid of 16 could probably blag his/her way in to see the violence of Reservoir Dogs, learn how to steal cars in Gone in 60 Seconds, see any of a million offerings of sex, rape, torture and murder, but weren’t allowed to giggle at a Jesus spoof.

Blasphemy laws were abolished here in 2008, but still Bournemouth wouldn’t downgrade the film’s rating, so its still never been shown within the land defined by the Pier at one end and Harry Rednap’s house at the other.

But now, for one day only, some 36 years since the film was released, the Town of Bournemouth are prepared to downgrade its rating to a ’15’. For one day only. So that all the residents can go and see it, even though its been on tv about 95 times and the dvd has been available ever since they stopped selling videos.

The new Bond film cost £200 million to make. 24 mil of which was used turning Aston Martin’s new, yet to be released or seen DB10, into scrap metal. And the funny thing is that even though violence in movies makes me cringe a bit (wimp!), and watching difficult situations make me feel uncomfortable, its seeing cars getting smashed up that really upsets me. I’ve never gotten over the start of the original Italian Job when a Lamborghini Miura goes off a cliff.

Does this make me overly metal-sensitive? Too in touch with my mechanical side?? Or just a stupid man?

Answers on a postcard…

A xxxx

2-nil, and you fucked it up, 2-nil, and…

You know that song? Well that was Spurs game yesterday against Manchester City. We won 2-nil but the linesmen fucked it up so they called it 4-1 instead. I don’t care. Free points is free points, whichever way you miss Kyle Walker being 19 yards offside. (Was the man blind?)

But really, I don’t care. Firstly because we won either way, though 4-1 has a magical ring to it that 2-0 kind’a lacks. And secondly because refereeing cock-ups are a part of the game and will remain so until they finally agree to actually use the 736 cameras present at every single match, and concede to take the 3 seconds to rewind and make what we call in rugby a TMO decision. One which no-one can argue with. Though who wants that?

I have one rule. To cover my entire life. I don’t moan about offside goals, whether they’re ours or ‘theirs’. Part of the game, get over it, move on. I leave the moaning to the professionals. Not professional footballers, professional moaners. Wenger, Morinho, the scapegoat-seekers, Arsenal fans and other miserable low-lifes. At Spurs we just score more goals until we get one or two that everyone is happy with or at least prepared to accept.

So we beat mighty City 4-1 and it felt absolutely wonderful.

Then the rugby started. And its a funny thing; I don’t resent those who play for the other side when they play well. I do at football, not at rugby. Its almost like I become some kind of closet gentleman or something equally as unlikely. But no, I’m still the same bastard, but just one that appreciates the skill of others.

The match was brilliant. But so fucking hard. 3 men stretchered off. Bloody and bruisy yet quite wonderful. Unfortunately England lost and will now struggle to qualify for the final stages of this world cup. Which is at home, so doubly annoying. But all is not yet lost. Just the game last night.

Wales were up by 3 with 2 minutes and some left on the clock when we were awarded a penalty. Ok, it was right by the touchline, which is not the easiest, but Owen Farrell had been kicking with amazing accuracy all night and wanted to tie the game up. But captain Chris Robshaw, upon whose shoulders such decisions lie, instead chose to kick for a line out at about 5 metres out. To go for the winning try rather than the tying penalty.

And sadly it all went tits up. A few more bodies got carried off, they swept up the severed limbs and Wales got the ball back.

I’m a big Chris Robshaw fan. He gives heart and soul to every game. And body. Lots of bits of his body. But he was damned. Take the penalty and everyone accuses him of not having the confidence to go for the win. Miss the penalty and its a matter that he should have gone for the win anyway.

We didn’t lose because of Chris Robshaw and his poor decision. We lost because Wales were totally fucking brilliant at times. And they chose those times very carefully.

Bring on the Aussies, that’s what I say. When I’m feeling bold.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Sepp Blatter? Little bald wedding singer who ran FIFA Euro-Tosser? Always has been, always will be. But suddenly his stance that he knew nussink is looking even more ridiculous than previously. He always stated the case for total fucking negligence and ignorance of the horrendous corruption and shit all occurring on his watch. In many minds (well, in MY mind) this was as great a crime as being complicit. Being blind to the abuse happening in the company you run is itself almost criminal.

But now the police have decided to speak to Mnsr B once more, and search his office and home, following a little problem of 2 million Swiss Francs that appeared to be paid by FIFA to Michel Platini, ironically the man tipped to take over Blatter’s old job when the fucker finally goes.

Let us hope they both end up in jail and we simply burn FIFA to the ground and start again. I’ve always said it: YOU CAN’T RUN FOOTBALL WITH FOREIGNERS.

Meanwhile, back home, there are (yet even) more issues about Jeremy Corbyn, the new Labour leader. The one with the beard and no dress sense. Not that we judge books by covers… but we do.

This time its about national security. And whether Mr Corbyn, as a major politician, should be privy to the information discussed at meetings involving security, as most other political leaders have been.

But the problem is that Corbyn is best mates with the IRA. He’s pally with Hamas and Hezbollah. He sides up to any bunch of terrorists with a cause. Do we want such a man knowing the intimate details of this nation’s defence potential? Personally I not only wouldn’t but I’d have him killed just in case he learns anything sensitive. A precautionary pre-emptive strike.

However, all of this pales into virtual insignificance as Spurs are 4-1 up against mighty (phah) Manchester City with 5 minutes to go.

So who cares about national security or the future of FIFA?

Come on Leicester.

A xxxx

I’m a feminist.

My wife told me to be one and who am I to argue.

But the truth of the matter is that I am a feminist. As a true liberal I adhere to the French motto of ‘libertee, fraternitee, egalitee’, and I really do. Most of the time. There are exceptions to my otherwise unbending sense of equality but its not really based on gender or race. More on ‘football team supported’. But that’s me.

And when I find myself in an inner discourse involving double standards I almost hate myself, except I’m really too lovely and wonderful to do that for very long.

One such problem is statutory rape. Underage sex.

If I’d read in the paper that a 30 year old teacher had been caught having sex with a 15 year old girl pupil I’d have been outraged. Abuse of trust. Abuse of power. Disgusting bastard, castration the only option.

Yet when I read today of this woman, 30 year-old Caroline Berriman, a teacher who’d been shagging a 15 year-old boy she taught at school, I didn’t instantly internally demand her castration. And not for the rather obvious reasons.

Instead I remembered what I was like at 15. When, at the boys only grammar school I attended, every waking moment (and plenty of sleeping ones too) that wasn’t used for football was dedicated to sex. To girls. Women. Birds. Tarts. Just talking about it. Obsessively. All of us. All of the time. You’re 15 years old and pumped so full of hormones that your body and mind are trying to cope with them but generally fail miserably. Yes, most of it is ‘big talk’, but its rooted in but one thing, the desire to have sex. Call it ‘animal’, call it ‘natural’, call it what you want, but every 15 year-old boy I knew would give his… something very important, to have sex with someone who looked a lot like Caroline Berriman.

Who narrowly avoided prison for her act of educational copulation.

We want every child to receive sex education, well this was a private practical session. Almost as much fun a putting a condom on a banana. And for that this woman is reviled.

Double standards be damned, the boy involved will not be ‘damaged’ by this, nor ‘scarred’, nor emotionally impaired. He’ll be fine. He’ll be happy. He’ll be over the fucking moon.

Caroline Berriman has taken over from Sylvio Berlusconi as my new hero.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m intrigued by the goings on at Volkswagen. Wolfsburg’s finest company (even better than their football team) is the largest car maker in the world. I think. Let’s say they are anyway. So I’d always assumed that they were just typical of wonderful German efficiency and organisation. That they storm-trooped their Germanic way through the automotive world with power and directiveness and a united game-plan. You know: they’re Germans. The staff are all blond and blue-eyed and wear lederhosen as they line up the engine blocks for insertion, singing jolly German songs to the accompaniment of the VW Official Accordion Player (accordionspieler) who has a special chair in the corner. At the end of the shift they all drink steiners of beer together and sing more songs. There’s no shortage of (terrible) German folk songs. Unfortunately.

But the truth is a million miles from that blurry picture of efficient harmony and agreement. Its more like a Jackie Collins (God rest her soul) novel.

Ferdinand Porsche, the original, had two children. Young Ferdinand and Louise. The daughter then married Anton Piech. Both Porsche and Piech had 4 children. So the company shares were divided into 10 and given to Young Ferd, Louise and each of their combined 8 children. Easy peasy.

Except families aren’t like that. Nothing’s easy. The two sides obviously hated each other and lived in a state of permanent power-struggle over the company. Which culminated in 1970 when, after employing psychologists at a family ‘meeting’ it was agreed that no family member could ever be allowed to work at the sports car manufacturer again.

So they turned their attention to the other cars. Like VWs. Though when that company was on the verge of bankruptcy in 1993, it was Ferdinand Piech who worked miracles to save all and send the company forward. He’d previously been at the helm of Audi and put them pretty much where they are today. No, not shamed and reviled, but right ‘up there’ with the ladies who lunch set and the yummy mummies. The reviled only happened this week.

Though he wasn’t the most popular family member, because in 1972 he left his wife and started an affair with the wife of Hans-Peter Porsche with whom he stayed for 12 years. And with whom he had 2 (of his 12) children. The other kids were from 3 other women.

Martin Winterkorn, the boss of VW until his ‘retirement’ yesterday, the official sorry-sayer on the newsreels, claims his own personal disgust at the whole emission-gate scandal, which would normally look to cost the company around 11 billion Euros. But as the main problem is sales in America, where ‘big litigation’ is something of a national sport, it could get much, much worse.

But we still don’t know who invented/authorised/decided on the emission test defeater mechanisms. And I think we should know that, really.

Happy families

A xxxx

Hitler invented the Volkswagen in 1937. The original ones had little moustaches under the grill and a greasy fringe hanging over the windscreen. He was a vain man. But the car was the Volks Wagen. The car for the people. As long, obviously, as those people were white, Christian, blond, blue-eyed and Ayran in descent. Naziism was fair like that.

The rest is history. Well, either history or boring, so we’ll skip the middle bit when VW became the almost most popular cars in the world (only Toyota supply more), became the must steal badge for obnoxious little rapper shits and, with the Golf, had/have a car that the world not only wanted to own and drive but that every other vehicle in its class really aspired to be. It was the mark of quality, solidity and safety.

And upon that came VW’s inevitable reputation for goodness, honesty and… and trust.

Oh dear.

VW is a group now. It owns Audi, Lamborghini, Seat. And is in turn owned by Porsche. The Porsche group. Whereby, apparently, lies the problem. The Porsche family don’t like outsiders running their company. They like to keep it in the family. Right across the group. And they don’t like investment in new technology, apparently. Odd in the car world, but that’s what it is.

So rather than modify their massively popular Diesel engine so that it might produce less emissions AND maintain healthy fuel economy, they devised a better way. More ‘pragmatic’ than going to all the bother of building a new motor.

They devised a system that ‘knew’ when the car was being tested for emissions. Which is easy because emissions testing is always done on a rolling wheel. So in that situation all these wonderful shit-control systems kick in and reduce pollutants to very little. Back on the road and the ‘really green and economical’ Golf turns into a 70-year old oil tanker, emission-wise, churning out crap into the very air we breathe. Because to keep the car running with low exhaust emissions would increase the fuel consumption.

Its ok though, because the CEO of the VW group has said that he’s really really sorry. Not just that he got caught, obviously, but for deceiving the car-buying public and lying to them. And he said it in German. Sorry, we fucked up, he said. But only 11 million times. (The number of cars mis-sold, worldwide.)

Hitler would be proud of them.

Happy Yom Kippur

A xxxx

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. What was ‘Dave’ thinking? Really, I mean, ok, he was drunk, probably a bit stoned, caught up in a frenzied, orgified, peer-group, testosterone-fuelled, impress-da-birds party and so he dipped ‘part of his anatomy’ into the mouth of the severed head of a dead pig.

What’s wrong with that? We’ve all done it. Oral sex with a dead pig is just a normal part of growing up, surely? Its as natural as raping your sister. Shagging the cat. Exposing yourself in church. Feeling up old ladies as you ‘help them across the road’. Rights of passage. Teenage hormones. Ya gotta love ’em.

But the love ends when you become prime minister. And make enemies who then publish very unauthorised biographies about you in the quest for revenge.

Ohhhhhh, David CAMERON, Dave. Oh, that one.

Lord Ashcroft, former conservative peer and very rich, obnoxious and horrible man, gave millions to the Tories way back before 2010. Ancient history. He was promised a cabinet post in return for his un-UK-taxed, offshore, numbered Swiss donations, as he was a non-dom. Ahhh, but you can’t take political donations from thems wot don’t live here. Certainly not from thems wot don’t pay tax here. That’s the rule. In the inevitable brouhaha that ensued, Dave got away on the ‘I didn’t know it was offshore cash’ plea. But as Dave never like Ashcroft anyway, he didn’t honour the cabinet post side of the bargain. Hence one mightily pissed-off billionaire.

So Ashcroft and his writers came up with a hatchet job on Dave. And published it. Claiming many things, most of them when young Cameron was at Oxford. Involved in the ‘clubs’, smoking pot, possibly even having sex with women. Shock horror; students shag!!!

Now it comes to light that ‘cock-in-pig’s-mouth-gate’ was at best ‘unsubstantiated’. Evidence is scant. Witnesses unnamed ‘to protect them’. Oh, ‘those’ witnesses.

So the only crimes really committed by Dave were his possible knowledge, as the book claims, that he was in fact aware of Ashcroft’s ineligibility to donate, and the fact that our Prime Minister was an unrelenting, upper-class, monied little rich shit who bore the contempt his type generally do for everyone else.

We learn by our mistakes. Thus the David Cameron we all know and love must have learned a hell of a lot.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx