Andy's Glasses

This is an online advert for Premier Estates Wine. They’re Australian. In case you might have missed the reference due to the subtlety of their advert. And its caused a shit-storm. Which is like a ‘twitterstorm’ but less digital. “Its in bad taste!!!!” they cry, unaware of their own ridiculous innuendo. But its not. Its clever. In a rather tacky, Aussie way.

But apparently any reference to or implication about pubic hair is verboten. I don’t know why. Its hair. We all have it. Though lots choose to shave it, shape it, remove it, colour it or collect it in little jars…

Personally I don’t find this advert offensive in any way. I cannot possibly see it as ‘sexist’ nor ‘demeaning’, ‘vulgar’ or any of the other stupid catchphrases used to try and shame people just like me into feeling guilty over enjoying the creativity of the ad.

But there again, I was born without a sexist gland. That’s the organ that makes you shriek in horror at the first sign of objectification. That makes you vomit when you see a poster in the station using a slim, fit babe to advertise bikinis (but only if you want to sell them; otherwise feel free to use a great ugly lump with a moustache; see if that ‘bottom line’ affects your ‘bottom liine’).

Tessa Jowell, labour party possible for mayor(ess?) of London once Boris leaves to become the Ayatollah and run Iran’s nuclear programme, has stated quite clearly that one of her main aims is to take sexist or sexy advertising off of buses. Though as a feminist (but ain’t we all) who has been fighting such tut for 15 years, it has become her priority. The objectification of women, the constant presentation of unrealistic, aspirational body shapes in models, the images of ‘perfection’ that cause every 14 year old girl to run to the toilet with her fingers down her throat.

I didn’t take offence when Eva Hertzegova called to ME personally clad only in her wonderbra, ‘Hey guys’. I really didn’t. Because getting (most of) her tits out was NOT objectification. It was the other, much better cliché, it was ’empowerment’.

Yeah, I struggle with that one too. One tit’s ‘objectification is another’s ’empowerment’. Tomaytoes, tomartoes.

My main concern is that we might end up with boring buses, adorned with adverts for gluten-free pulses and kale, for firms of chartered accountants, for the Toyota Prius. A dull and meaningless landscape that would be.

And the old adage that ‘sex sells’ is sadly or very gladly, still true. Could even be modified to ‘sexism sells’. Because it does. And gets people talking about it too. Double whammy.

Keep adverts sexy, make them totally pornographic for all I care, as long as they’re amusing and cause massive offence, I’m happy.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So the question is; who will be the first top flight manager to get sacked this year?

Even though its quite ridiculously early to even consider the season as barely under way, you can’t help but wonder.

In the red corner is Dick Advocaat. The ‘manager’ (if you call that ‘managing’) of poor, hapless Sunderland. They ended last year pretty shitty and seem to have elevated ‘shit’ to new levels for the new term.

In the black corner is Steve McLaren, everyone’s favourite umbrella-wielding tart. Faced with the seemingly impossible challenge of keeping both Mike Ashley and the Toon fans happy at the same time AND simultaneously, Moaning Mac looks to be on something of a hiding.

And I’m going to introduce a blue corner. Just for Chelsea. Because although Morinho is on about 55 million quid a year and has a 54 year contract; its only money. If Chelsea don’t improve soon he’ll just have to go. And they’ll get in a proper manager. A good one. One who respects doctors and doesn’t conjure up conspiracy theories. On Sunday, after the Blues’ 3-0 drubbing at Manchester City, Jose stated that his team ‘were the best team for 45 minutes’. Chelsea were the best team in the second half. Manchester City only beat them for one half. Surely its about quantity then, rather than quality. Because whilst City were the better team they managed to put 3 past Chelsea and when (in their manager’s oddly distorting eyes) Chelsea were better, they scored none. For the poor fans its awful. If they wanted to support a team who ‘play brilliantly for 45 minutes’ yet fail to score, they’d go to Arsenal.

Whilst it gives me great displeasure to do so, I also have to make mention of Mauricio Pottechino at Spurs. Not because we don’t love him (jury’s out), not because he isn’t great (jury’s out) and not for any other reason than ‘its what Spurs do’. They sack managers who aren’t producing. I don’t like it, I’m not happy about the rotating door on the manager’s office at the Lane, but its what happens.

Bournemouth last night received a bit of a reality check at Anfield. Not about how tough football is in the Premiership, they probably knew about that. But about how referees ‘see’ things differently at intimidating, partisan stadia. So Bournemouth have a perfectly good goal disallowed early on for a foul that wasn’t and lose to a Liverpool goal that was perfectly offside. So had the game been played in a neutral park somewhere in Wolverhampton, Bournemouth would have won the same match 1-0. But at Anfield, they lost by that very score.

Welcome aboard, Cherries.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m a sweaty bastard. Oh, that’s nice. So I take a shower twice a day. Lovely. Morning and night. In case you’re even more interested than you were already. Wait; it gets even more exciting.

After I shower I’d normally hang the towel on the towel-rail radiator thingy that some Scandinavian designed just for pretentious people like me. But its summer, so fuck Sven, we don’t turn it on. Instead I hang my towel over the bannister in the hall to dry for its next use.

That’s 10 showers per working week.

And I reckon I get out of the shower 8 of those times and say ‘FUCK!!!!!’ Because I’ve forgotten to take my towel into the bathroom with me. And have to traipse wet-footed to the hall to get it.

And whether this is senility, insanity, altzheimers or whatever, I just have a mental block about it. Mel gets upset about wet footprints on the upstairs floor. I’m going to instal stepping stones. If I remember.

Yesterday was football day. The pic is younger daughter and yours truly at Spurs before the kick off. Or ‘the good bit’ as we now know to have been. Before the start, when hope springs eternal, where all is possible, when Spurs are potentially the best team in the land, Stoke are just a bunch of northern thugs and the sun was shining on a lovely August afternoon.

Game of two halves, it has been called. And never so true as yesterday. By half time we were 2-0 up, the second scored just on half time, the best time you can ever score a goal, and we looked good, we looked poised, we looked… if not exactly wonderful, then at least pretty decent. Too decent for Stoke.

Then the second half started. And all was different.

The best bit of the half was not in fact Stoke’s two goals, they were horrible and depressing. The best bit was the violence that erupted where the away scu- sorry, the away fans meet the Spurs faithful in the Park Lane Stand. The Stoke fans rushed into the separating gangway and were throwing punches across the massed ranks of hi-viz stewards who’d gone in to keep them apart.

It was wonderful. Certainly better than what was happening on the pitch, which was violence of a more psychological nature. This was just fighting. It was like 1973 all over again. Part of the Corbyn-inspired nostalgia drive. We’re all going to be driving Ford Capris. Wearing flared trousers, having bubble-perms, spouting the words of Chairman Mao and then forming Inter-City-Firms to kick the merry shit out of each other at football stadia every weekend. Its probably a good time to buy shares in Stanley Knives.

But Stoke is not a normal place. For a start its not in London. Stoke people are certainly not normal, in any statistical or psychometric meaning of the word. And their football team shouldn’t be beating royalty like Spurs. Or drawing. But it feels the same.

We have a wonderful striker. He was injured. We looked for another but the cupboard was empty.

So why can’t I forget the horrible things, like I do all the useful things??

Happy… errr… Tuesday? Monday?? Friday???

A ????

Just a brief footnote on the Doctorgate scandal at Chelsea when Jose Morinho slagged off his medics because the health of his players is nothing compared to the three points at stake, so its their fault.

FIFA (all bow) have commented; their chief of medical things has spoken out in favour of Eva Carneiro and her physio entering the pitch because their first concern (unlike the esteemed manager’s) is the welfare of the players. And FIFA are cross with Morinho and Chelsea for punishing the medics for doing their job.

But FIFA have intimated that for a ‘small consideration’ (non-sequential, used banknotes only, in a battered case left in Zurich station behind the statue of Sepp Blatter) they might reconsider their opinion.

And that’s enough about football. (Can it ever be enough??). Let’s talk about tennis. Or, more specifically, what the Yanks call ‘trash talk’, what the Aussies refer to as ‘sledging’. And specifically, the latest episode of bad behaviour by Aussie Nick Kyrgios, in a tournament in Montreal.

Kyrgios long ago decided that he would never be famous by playing tennis, he’s simply not good enough. So he’ll instead become famous by being an obnoxious tosser. Something he’s very very good indeed at.

He’s not a ‘bad boy’ like John McEnroe was; temperamental but clever, witty and loveable. No, young Nick is more a bad boy in the ‘thick bully in the class’ type mode. Why say something clever when you can just swear instead? Or offend.

He did it at Wimbledon and upset people and now yesterday he told Stan Wawrinka that his (Nick’s) mate shagged his (Stan’s) girlfriend. On the pitch. During the game.

And as a lifelong tennis lover who holds that game in reverence and respect, my first thought was: ‘so what?’ Does anyone care what sporting opponents say to each other? Is tennis so lofty, so genteel, so delicate that it is exempt from normal rules of competition and the gaining of any small psychological advantage that can be exploited? They do it in cricket!!! The gentlemen’s game. Well, it was til they taught Australians how to play.

The legendary Aussie bowler Glen McGrath once said to an opposing batsman “why are you so fat, mate?” To which the guy replied, “because every time I fuck your wife she gives me a biscuit”.

Now that’s clever. That’s good. That’s sport. And Glen McGrath would have probably applauded the retort.

Sadly Nick Kyrgios is almost as good at sledging as he is at tennis. And I think that’s why there’s a (very minor) uproar.

Make comments all you like, however crass, however vulgar, however insulting, but make them good. Make them fun. Make them clever. Though maybe not to Zidane.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

One game. That’s all that’s been played this season. Just one game. The players are barely warm, the league table of no significance yet (though any time Arsenal can be seen in the relegation zone is a time for celebration) and it can only be the earliest of early days for what will unfold over the next 9 months. The season is truly embryonic. And will grow, nurtured by the love and care of all concerned and then inevitably end in a heap of blood and shit next May.

And yet already, barely an hour after its conception, the season has its first major drama.

Doctor-gate.

This is what happened. Chelsea were drawing 2-2 at home to Swansea, late in the game after their goalkeeper was sent off. Safe to say: Morinho was not in a happy place. Chelsea traditionally start seasons fast and furious. And win early games. He was looking for someone to blame. His traditional favourite song that the refs are conspiring against him was inappropriate as the sending off of Courtois was unarguably correct. Even by the most argumentative fucker around.

Then an incident. Chelsea’s best player (probably the best player in our land currently) Eden Hazard, midfield wizard and part-time ball-boy-abuser, is fouled, hits the ground as if taken out by mortar fire and lies there clutching his head.

Ahhhh, great, thinks Morinho. A free kick to us in a useful area, perhaps we can win this game after all.

But Hazard remains on the floor. Seemingly lifeless. A wounded Belgian.

So the referee, as is his job, his duty and his human instinct dictate, worried about the player, signals not once, but twice, for the doctor and/or physio to come onto the pitch. Despite protests from Morinho, both rush on to attend to the little actor lying in a heap.

Jose is apoplectic. Because having received medical attention, Hazard must leave the pitch until play resumes. Which means he’ll miss the whole free kick thing. Leaving Chelsea with, temporarily, just 9 men on the pitch.

Free kick taken, nothing happens, match ends, 2 points lost, Morinho loses it and blames the stupid medics for ‘not understanding the game’. They shouldn’t have gone onto the pitch to tend to Hazard, he was fine. Like Mr Spok, Jose can make such medical assessments with just a glance from 50 yards away. Its a gift.

So he has now banned the Doctor from pitchside and basically has made her life miserable. For doing her job. Once summoned by the ref she simply has to go onto the pitch. Her duty is to the injured player, not to the manic obsession of a deranged manager. If she’d refused to attend the player she would have been derelict in her duty of care.

There are now accusations of sexism against Morinho; ‘he wouldn’t have said that if it was a man’ but really I don’t believe that’s true here. He just needs a scapegoat for the ‘disaster’ of a home draw.

But from a political perspective, from the feminist viewpoint and logically, Dr Eva Carneiro is a really fit babe who looks great running round the pitch with her dark curly locks. She did nothing wrong and should not be punished.

Doubtless this highly skilled sports medicine specialist will soon be seen at Manchester United, Real Madrid or Juventus, with a nice little ‘settlement’ from Chelsea in the bank to make the whole ‘constructive dismissal’ thing just go away.

Roman? Where’s yer cheque-book??

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I’m going to test drive a Tesla. I received an offer from a newspaper we subscribe to so why the hell not. I don’t want one, I certainly can’t afford one, but heh, what’s not to gain by driving what is a somewhat magical car. The new one. The big, 4-door saloon. Which, with ne’er a dram of petrol, can accelerate from 0-60 in just over 3 seconds and travel over 300 miles on one tank of… errr… one tank of electric.

Its all part of the ‘electric car awareness’ campaign that the government are obsessing about. And if I’m honest (something I try never to be) I reckon that within a couple of generations all cars will be electric and ‘vintage’ gassers will have an app showing them where the 6 remaining petrol stations in the country can be located. A litre of unleaded will cost £1,753.62p (though at Asda, just £1,753.59!!!).

Petrol is unsustainable. Its dirty. It pollutes. Diesel is worse. Used to be better, but they changed its status just a year or so ago to ‘much worse’.

When I was a little boy I used to hitch a ride up the road on the milkman’s little truck. Or ‘milk float’ as we curiously called them. Sounds like a drink. But it wasn’t. It was a little electric powered vehicle that went up to about 15 mph and lasted all morning on one charge. That was back in the early 60s.

Flash forward 50 years (though half a century struggles with ‘flash’) and someone transferred ‘all that technology’ into a Gee-Wizz. A commuter car designed specifically to beat London’s congestion charge. Electric cars were exempt, let’s make one. Needs to be small. And light. Otherwise the batteries will die. Hmmmm. Better make it fibreglass then, with as little metal as possible and give it a range of about 35 miles or else the weight of the battery will be more than the car itself. Great. It was almost as strong as balsa wood. Almost. One minor bumper tap and YOUR ARE DEAD.

So there are hybrids. Hateful things made by Toyota/Lexus. They pretend to be electric so they can avoid the tenner a day London entry fee for vehicles, but they’re not. On electricity alone they go very very slowly for very short distances. Then the ‘proper’ engine cuts in, goes fast, carries on for miles, but pollutes just like every other car.

Always the same problem. Batteries. They’re heavy and bulky. Which is why your phone lives 23 hours a day on its charger. In a car the more batteries you have the further you can go but the heavier it becomes. Which drains the power, reduces the range. Hmmmmm.

Tesla are the only cars that are fully electric and yet perform brilliantly AND have a decent range between charges. The £100,000 BMW i8 can only manage about 25 miles on battery alone. What fucking use it that?

So now they’ve come up with a plan. Electrify the motorways. Not to kill stray cattle and refugees, but to charge cars as they drive along. It is brilliant (I love it when people face BIG problems and create solutions, its wonderfully reassuring. Even if it needs a few goes to get it right). Buried cables under the road (won’t cause too much disruption, digging up every motorway) create an electro-magnetic field which can be picked up by receivers in cars to charge their batteries as they whizz along. How fucking amazingly brilliant is that?

Minor problems. Its screws up the cars ‘electronics’. And as all cars are basically computers now, this is a problem not quite so ‘minor’. I didn’t ask what it might do to things like pacemakers. Best not to question. And it would cost a mind-blowing £17million per kilometre. You know you’re in trouble when they’re quoting in metric. I make that about 8 billion quid for the M1 alone.

If only someone could invent an easier form of power. Maybe a liquid that you could store in a tank in a vehicle which could run the motor for miles and miles.

But you gotta keep trying. Its for the planet.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I had a nightmare. A terrible nightmare.

That we had a new prime minister in the country, which is always a bit of a nightmare anyway, but this one was the antichrist dressed up as a 1970s lecturer from Hangar Lane Polytechnic, a reactionary left-winger who’d stolen the leadership of the Labour Party from worthless opposition and convinced the country that The Left is the Way to Go. Like that; in capital letters. Just like they did in Greece. And that’s gone pretty well, hasn’t it? And the first thing the Prime Minister did on his election was come round and take my car away. “NOOOOOOOOO” I shouted, slowly and with great dream-effort, “TAKE THE WIFE, THE KIDS, THE HOUSE, BUT LEAVE THE CAAAAAAAARRRRRRR”.

“No gas-guzzlers on my watch” said the PM. “No flashy cars are allowed now and give me your credit cards and cheque-book while I’m here so we can redistribute your wealth. Where its needed. On working people”.

“You mean ‘unemployed people’, surely” said I, “the working people have their own money”.

“Heee, heee” he snarled, “not for much longer they won’t. And anyway, there are downtrodden souls all over the planet who need your money. I need to rebuild Tripoli, sort out Calais, re-structure Zimbabwe and have tea with the IRA”.

“But the IRA no longer exist” I pleaded.

“Well, that’ll be more cake for me then” came the reply. “And to be honest, I’m not fussy about which terrorists I have tea with, they all have a cause and I’m all about causes…”

I woke up in a sweat and ran to check the car. Then made sure Mel was ok.

And reading the paper, its all about Jeremy Corbyn. Who strongly opposes US foreign policy. Because: ‘if you believe in peace, you believe in human rights and justice and you want a policy that sets those at its heart, rather than military domination’. His words. And in the next sentence, how he wants much stronger relations with Russia. Yet finds nothing contradictory in that. As I’ve said before, Corbyn’s a tosser. Nothing more, nothing less.

I’m hoping tonight I can dream about his assassination. Maybe Ed Miliband will do it; he’s good at sorting out Labour leadership favourites.

Happy Tuesday, may your dreams be sweet.

A xxxx

this is a photo of an alpha male, hyper-evolved specimen, probably the finest on record, wearing one of his massive (truly) collection of white t-shirts. This one was from the Tate Modern and is entitled ‘Coffee Splash’, a replica of an early work by the surrealist Marcello D’Souza D’Costa D’lightful and represents man’s inhumanity to man but with undertones of the inner struggle of the early socialists in his native Brasil to overcome the fascist brutality. Which you can see quite clearly.

It also represents man’s inherent inability to hold a fucking coffee cup with a fucking great hole in the fucking lid and avoid squeezing it when getting out of the fucking car when fully fucking laden with shopping bags.

All of which would normally cause upset and depression in my life. And more dusters for Mel.

And yet, and yet, and yet…

Sunday was a happy day. It was gorgeous. Sunny, calm, hot, lovely. Tennis was great. Lunch was even better. We walked across the Heath. We had ice creams. And as they melted, so did my early funk instilled by the tragic loss of Spurs on Saturday. It just vanished. As if by magic.

In this instance, claret & blue magic as seen at the Emirates in the early afternoon. And magical it was indeed. The very young, cobbled together West Ham team up against the embattled, highly-rated Arsenal superstars. So superstarish that Wenger didn’t feel the need to buy anyone this year but a goalie. A wonderful goalie though he unquestionably is. They had no need for strikers, even though Giroud proves again and again that he is not quite up to the mark. Though I suppose that depends where one sets ‘the mark’. If its pretty low, Olivier’s fine. Walcott was there too, but we’re still never sure where to play him so he may or may not have been another ineffectual striker. We won’t know for another few years, probably.

But the Hammers (who I don’t really like very much generally but was prepared to forgive in the short term) just soaked up the inevitable Arsenal possession and bombardment and scored a couple of fab goals. The first one was regarded as ‘Cech’s fault’ but really he was in a ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t’ situation when the free kick came across.

So once again I had to ask myself some pretty deep questions:

Am I really so pathetic and shallow that Arsenal losing a game is sufficient to make the weekend ‘a great one’?

Does their loss make up for Spurs lacklustre performance at Old Traf.?

Could I be that sad and sorry a poor excuse for ‘a man’?

Yep, it would appear so.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Quite frankly, I think I’m just too busy to worry about football this year. Maybe next year. Maybe never. Maybe when the Messiah walks once again among us. That’d be Gareth Bale then. Who, with his new beardy thing now even looks a bit Jesus-ish. Put a pair of sandals on him, maybe ditch the Bentley…

Though poverty was not an essential thing. Jesus was poor because he gave everything away and lacked the true skill-set to make it in world class football. Who knows; with a bit of training he could have made it like Gareth. Then He would have driven round Nazareth in a drop-top with an arm full of tattoos. But it wasn’t to be.

Where was I?

Yeah, busy. Fucking busy. Always things to do, things to consider, to act upon, work, work, work.

I couldn’t even go to Trent Bridge yesterday for the cricket. I was at Tai Chi for 8.15, the absolute best way to start a day. Tennis with Spurs Paul for 10.30. And Spurs Paul is also Lords Paul who loves a bit of cricket, and didn’t start checking his phone for scores for a good half hour. Though it was truly inevitable that he would check his phone and that the news would be good. By the time I came home from tennis the cricket was over, the Ashes back here, WHERE THEY BELONG, Australia had lost and Michael Clarke had retired as captain. He is now officially a criminal and will be sent to Australia to serve his sentence.

And then: cometh the hour, cometh the car wash.

Ok, the Premiership Season, official opening, first game of the season, (fanfare, trumpets, strumpets and something that rhymes with bunting), Manchester United playing the Hotspurs of Tottenham. Wow. Life gets no bigger than that. Nothing has more meaning, more significance, more wonder and awe.

So I went to get the car washed by my friendly Albanians. Well, they’re friendly when you’re paying them, they’d slit your throat for a pot of Turtle Wax and a big sponge in other circumstances.

Then there was lunch. My favourite meal at that time of the day. And by then we’d scored a fucking own goal and the match, which had started with such promise (deja vu time) crumbled into tedium and dross and we were the first team to go bottom of the league and even now we’re below Arsenal and they haven’t even played yet and I have to ask myself: DO I REALLY NEED THIS? AGAIN??

So that’s it. The season started and its finished already. I don’t care. Not about Bournemouth losing, which was a shame. Nor about Norwich; how bad can it get when your first game is home to Crystal Palace and you get shafted? Nor about even Chelsea, whose rotten little manager is blaming the medic for his team’s failure to win and won’t talk about the ref’s decision to send off his goalie for an act of common assault.

I’m so desperate to avoid football I might even consider watching golf. Snooker. Darts. Women’s rugby. Hmmm, women’s rugby…

Happy fucking Sunday

A xxxx

So there were two teams yesterday who were all out. First was the striking (bastard) tube (fucking) drivers, and the second were the Aussie cricketers. The only difference was that the tube strikers at least took a whole day. Neither group had any sympathy from anyone (British).

Cricket lacks excitement, so people say. And normally I agree. Which is why I like to ‘watch’ my cricket by studying the numbers the next day. Because cricket is the most numerically obsessed sport in the world, with the possible exception of baseball. Though yesterday, it was arguably quicker and easier to watch the Australian first innings in its entirety, which took all of 90 minutes (of a 5-day match; for those who can barely comprehend such a concept; ie those from the Americas) than to churn up the numbers.

93 minutes, to be precise. 10 wickets taken, total of 60 runs. The lowest since the evolution of mankind. The most pathetic score by supposedly able-bodied people in any test match other than those involving the national team of Vatican State. It lasted but 18.3 overs. Less than you get in a 20-20.

Stuart Broad was our star. He bowled like a man possessed. 8 wickets for 15 runs. Quite amazing. Not a total record, but it ain’t bad. In fact it was quite brilliant.

I read with interest Shane Warne’s column in the paper on Wednesday saying how England won’t win the ashes. But this really isn’t about ‘told-ya-so’s’, nor about poor predictions based on nothing more substantial than a biased standpoint. No. This is about the abject humiliation of a cricket team and, consequently, of a nation. And much as I’d love to feel sorry for them…

Sorry, not gonna happen.

Nor do I feel sorry for the tube strikers. The only significant changes from last months’ strike were that now its holiday time, which makes it all a bit easier with no school traffic and loads of commuters away for summer hols. And also that public support for the strikers is rapidly waining to the point where we fucking hate those bastards. The Union chiefs more than the drivers who really get no choice once the strike is called and all lose a day’s money as a consequence. Though they can well afford that. Which is part of the reason support for them has lessened. Because they earn more than most of the commuters. And certainly get more paid holidays. And with every strike we learn more details until the consensus changes from understanding to the perception of total greed and the Union’s lust for power coupled with total disregard for the general public.

Gotta go watch some cricket, study some numbers,

Happy Friday

A xxxx