Andy's Glasses

Busy day yesterday. Jewish New Year. We’re in 5776 now, having evolved before normal people. So I went to synagogue to pray for your sins. (I don’t sin). And pray for the Lord to forgive you (I’ve done nothing to forgive) and to work out how you can be a better person in the forthcoming year (I have scarcely any room for improvement). So other than my unfailing arrogance, smugness and self-delusion, it was a quiet day.

Though I did pause to wonder about this whole ‘God’ thing, wondering, as I do this day every year, if it’ll ever catch on in any significant way.

Because as we agonise over every slight, every slur, every mis-deed, dodgy act, every cause of any minor upset we may have caused anyone, we have just 9 days to sort them all out before The Day of Atonement comes and seals our fate. And people really do agonise about things. Ok, not really sufficient that when the holiday season is over they won’t commit exactly the same acts of immorality, lies, cheating and so forth for the next year, but its good to wonder, in a hypothetical way, how you might improve.

Then I wonder about the potency of it all. Ok, I oversold a used car, stopped short of filling the gearbox with sawdust to stop the rattling, but perhaps made claims that were a bit optimistic. And for that I may get condemned at some level? By a God who lets Jihadi John behead innocent journalists, who tolerates Kim Jong Un’s excesses against his people, who allows ISIS to decimate half a continent and leave its natives drowning in boats in their efforts to escape and allows Chelsea to win the league.

This omnipotent and omniscient God who sees everything, has unlimited power (like SuperMario but with more lives) and yet chooses to do nothing. Ever. His last act of direct intervention was to burn a bush for Moses.

So instead I turned to the Legend and spoke of modern miracles. Spurs first win of the season at Sunderland. Important things. Life-changing. For Spurs fans, at least.

Then we hosted 26 people for our annual Rosh Hashannah dinner. And it was chaos. And it was loud. And we ate too much. And we drank too much. And thus I realised the real meaning of holy days. Its about family. And friends. And fun. God was invited too but I’m not sure if he turned up. He’s a bit quiet these days so might have been in the corner nibbling some chicken. Or maybe not.

Happy New Year

A xxxx

if the season finished now, Man City would be champions. United runners up. Crystal Palace would be in the Champions League. Spurs would just avoid relegation, by one point and Chelsea would be just one place above that.

Ok, so probably not much change at the top, if we’re looking for some kind of prophecy here (which we’re not, this is more plain stupidity) with Arsenal 3rd; they’re always around there, just one or two players off the top slot. Players which Wenger always refuses to buy in August and then by Christmas will blame lack of squad depth for any failures as inevitable injuries set in.

Spurs avoid relegation; always the first dream. Europe comes second, the Champions League remains an unrealistic wish unless Gareth Bale comes back.

But Chelsea. In 16th place. That’s possibly an even bigger dream. Though not necessarily for Morihno. Who has gone from blaming the refs (first two weeks), blaming certain players (the following week) and now is just laughing. Yes, we’re shit, isn’t this funny, what can I do? in a shoulder-shruggy, smiley way.

Whereas what he really feels is much more WHAT CAN I DO?????? in a panicky, help-me-Lord, I’ll be unemployed by Christmas, kind of way. Though if he is unemployed, his 50 million contractual pay-off should ensure he won’t be on the streets.

Chelsea are the (current) champions. Last year they swept away all who came before them. They were strong in defence, solid in midfield and simply awesome in attack. With Hazard everyone’s player of the year. They strengthened a team that was already almost flawless. Yet its all turned to shit. They’ve lost 3 games already. 3 out of 5 matches. A season’s worth of losses in the first month. Doesn’t bode well.

So where did it all go wrong? John Terry’s still John Terry; Eden Hazard is still Eden Hazard, Diego Costa is still a stroppy, violent Brazilian Spaniard.

There’s only two possible reasons for this terrible slump. One is arrogance, the assurance that wins will just happen because they are Chelsea and winning is what Chelsea do.

The other reason is that there is indeed a God. Who is probably a Spurs fan. And he’s pissed off with the little Portuguese whinger and his overpriced team of mercenaries and is punishing Abramovich for sins past. Yes, believe it or not, becoming an Oligarch billionaire by the age of 33 probably involved some foul play.

Fortunately, though only time will tell, the season is not over. Not for Spurs with our more modest aspirations. But Chelsea already 11 points behind Man City?

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Jeremy Corbyn is the new leader of the labour party. Its official. The hustings are over, the speechifying done, the voting voted and nearly 60% of those eligible to do so put the Corbyn-meister at the head of their parliamentary party.

Well done Jeremy.

You ridiculous, anachronistic, throw-back, blinkered, single-minded tosser.

Though I have a great deal of respect for the man. Well, not in excess, obviously, but there is one unquestionable truth about Jezza: he is a man of principle. Sadly, its only one principle. But he sticks to it like a waterproof band-aid. As he has done since he invented this principle in about 1969.

He won’t move from his far-left, socialist, green, anti-nuclear, working-man, nationalised industry stance that he adopted back then and has steadfastly held, unchanging with time, with zeitgeist, with the changing world, since then. No, that’s his principle, that’s where he is now, much as he was then.

That’s his appeal. He does not court popularity. He does not tell people what they want to hear. He does not moderate his position to accommodate party lines. He IS his principle.

And that’s why he is so unbelievably popular (literally unbelievable); because he is that rarest of things in politics; an honest man.

Unfortunately, he is true and honest to a principle that no-one in the country (other than the deranged) would ever choose to vote for.

He wants Britain to be unilaterally disarmed. Fine, in 1972 when nuclear was all about the cold war. Not so clever in 2015 when the middle east is both nuclear and more unstable than it has ever been.

He wants to control rents. How can you do that? With no government or council housing to accommodate the current, once he opens the floodgates to hundreds of thousands of refugees, where they gonna live? Ok, in private rentals. So he needs landlords. Yet will tell them they have to rent their living space below the rate that makes their investment viable.

And best of all, this wonderful, principled man is a rabid fucking anti-semite who counts Hamas among his ‘friends’, defends the bombing of Israel by Gaza, courts holocaust deniers and other rabid scum and has a history of jew-hating almost longer than that of his socialism.

At least he doesn’t wear ties.

Well done Jeremy. Now you just have to find a cabinet from MPs who are unilaterally opposed to your views. Shouldn’t be hard.

Happy Corbyn-Day

A xxxx

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