Andy's Glasses

The Theory of Everything is a good film. Not a great film, but by the essential criteria that:

1. Mel didn’t fall asleep
2. I didn’t get bored
3. I never looked at my watch
4. my phone didn’t start vibrating

it must therefore be considered worthy entertainment. Which it undoubtedly was. And we understand that it is ‘her’ story, taken from ‘her’ book. Mrs Hawking. The first Mrs Hawking. Played with gorgeousness beyond the call of duty by Felicity Jones.

Many years ago I read ‘a brief history of time’; Hawking’s dumbed down explanation of the workings of the entire universe for mass consumption. Sadly it didn’t quite go ‘dumb’ enough for me, but in fact its a great book, written with wit and charm and with amazingly complex concepts explained in such a way that at the time of reading, the ‘man on the street’ can actually grasp them and almost understand them. Though not necessarily be able to explain them to others afterwards. The ‘answers’ only remain in the mind for the duration of the reading, grasped fleetingly, then lost as the book closes. Lots of sciencey books are like that. The good ones really.

Yet in the movie I felt the essence of Stephen Hawking was lost a little in the translation.

He learned about black holes. Dead stars collapsing under their own immense gravitational pull until the atomic particles are crushed into the spaces that normally they whizz round in. Leaving a single point that weighs the same as a star (pretty heavy) and therefore has the same gravitational pull, but exists in a single point; a black hole. Hmmmmmm. And then in a ‘eureka’ moment, according to the movie, whilst watching his cream swirl round in his coffee (they used cream in 1964, which is why their life expectancy was only 62) he devised a theory.

That the universe is expanding. We all know that. You can just look out the window and see for yourself. So if you ‘run the clock backwards’ and contract the universe, where would it end? Or, in fact, where did it start? Ahhhh, thought Hawking, in his electronic mind-voice, all the matter would collect together, the stuff from every planet, every star, all in one lump. Then what? Keep running backwards and he decided that this matter would then keep compacting, like the dead star, and eventually all collapse into its own black-hole-ish point. Which he called a ‘singularity’. Others call ‘God’. And at that singularity, best of all, there was no time. Time doesn’t start until you run the clock the right way, forwards, from that point. Which he called ‘the Big Bang’. Ohhhh, yeah, one of them.

And in the movie they kind’a left it there. What a great mind to come up with such an ‘out there’ concept; brilliant; give him a professorship and buy him a new wheelchair.

But what Hawking did, almost unmentioned in the film, was prove his ‘big bang’ mathematically. Now I realise that’s just the easy bit, the leg work…

No, actually its not. He could barely use his legs. He didn’t even have an iphone, probably not a calculator, just a pencil. Because that’s what theoretical physicists like Hawking, and Einstein do, they do the sums. They don’t work in labs, they don’t spend hours analysing moondust, they do da maffs.

And I’m not suggesting that watching a man agonising for 5 years over serious number crunching would enhance the film’s Oscar potential, but some reference would have been nice.

I now calculate I’m probably late for work. Depending on when you start ‘time’ from.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Well, not West Ham, that’s for sure. In the blockbuster at White Hart Lane yesterday those poor Hammers managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. 2-nil, and they fucked it up. And I could almost feel sorry for them, if I wasn’t so amazingly, deliriously, almost tragically happy about it. It felt like a win, (it felt like a wi–in, etc) as Spurs somehow, after the most awful display for 80 minutes, managed to score a fluke, out-of-nothing goal and then secure the draw (though it soooooooo felt like a win) with the last kick of the game. Harry Kane. Whoever wrote that script certainly wins an Oscar for that. Just as the Oscar for ‘most blinded by bitterness’ goes to Sam Allardyce for his consistent and emotional failure to judge that Alex Song tripping up Harry, then diving on his back to make sure he went over, might have been a righteous penalty.

In the other Oscars, the American ones that went on all bloody night, fewer surprises. Except for the nature of the films up for awards. Because the main movies in the final counting were really the poor relations of the global movie world.

The Imitation Game, Grand Budapest Hotel, Selma, Birdman, Theory of Everything, Boyhood and Whiplash, together, globally, grossed $293 million. American Sniper grossed $312 million all by itself. A true blockbuster. Deservedly winning an Oscar. For sound editing. It did sound pretty good, I must say. Those bullets, fucking thousands of them, sounded almost like real bullets. I think.

In 2010 the Best Picture nominees had grossed $4.7 BILLION. This year’s lot; less than 0.7 bil.

So the Oscars, having always been a vehicle to promote movies to the masses, have now become more ‘inclusive’ of non-blockbusters to the extent that there is a great divide between what a bunch of movie-snob culture tarts in Hollywood reckon are ‘great movies’ and what the general public actually go and see. Which is, it has to be said, mainly franchises of comic book crap and anything involving lots of guns. The separation of ‘good’ movies and popular movies. The main difference being that I go and see good movies and all of America goes to see popular ones, except for a few dudes in New York who are into art-house, mainly because they’re pretentious bastards like me.

I saw The Theory of Everything last night. Great film. Eddie Redmayne was brilliant as Stephen Hawking. But best actor? Not sure about that. Playing a character who is tragically denied movement and much in the way of outward emotion or any kind of subtlety is not so much acting as impersonating. Which young Eddie did wonderfully. Sadly very few will go and see it.

Now if they’d put a few guns on the wheelchair…

Very happy Monday (West Ham fans should take the day off)

A xxxx

I love an Oscar. Love the whole thing. The event, the parties, the goody-bags. Brilliant. And such a perfect demonstration of the austerity the world faces. The event goes on for 4 hours. Four fucking hours of sobbing, stumbling over dresses never designed to be walked in, smug, self-satisfaction married to hateful, resentful stares by the applauding ‘losers’ and the speeches. Oh. My. Gooooooooood, the speeches. Tear-laden, overly-emotional, unprepared (though how is that even possible??) rants thanking everyone from directors to the manufacturers of their juice-makers, from ‘mom’ to their high school cricket coach, and they’ve never even played cricket. The losers consoled with goody bags containing a Porsche, three houses; one in Gstaad, one in Malibu and one in Harlow New Town, a million pounds worth of jewellery, perfumes, games consoles, 98 inch smart-tvs, an iphone 7 and a signed Harry Kane Spurs ‘away’ shirt. Lucky, lucky, spoilt, over-privileged, indulgent tossers.

Yet it means so much. To, errr… to… hmmm… well, to the world, to the poor of Tanzania, to the dispossessed of Syria, to the prisoners in China, and especially, to the movie industry.

And the Oscar for the best Drama Queen of 2015 goes to… (pause for effect, expectation and flatulence)… goes to Jose Morinho in The Persecution Complex. A brilliant portrayal of a man tortured by his own demons, seeing the world in a conspiracy against him, especially anyone dressed in black. He plays his role with passion, with emotion, with pathos and in a very strange accent. We hope his psychotherapy is successful and he can be let out of his padded room any month now.

The Oscar for most consistent behaviour over a very long time goes to… Joey Barton for his part in Why Did you Send Me Off when I only pushed One Geezer to the Floor and Punched another In The Stomach???? A wonderful film showing how psychopaths never change their spots. Or cross their metaphors.

Newcomer of the Year goes to… Harry Kane. We’ve said it all before and doubtless will again before the Season’s over. Boy’s Own hero. He’s English. He’s common as muck. He’s wonderful and we love him.

And finally, the Oscar for 50 Shades of Despondency goes to… Louis Van Gaal for his ongoing part in The Man with the Funny Shaped Head. Louis consistently shows the entire range of human emotion; from frustration to depression, from anger to hatred, from bad to worse. Brilliant. Long may that show continue.

Arsenal came 4th.

Happy Oscar Sunday

A xxxx

Usual Friday night scenario. We watch the news, we’re bathed, dressing gowned, tea-ed up and relaxed. I’m failing miserably on some cryptic crossword compiled by a dyslexic Lithuanian-speaking sub-normal (obviously, otherwise I’d be racing through it…) and Mel’s asleep. Fast asleep. Head hanging on one side, just sufficiently that even a 3 minute snooze will result in neck pain for a month, but I couldn’t wake her. So instead I channel surf. I’m a man. Iss what we do.
And there, on channel 371 or 259, one I’ve probably never used before, was Top Gun.

The Holy Grail. One of those simply must-watch’a-bit-of movies. Oddly (it must be on special offer right now to tv companies) I’d watched a bit of it the other night on channel 732, or 563 perhaps. But this was the end of the film. Tom lands his plane after killing loads of Russian bastard scummy scuzzy, suicide-bombing, Chelsea-supporting vermin and everyone cheers and loves him, the returning hero. All 5 foot 3 of him. But he’s almost normal size when sitting in an F15, or whatever those planes are. And I thought two things after my 7 minutes of Top Gun:

1. I LOVE this film

2. This film is just plain shite.

Seemingly contradictory, the ill-informed may think, but they’d be wrong. My life is one big contradiction so holding seemingly opposing views is just same shit different day for me.

And I love it because its almost the ultimate feel good film. It wasn’t Tom Cruise who shot down those evil Russians, it was me. And it wasn’t him that walked off with a simmeringly gorgeous Kelly McGillis, it was me. And it wasn’t him on that fab motorbike riding without a helmet, it was me. And that’s what the best films do; they put you ‘there’. They’re inclusive. (Going to see The Theory of Everything tomorrow night; wonder how I’ll feel after 2 hours in a wheelchair speaking with an electronic voice??).

And its a shite film because it is just one big cliché. Amazingly predictable, horribly formulaic from the love angle to the big rivals become big mates man-hugs at the end, the bad boy comes good, the Maverick (in so many ways) becomes the team player and saves the universe, almost single-handedly, and rides off into the sunset with the babe. Ahhhhhhh.

See, its crap. Hope its on again tonight.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

… let me count the ways.

Let me say from the outset: I really don’t like Chelsea very much. And thus I’m really enjoying the scandal surrounding the fans in Paris completely living up to the stereotypical image we have of them. Shaven-headed, ignorant, racist yobs. Fab. Job done. I’ve always had that impression of them and now the world knows its true; its been ‘proven’.

And the poster boy for this ‘proof’ is Josh Parsons. 21 years old, city trader, ex-public-schoolboy, alleged UKIP devotee and of course, Chelsea fan. On the train in Paris, identified from the pictures, so the newspapers have been taking their usual ‘neutral’ and ‘impartial’ look at the ‘evidence’ against Josh.

Who is either an active part of a horrible group of Chelsea boot-boys who extol racism and would probably revere Adolph Hitler (surely only a matter of time) or just a guy ‘in the wrong place at the wrong time’.

And the truth is: we don’t know which. So the press, in their accustomed manner, present the ‘facts’ for us to make an ‘informed judgment’. By their usual tools of implication, innuendo and assumption.

That Josh Parsons is a public school boy. Strike 1. We fucking hate public school boys; over-privileged, spoilt, morning-suit-wearing upper-class tossers who fondle each other’s genitals over toast at tea time. For which their parents pay a fortune. Milfield School, where Josh went (never heard of it either; probably third rate sub-educational army cadet college for thick rich kids), charges £25,000 a year!! According to early reports. By this morning’s papers that had mysteriously risen to £35,000 a year!!!! So we can hate him more.

Then, the researcher’s dream. A photo of Josh with none other than Nigel Farage. Strike 2. Leader of UKIP. The party that spends approximately 92% of its political time denying accusations of racism. This photo, innocently taken outside a pub, is the most damning, incriminating, most cut-and-dry bit of chance in the history of the press. This picture is the judge, jury and gallows for both Josh and UKIP. Because both have assumptions of racism, and here they are ‘in bed together’. Its enough to make any sub-editor soil his underpants. Josh MUST be a racist because he’s UKIP and UKIP MUST now be racist because they’re with a Chelsea nazi.

If I saw Farage in a pub, I would definitely pose with him. Then punch him.

Next is the vague ‘city trader’, something in hedge funds, something sufficiently bankerish to implicate Josh in the entire financial crisis, probably for the economic and political downfall of Greece too. Strike 3. He could have been described more jobbishly; he’s a tea-boy, he’s a financial person, but no; trader, hedge-fund, banker are all far more suggestive of being bad. Rightly so.

Thus the assassination is complete. The boy is doomed. He may have just left the airport with a group of fellow travelers and was still with them when, to his horror, they abused a black man on the Metro.

But naaaaaaaaaah; where’s the headlines in that. Hang the bastard out to dry and worry about mere details like ‘the truth’ later. Can always print some vague apology on the foot of page 72, just under the obituaries.

Happy Friday, Josh, though I fear not.

A xxxx

I’m just reading a great book by Ben Elton. Safe to say, all his books are great. So far. This one’s about time travel.

“Oh, not tiiiiiiiime tttttttravel; boooooooringgggg. Don’t say; its all about going back to 1963 and becoming your own grandfather, or the other ‘time para-fuckin’-dox’ where you bang your head in 1357 and immediately disappear because the person who stopped to help you out missed his one opportunity to bump into his otherwise-would’a’been wife at the armour-repairers sorting out her dad’s breast-plate, and thus they never had their one and only child, who would have eventually become the head-banger’s great, great, great… you get the picture”.

But its none of that. I’ll spare the mechanics but they’re original. So a guy goes back to just before the first world war, to stop it happening, hopefully to make a happier Europe for the entire future of Europe. Good luck with that.

And you can’t help but think; what if you went back to… pre-revolutionary Russia, or pre-war Germany, or Cuba for the Bay of Pigs, Tottenham in 1961? Or how about you went back to a football match in about 1975? When it was baaaaad. When rival fans would arrange mass fucking riots between themselves, fuelled only by Carling Extra Strong Lager and all the Stanley knives you could eat. When one minute you’d be standing (yes, we stood standing in them dark days) there admiring a wonderful goal by Martin Chivers, (yes, we scored goals in them dark days) the next you’d find 75 West Ham fans in yer face because they’d run across the pitch and dived into the Park Lane end for some ‘aggro’.

And on the way home groups of horrible, loud, drunk thugs would terrorise people. All people. Any people. But especially people who might be ‘different’. They’d be an instant target. Black people. Indian people. Eskimos with their huskies. Lotta them round Tottenham in 1975. And these vile specimens would insult, abuse, push, cajole and be openly racist and scummy. And very scary.

In fact, if you did manage to time-warp back to such a time, it would look pretty much like Tuesday night on the Paris Metro when a group of Chelsea dirt threw a black man off a tube train, twice, insulted him, racially abused him and any others just going about their business, threatened stabbings, and generally acted in a way that can only be described as ‘the way Chelsea fans have always acted and probably always will’.

Its all very good and well sticking a couple of ‘kick it out!!!!’ anti-racism posters up at Stamford Bridge; its also rather ironic that half of Chelsea’s ‘superstars’ are black and that the team is owned by a Jew. But its all window-dressing if you can’t change the attitudes of the horrible rabble who go there.

Lobotomise all Chelsea fans TODAY!!! Its the only way.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

That’s from the bible. I googled it. And its true. Though I kind’a reckon that in Deuteronomy they meant ‘bread’ to mean ‘food’ and went on to explain that the word of God is needed as well as ‘bread’. Whereas until Gourmet Burger Kitchen start a ‘word-of-God Burger’, I’m afraid I’m going to take it literally.

I can’t live on bread alone. I need meat with it/in it/next to it/on a separate plate because its such a humungous lump of flesh. And in fact if you did live on bread alone, you’d be a fat bastard with scurvy. All those carbs? You havin’ a laaarfff??? Die if you eat that.

Such is the received wisdom, that ‘carbs will kill you’ by rendering you obese. We live in a carbophobic world where many folk would rather pass on the baguette and drink a glass of green slime instead.

All this because on Sunday Mel & I did indeed go to Gourmet Burger Kitchen for lunch. Because its wonderful. And fills you with guilt, as well as carbs and fats.

Because of that, we only go there when its nice enough that we can walk there. Oh, and when they have a ‘2-for-a-tenner’ offer. So conditions really do have to be perfect. All parameters aligned before we do it. Like a lunar take-off.

Because you don’t just eat a burger there. Even though they’re big and wonderful and filled with all manner of ‘manna’. You ‘need’ chips. And whilst you’re there, mate, bring us some onion rings too. And more beer.

Ok, we didn’t have the beer. Drank water. Just like in the bible. Until they messed up the order a bit and insisted we had free ‘strawberry fizzers’ so we wouldn’t sue them for the distress it caused me. And not bringing me food does cause me massive distress. Even after the fantastic meal I could feel a bit of ‘post-traumatic’ coming on.

So we pigged out. Royally. Wonderful too. And fully justified by the 2 mile trek across Hampstead Heath it took to get there, and the same on the way back. Mainly because Mel wouldn’t let me call a taxi, even though it was right there and empty.

And every day I read the papers for those little snippets that ‘a glass of wine a day is highly beneficial and you’ll live longer’, followed a week later by ‘if you drink, even one glass of wine, each day, you are an alcoholic’, and a month after, ‘one glass of wine is great for digestion; 2 and YOU WILL DIE!!!’ And then vegetables which one day are life-affirming, the next are death-inducing if you cook them, or eat them with fish. And I wait for the one that says ‘eat a hamburger every day, a really big one, with cheese and fries and chillies and you will live forever’.

I’m still waiting.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve said it before and I’ll doubtless say it again, but it seems to be an eternally appropriate sentence.

Ed Miliband is a nob.

Just in case you had doubts.

Yet to a degree, what you actually ‘view’ of any political leader in reality goes way beyond the man himself. They don’t just spout the first rubbish that comes into their heads. Except Nigel Farage, of course. What the leader of any serious political party says, particularly in election year, is a distillation and analysis of views and information sifted, sorted and synthesised by his elaborate team of aides, researchers and cabinet colleagues.

So when Ed is in McDonalds and the Serbian behind the till asks him ‘if he wants fries with that’ (long as ‘that’ is not a bacon sandwich, of course), Ed will hold up a finger in gesture of ‘give me a second’, then he’ll phone his deputy leader to check on the viability of such an order, then Ed Balls, shadow chancellor, to ascertain whether such a purchase is within budget. The health people will have to decide whether the nation’s obesity problem may be worsened by adding chips to his meal, and his image consultants need to calculate whether Ed is in fact capable of eating them without looking like a total tosser. Again. Do proper socialists order more food than the bare minimum required to sustain them? Would a post-feminist eat such fattening fare or is it seen as somehow misogynistic to do so?

25 minutes later, with a queue behind him now stretching round the block, Ed says: ‘no thanks, pass on the chips; just the Big Mac and six kit-kat McFlurries, please’. Food for nobs.

The point being (point? sorry, you’re on the wrong blog if ya want ‘points’) that when Ed Miliband has spent the entire week in attack mode about the Tories and tax avoiders and has pointed the finger at every Conservative donor that has at any time been involved in any form of tax avoidance, however legal and above board, you’d think Ed’s rather extensive and certainly expensive team would have checked its own lists of donors first. Just, ya-know, just to, kind-a, just to see that all in Labour-land is totally squeaky clean on that specific subject. And it wouldn’t take very long, Labour don’t have many donors at all. A quick look would have sufficed. Just to avoid LOOKING LIKE A TOTAL FUCKING HYPOCRITE.

But no. Due diligence was apparently not performed and so out of the closet comes Sir David Garrard. Big Labour donor, hundreds of thousands given, this year alone, and not only is he a long-term tax exile, he also had funds in that now notorious Swiss HSBC Scoundrel Account.

Miliband is a nob.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Last week I went to the Doctor. Being a real man, in every sense of the word, it must have been really fucking serious, because going to the Doc’s is such an effin’ chore. But I went because I needed the final instalment on my inoculations from the holiday. I know, I’ve been back ages and the incidence of Yellow Fever in the Hampstead environs is not exactly in epidemic proportions. But you have to complete the ‘course’ otherwise either that or Hepatitis, or whichever of the dozens required it was, won’t work, like forever. So I went for a jab. Hate jabs. And as the nurse was loading up syringes and blunting the needles on a stone (I know what those fucking sadists do), Mel, who was there with me, not just to stop me from running or crying but have her own final instalment, pipes up: “can we get flu jabs while we’re here?”

‘NOOOOOOOO!!!!’ I thought, don’t want a soddin’ flu jab, don’t want any more than I absolutely must have.

“Oh yes, pipes the nurse (aka: the jabbing bitch), we have some left over, I’ll get a couple”. What a heartless cow. So we got stuck in both arms. Grrrrrr.

Two days later, on the news, there’s a report on how totally fucking useless this year’s flu jab is. Less than 3% successful in preventing flu. Cos when they make the jab, back in last summer, they have to kind of guess what the strain of virus is going to look like the following winter. And they guessed wrong. So jabbed me with some rubbish placebo nonsense-vaccine. For 3% I’ll pass on the jab thanks very much. But too late.

And then I developed a cold. Thursday night. Had a terrible night, drowning in snot (nice) but I was again braver than Russell Crowe in Gladiator and went to work, took some paracetamol and braved what turned out a busy busy day. Went to bed last night, dosed up with ‘EXTRA DROWSY’ cold/flu meds and lay there sniffing for 7 hours sleeplessly. Mel was great and really concerned about my wellbeing, repeatedly saying: “STOP SNIFFING AND KEEP STILL!!!”

So this morning I went to Tai Chi. Why not. And felt better for it. Energised. So off to tennis and started hitting a few balls. Then after about ten minutes I started shaking. Most odd thing. Like palpitations, shaky limbs. “Well fuck dat!” I thought and ‘played through it’. Though ‘it’ didn’t end, just kept making me shaky and rather odd. And a half hour later I had to retire hurt. Which is right up there with ‘snagging my tights’ and ‘having my period’ as manly excuses go.

Spurs Paul understood. And sniggered, of course, as any man would do. So I came home and ate things. Feed a cold. Feed flu. Feed anything, anytime, anywhere.

Happy ManFlu Saturday

A xxxx

Its out.
The movie.
We’ve all been waiting.
And now its here.
O.
M.
G!!!

If I’m honest, (which I generally try to be unless I choose not to be or there’s some financial gain to be made by not being), and being a true movie lover, I intend to go and see 50 Shades of Grey, the movie. Just as soon as hell freezes over.

Though I did read the book. On the basis that everyone else in the house (all women) had read it and it was lying around. And it was such pure, unadulterated shit that I immediately read the next two parts. Otherwise I’d started feeling a little left out of conversations. And always needing to get in touch with my feminine side. The side where I keep my tits.Yet until then, not my nipple-clamps.

Yet I felt it my duty to read EL James’ offerings, if nothing else (and quite frankly, there is very little else) to see what all the fuss was about. And the fuss was about the semi-erotic, midly pornographic (everything is ‘mild’ after you’ve been to www.chainsaw-up-the-jacksy.com) chic lit that’s USP is that its heavy on domination, S&M, as it once was, now BDSM, in honour of a particularly good driving school.

And for the uninitiated, its yer basic, formulaic love story. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love with girl. Girl falls in love with boy. Boy introduces girl to pain, bondage, whips, butt plugs and mild electric currents. Girl says: ‘fuck dat for a game’a soldiers’ and runs away with her tail nailed to the coffee table. Boy chases after girl, pleading ‘it was all a big mistake; I luuuurrrrrve you almost as much as I love my rather brutal collection of leather-bound, metal-studded dildos. Please come: back/home/to the ball/away with me/to the red room of pain/whatever.’ Girl takes out a restraining order preventing boy from coming within 500 metres.

But the boy in question is really special. Really, REALLY special. Not only is he stunningly beautiful and richer than any other 7 tax avoiders combined, he has immaculate taste, he is generous, intelligent and can bring a woman to orgasm from just by lifting a single eyebrow at a distance of 50 yards. He is POTENT. So NO, this is not just some woman’s fantasy figure of male perfection because that would be a little too Prince Charming. So let’s give him a near-fatal flaw. Just a little one.

He likes to torture women. But being an uber-mensch, only with their consent. Bless him.So really, the book (and presumably the film though I’m never going to know) is about consent. Not just brutal sex. If it was just that we might as well follow the Dominique Strauss-Kahn trial in Lilles. Where he reckons that ‘he might just be a little more brutal in bed than most men’. Well he’s not more brutal than Christian Grey. But only with signed and notarised consent.

Its all a load of bollocks. Which are then clamped in a vice and stabbed with a soldering iron. Eeeuuuuwwww.

Happy perverse Friday (but ain’t they all?)

A xxxx