Andy's Glasses

Ever been shown a new ‘game’ by someone. Preferably by someone of a competitive bent. And as you play the game, they kind’a invent rules that have but one purpose; to ensure that they win.

Ahh, no, if you hit the ball out on the RIGHT, like I did, you win the point, but on the left, like you did, you lose the point, so that’s… 7-0 to me so far. Ok?

Well, the jack normally beats the 3, but not on a tuesday, when 5s are wild. Except the 5 of hearts which is THE CARD OF DEATH. You see?

No, its not ok; I don’t see; you’re making up the fucking rules as you go along.

And so it is with feminism. There are strict rules and guidelines, but the rules change and shift and mutate fairly randomly, but ONLY can they be changed by women. Never by men. The poor males have to work out tomorrow’s rules today and if they guess wrongly, may the Lord have mercy…

We’re back to LinkedIn-Gate. Suave (so he thinks), smooth (like a snake), charming (Leslie Philips in Carry-on movies, springs to mind) Alexander flatters ‘young Charlotte’ (O.M.G. that’s condescending, patronising and insulting all in one go; lose three points) on a work context web directory. She goes crazy ape-shit and is reporting him to various legal standards people for misogynistic and sexist behaviour in a profession that is, like it or not, rife with such practice.

Ms Proudman has in the past (because it all comes out, eventually) commented on Facebook that various men are ‘HOT!!!!’ and ‘PHWOAR!!!!’ and stuff, but that was in no way objectification because 1. she’s a woman and invoked the rule that sexism can NEVER work both ways, and 2. because Facebook is a social media site and LinkedIn is a business site. And what is appropriate in a social context is not necessarily so in a work environment.

When I was called ‘hot’ by a young woman I would have been thrilled except the young woman was a nurse with a thermometer up my rectum.

And I can see that if a man ‘comes on’ to a woman in a business situation, there are power considerations, abuse thereof, to work out too.

Or are men simply never allowed to compliment any woman without taking vows or signing a pre-compliment document of intent first?

I think Charlotte should tell us, precisely, how, exactly, a lecherous old twit is supposed to make an honest play for a woman younger than his children, with evil in mind, without upsetting the feminist within? I think she owes us that, at least.

Happy Friday (can I say that? on a Friday???)

A xxxx

Wayne Rooney is now, officially, the scorer of more goals for England than any other player. He overtook Bobby Charlton on Tuesday night and so ranks higher than Gary Linneker, than Alan Shearer, Jimmy Greaves, higher than anyone. Well done Sir Wayne (surely? No???)

Yet is he ‘a great’? Would you put him on a list with Pele and Maradona, with Platini and Klinsman, with Klose and Kleivert? Would you put him in the same category as Bobby Charlton, even?

Personally I wouldn’t. With none of the above. Because the main thing that elevates you from ‘a man who scores a few goals’ to ‘a great’ is whether I like you or not. Its that simple. Kicking a ball into a net alone is insufficient. Otherwise Robbie Keane would be a great. And I quite like Robbie. The man with more ‘teams supported as a kid’ than 47 normal kids combined.

David Beckham is on anyone’s list of greats. Has to be. He’s the nicest man in the world. And could still become the first man to be knighted whilst having more than 60% of his body covered in ink.

Beckham blasted onto the scene with that magnificently precocious half-way line goal against Wimbledon when he was 18. Rooney was merely 16 when he strolled onto the pitch for Everton as a substitute and scored a wondergoal against Arsenal from 40 yards. A magnificent introduction to the world. Which was then marred by ‘the stroppy years’. About 12 of them. When all you saw from Wayne, other than a few goals, was tantrums, aggression, headbutting tv cameras, spitting, swearing and red cards.

Now he’s calmed down somewhat. Adopted the captain’s armband for the national team. He’s trying. But a ‘great’? Not on my watch.

Two lawyers hook up on LinkedIn. 57 year-old Alex Carter-Silk sent a message to 27 year-old Charlotte Proudman saying her photo was ‘stunning!!!’ Like that, with three exclamation marks. He also actually mentioned that it was probably very un-politically correct to say so.

When Charlotte attacked him publicly as a misogynist and sexist using a professional site as some kind of dating agency (hmmmm, now that Ashley Madison has gone there is indeed a gap in the market there), and basically, that’s he’s a dirty old fucking letch.

He replied sheepishly (could there be any other way in the circumstances? after such a monumental ‘crash-and-burn’?) that he was referring only to the professionalism of the photography. Ahhh, that’s why there was all those exclamation marks then. But if that was the case, why make reference to political correctness? Even for ultra-aggressive uber-feminist right-on lefty barristers, commenting on photographic style can’t be un-pc.

Happy thursday, and watch what you say

Like me

A xxxx

Jeremy Corbyn hates the Queen. No doubt about it. I haven’t asked him, I just know. And not on a personal level; I’m sure he’d go for a drink down the pub with Our Liz, but on matter of principle he’d hate the reigning monarch of our country.

Because in the politics of envy and divisiveness, as exemplified by the Miliband/Corbyn axis of evil, the entire population is simplified into mere ‘rich’ and ‘poor’, or more fashionably: ‘rich’ and ‘working’. As if the two are mutually exclusive. And on any level its harder to get more ‘rich’ than The Queen of England.

Elizabeth II is the end point of a family tree of historical record dating back to Alfred the Great (though greater than who? if he was the first king?) in 871 or thereabouts. The monarchy has long since lost control of any form of executive power, ceding that to parliament, they no longer lead us to war (too dangerous; might get blown up by terrorists on the way to the battle), they don’t control the church, in fact they don’t do very much at all. Except waving. Lots of waving. They haven’t taken that privilege away from royalty. Not yet.

Jeremy Corbyn is the end point of very blurry line. That probably started in 1243 in the Shropshire countryside. His ancestors were serfs, peasants, tilling the land, knee-deep in mud and shit, 19 hours a day, 6 days a week. And in that mud they might find the odd potato, or radish, or Big Mac. But just as they were poised to eat this fruitful bounty, some poncey fucking Lord would ride up on a big white stallion and demand it from them as a tithe. The taxman cometh. And as this Lord would have a big sword, and a band of soldiers with bows and arrows and all manner of dangerous shit, the food would be dutifully, but resentfully, passed over.

The world sadly no longer works in such a manner. But the Corbyns never forgot nor forgave. And however homogenous the population became, the mere presence of any wealth or privilege would strike a genetic chord which rattled with his Marxist/Maoist philosophy which preached first and foremost an end to monarchies.

So today, as our Queen (and I’m allowed to get a bit Alf Garnett over this) becomes the longest reigning monarch in our very very long history, the debate once again resurfaces about getting rid of them. The debate brought about by the Corbynite morons who fail to see what a massive financial bonus it is to the nation to have a monarchy who don’t in fact rule, but just look nice and attract more tourists than any seven Disneylands.

The whole point of the modern monarchy is that there’s no point in them. They’re just there. Its like an ornament. But one that generates massive income for all.

So God save the Queen. That’s what me and Alf Garnett say.

Happy longest reigning monarch ever day

A xxxx

Ahhh, its Wakes Week once more, the time for… for, errrrr… for…

Well, putting on antlers and running round in silly clothes chasing a man dressed as a headless bride, obviously. As they do in Abbots Bromley. (No idea, either. I’ll guess ‘up north’ because they seem to have too much time on their hands and access to antlers which they don’t sell in Waitrose.)

Wakes week dates back to the industrial revolution and is very important for… something. Started as a religious thing and degenerated over the centuries to this tragic representation of something or other, full of symbolism and angst. I think.

But I do love bizarre traditions that seemingly have no meaning or purpose other than to dress up and look silly. Britain’s full of such folly. And all the better for it.

There is no causative link between this Horn Dance and child abuse. Just, perhaps, a mild correlation.

Meanwhile the rugby world cup starts next week, right here in London. And England beat Ireland (previously Europe’s top team) last weekend to give us hopes and dreams and memories of Jonny Wilkinson and Lawrence Delallylally et al. But beating the top team from Europe is way easier than playing any team not from Europe. Its in the Southern Hemisphere that the trouble starts.

Though not in football. As England qualify for the Euro 2016 finals in some style, with 3 (now meaningless) matches still to play. Switzerland tonight and I quite like ‘new look’ England. I like Jonjo Shelvey in the middle. I like a playmaker and he’s a good one. And Rooney’s is now level with Bobby Charlton on goals for the nation. Ahhh, Bobby Charlton, the gentleman’s gentleman. And Rooney. Who isn’t.

Wales need just one point now to qualify as well. And I really hope they do. For Gareth Bale. Whereas Northern Ireland look like they too may even qualify. Making 1 English speaking nation plus Wales and Northern Ireland in the finals. Amazing. Scotland may get into the qualifiers. Maybe. Doesn’t matter.

As I said: I just like people dressing up in uniforms and doing silly things. Seen the Scots play football?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

When one reaches a certain age, should that ‘one’ be sufficiently fortunate to still be in possession of one or perhaps even two living parents, discussions inevitably occur as to modes of death, dying and disaster. And brings with it the corresponding comments along the lines of: if I get to that point, just shoot me. Which is NOT in this context, in any way a mere throw-away line, nor a metaphor. It is sincere and heart-felt.

(Note to my children: I DON’T MEAN YOU. Not yet anyway)

Mel & I agreed virtually on our first date that if we ever reached the point where either entered a drooling, vacant vegetative state, that ‘termination’ was the desirable option. Terminally in increasingly worsening pain with no hope of improvement? Shoot me now.

Its not harsh, its not about being a burden, its not about the cost of care-homes, its a selfish act of suicide for the benefit of all but particularly for the sufferer. An end to misery. Or an end to horrible nothingness that may have replaced ‘life, as we know it’.

Lord Falkener proposed an assisted suicide bill a few years ago which was rather brilliant and much-needed. But it kind of ‘lingered’ as not being considered worthy of political expediency, and, after a lot of suffering, the bill just died. Ran out of time.

Now they’ve raised it again, this time with former Director of Public Prosecution, now MP, Kier Starmer, a big hitter with a big brain. And this time they’ll pursue it to the bitter end.

So entering the fray steps the combined chiefs of the world’s religions, Christian, Muslim, Jewish, Zoroastran, whoever, and levelled their opposition to this proposal. They don’t want assisted suicide, they don’t want Dignitas UK, they don’t want nuffink. God wouldn’t like it. None of the gods, apparently. He’d rather watch people suffer?

The thing is; this is a massive moral question. As much as it is political. And therefore in this one instance I can forgive religion for getting involved in what is a legislative and legal issue. They kind’a have to. Its their right.

Much as its our right to ignore them, as we do in all other facets of religion-led dogma and stupidity which exists purely to remove choice. Particularly ‘big choice’.

No-one will be tied up and injected with carpet cleaner against their will because they’ve become a bit of a burden. Or because we want our inheritance and WE WANT IT NOW! The proposals are very thorough in their protection of the ‘candidate’.

Over 50% of people want to allow assisted suicide in this country. Well, over 50% of Daily Mail readers, which is almost the same.

It is time. It is definitely time. Everyone deserves the right to choose.

Ok, now we can get back to living.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Is suffering a good subject for a movie? Death is fine (see Kill Bill, Django Unchained, anything Sam Peckinpah, anything Chinese, Saving Private Ryan). Death happens. In war it happens a bit more frequently. In Kung Fu movies it happens at a more alarming rate. Brutality is fine. Illness is different.

You have to be more careful when you make a movie about terminal illness. Because you might end up with ‘Love Story’. Even though everyone knows what happens in the end. That’s why they call it ‘terminal’. Not in the ‘5th at Heathrow’ way.

A few years back I read a book called The Fault in Our Stars. Because (probably) it was cheap on Kindle. I’m discerning like that. Ok, it was recommended too. On virtually all women’s book sites. Girl meets boy. At a teen cancer support group. Oh, that (was) is different. He gets sick, then goes into remission, she gets sick, then goes into remission. They have a tiny window of like 18 hours when both are sufficiently remiss to fly to Paris, indulge in ‘romance’ of the most sacchariny variety, create enough shmaltz to drown fifteen chickens, lose their virginity, give meanings to their tragically short lives, then everyone fucking dies and you cry. Real tears. Man tears.

They made a movie of it. I saw it on a long flight when I’d seen everything else. Great film. Shailene Woodley outstanding with a tube up her nose. I cried again. Even though I knew how it was going to end.

So last night we went to see ‘Me, Earl and the Dying Girl’. Its a story about a girl with Leukaemia. Who meets a boy. Hmmmmm. But… and there are a lot of buts. They don’t have a romance. They don’t spread the shmaltz thickly, even thinly. They don’t get all weepy and slushy. They’re just a couple of kids in a horrible situation. And in a very un-hollywood way, reacting to it as kids.

And its brilliant. Really brilliant. I won’t spoil the ending (Hollywood can treat far more major illnesses way more efficiently than bloody doctors can, so ya never know) but the whole thing is remarkably uplifting. Its set in Pittsburgh but the ‘dying girl’ is an actress from Oldham, of all places. You’d never know. And that’s the finest accolade you can give any film. That there are no horribly Lancashire accents knocking around.

Happy, HEALTHY Sunday

A xxxx

Cockapoos in handbags is so 2014. Home cinemas? Done that. Midlife crisis in the driveway? Been there. Still there. Smart tvs? Smoothie makers? Gluten extractors? Tattoo on your testicles? All been done.

This year’s ‘must have’ accessory is a Syrian family in the spare room. We’ve all got them. Bob Geldoff… er… Bob Geldoff… and… errr… probably Bob Geldoff. As he has loads of homes. And we’ve been invited to ‘open up our homes to refugees’.

And much as I think that is a noble, virtuous, honourable and (as Cameron would doubtless say as he opens up number 10 to the Hussains from Damascus), ‘morally responsible’ idea, I think more that is the most stupid, irresponsible, inconsidered, vacuous and moronic way to address this issue.

A lovely little boy has drowned; open up your hearts and your homes. Doh?

And I’m sure that at least 99% of these Syrian people are lovely, distraught, decent people in desperate states. Maybe 98%. A lot of ’em anyway. But 2% won’t be. They’ll be child-molesters, rapists, thieves, wife-beaters, they’ll have rap-sheets a mile long, they’ll be Arsenal fans, snow-boarders, work for PPI claims phone rooms, they’ll be bad people. And as none of them have ‘papers’ of any description, how the hell do you know?

Tell you what I do know: San Marino shouldn’t really be in the European Championships. Nothing against them, but it just makes it a bit of a farce. If East Croydon declared itself an independent European state, it would have a bigger population that San Marino and a lot more decent footballers. So why bother playing there? Just give the other teams 3 points each and save the air fares. Lower your carbon footprint. Have a rest. Avoid token gestures at all costs.

Happy saturday

A xxxx

They use the term ‘game-changer’ to describe an event that shifts the balance, that tips the point, that causes a massive reaction.

The two little Syrian boys washed up on a Turkish beach after their people-smuggling bastard’s inflatable went under on the way to its designated Greek island. And the image of the younger brother in a soldier’s arms, dead and lifeless, have moved the world. You’d have to be inhuman not to react to such a tragic sight. Or you could be Putin, I suppose. Can’t see him shedding tears about mere loss of life. Even Margaret Thatcher would have been moved.

But what Maggie wouldn’t have had would be a knee-jerk, illogical, stupid reaction. Like David Cameron did.

Whether it was the picture itself that moved our Dave, or whether it was the unanimous reaction of the entire nation’s voters, we’ll never know. But Dave immediately came out with his ‘moral responsibility of a moral country’ line and stated we’d take more migrants from war-torn Syria.

Which is a bit like fixing the dome-light on your car because you have a flat tyre.

Firstly because the family of the boys was on its way to Canada so any asylum/refugee status changes here would not have had any effect. Sadly we no longer own Canada. All that oil…

Secondly, changing the numbers to be admitted will have no effect on the numbers leaving and using people-smugglers to get them here in the first place. In fact it may increase it.

Politicians just have to react to things, its their job. But how they react should be considered, should be logical, should be designed to help the problem they’re reacting to. Dave’s intentions tick none of those boxes. It was a pure knee-jerk reaction to a tragically dead baby.

What he should be doing is getting on a plane, or a little, pilotless inflatable perhaps, and going over to see Ms Merkel, and Mnsr Hollande and all the other hundreds of Euro people of influence and power and sorting out a united, joint, combined strategy for this immense problem. A solution that we can all understand and may relieve the ridiculous scenes that have happened in Hungary all week as confusion reigned supreme.

The European parliament is filled with ridiculously overpaid Nigel Farages, people with agendas far removed from actually running a cohesive continent. Let them for once start to show that the gravy train they’ve ridden for decades has some fucking purpose.

I don’t know what the answer is, but they should.

Tossers

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Its been raining all summer. On and off. In that annoying way. And the rule is (yes, I have one rule, just one) that if its pissing down in the mornings I don’t take my bike to the station, I walk. If the bike’s there in the evening and its raining, I ride. Because I don’t mind getting wet. I just hate being in wet soggy clothes all fucking day. And I don’t do ‘protective out garments’ because you look like a paedophile.

Such was yesterday. Arrived at the station to find it brilliantly sunny and yet raining quite heavily. Ok, that’s rule 7, we ride home. And as I peddled my way home I started to do some calculations to explain a rather strange phenomenon.

That if I cycle in the rain (about 5 minutes of biking) I appear to get 38 times wetter than if I walk, which takes about 15 minutes. Surely, assuming constant rainfall (we must consider all variables here, this is frikkin scientific, innit?) I would encounter exactly the same number of raindrops in either situation, just encounter them 3 times more quickly on the bike. Its not like I walk between the raindrops. And cycling between raindrops would be strange verging on extremely dangerous. I have tried that. And got breathalised by a confused and concerned policeman.

So I performed some preliminary calculations to ascertain where the errant factor of 38 comes from and arrived at the rather elegant and scientifically valid conclusion that ‘God fucking hates cyclists’.

I need to think of other things. Like migrants. I’m still torn. I have a devil on one shoulder (we’ll call that demon ‘David Cameron’) telling me that we don’t want these pathetic, homeless, stateless, burdens on the economy in our midst and we won’t let them in to abuse our welfare state. And I have an angel on the other (Angel Merkel, in fact) telling me that Syrians, in particular, and everyone else there, are desperate refugees from civil war, from IS, from horror and death and should be welcomed to Europe from a humanitarian standpoint.

The problem is that the entire middle east and half of sub-Saharan Africa can’t all come here; there’s not the room nor the finances to support them. Though I’m not unhappy for them all to go to Germany. That way, as part of ‘Europe’ I’m being a humanitarian by proxy but don’t have to put up with all that inconvenience of having them here.

Does that make me a bad person?

Yours badly,

A xxxx

Its all about time. About timing. Because the clock never stops, it just imposes arbitrary constraints on almost every facet of our lives. That’s why my favourite kind of holiday is one where I take off my watch when I get there and don’t put it back on until I’ve missed the sodding flight home. Dammit. But the joy to wake when you’re ready, to eat when you’re hungry, walk when you want to, stop for a coffee just because you can, not because ‘yeah, I’ve just got 18 minutes before my next meeting/appointment/anger management session’.

Yesterday was the last day of the football transfer window. It opened at the beginning of August and ended 6 o’clock yesterday because Monday was a bank holiday over here and you can’t end a transfer window on a bank holiday. Jesus! End it on bank holiday? What were you thinking??

And so as the clock did its inevitable thing, ticking away, slicing off chunks of our lives and putting them in the bin, deleted forever. With every click the price of players went up. The deals got nastier, the prizes more sought after, the panic more apparent.

Manchester United are unhappy. They won their first few games but not comfortably (at Spurs we take ‘winning in discomfort’ much more philosophically) and they looked shabby. And they’d only bought 3 ridiculously expensive players so far, in Schneiderlin, Memphis (as we have to call him) and Old Schweiny, who was actually transferred from a Munich hospital to the Manchester General Infirmary where he’ll spend the rest of his 4 year contract.

So on Monday night Luis Van Gaal and his team secured a teenager from Monaco, Anthony Martial, for a mere £36million (rising to 58 mil on performance stuff), the next ‘next Thierry Henry’. Another will be along shortly.

Whilst on the other side of Manchester, the City side, the Gallagher side, having already paid almost 50 mil for Raheem Sterling, they coughed up another 55 for Kevin De Bruyne the Woolf of Wolfsburg.

Yet the most startling transfer was one that didn’t happen. David De Gea, the Manchester United goalie, didn’t move to Real Madrid for £30 million. Nor for 80 million or even 2 million. The move failed. Everyone was responsible, in an irresponsible way, for the failure of the most talked about, most protracted, most stupid non-transfer since Cesc Fabregas didn’t move back to Barcelona 3 years running. It was the Gareth Bale sage all over again, but they changed the ending. Thus David De Gea can stay at the club he… err… well, at the club who own him, with the manager who… errr… who he can’t stand and just play on like the true soldier he was never likely to be. Disgruntled players who want away? They’re useful.

Like Saido Berahino. West Brom kept him from predatory Tottenham. So he can tweet his unhappiness and share it with the team he no longer wants to be with.

Ahhhh, I love a transfer window. Can’t wait for January. Its only a matter of time.

Happy Tuesday

A xxx