Andy's Glasses

I want to save the planet. All by myself. I want to stop carbon emissions. I want nuclear power and an end to fossil fuels. I want no more birds with asthma. I want pollution to become an historical artefact. You don’t need to have factories spewing out shit from their chimneys; you can use a few hundred Chinamen instead to do the same job. I want airplanes to run on fairy-dust and I want cows to stop farting their evil methane.

But I’ll never drive a Prius.

However, there are some electric cars, worthy of the name, which actually look and drive fabulously. Not the BMW i8; that wins on looks but in reality is only ‘electric’ because the clock runs on that particular power. For the engine to take you beyond its 30 mile range you need petrol. Same with all ‘hybrids’, they just exist to avoid the congestion charge and make people feel smug.

Tesla make electric cars that are fast, efficient, classy and have no petrol/diesel at all. And they can even take you a few hundred miles without running out of charge. Which is fine because my range between bladder stops is about 40 miles. So I stop for a pee, plug in, charge up, drink a coffee, which then means only 20 miles til next stop/pee/coffee/charge. Works perfectly. You do the maffs. As long as the coffee shop has a spare socket.

But now Elon Musk (its a person even though it sounds like either a new aftershave or a small, civil-war-torn African state) has expanded his horizons. He’s the dude who owns Tesla. Originally set up Paypal, sold it to ebay, so he has ‘funds’. He’s also flown a rocket into space and done a whole host of imaginative, inventive stuff, as geniuses do.

His latest ‘thing’ is going on sale in the States. Its a great big battery that you put on the wall of your garage. And it stores electricity, either from cheap rate grid stuff, or from your own wind farm or solar panels. So for about £2,000 you can save a fortune of that oil-burned shit power the big companies provide for you. And think how smug you could be then? Saving hundreds of pounds a year whilst saving the planet at the same time. You’d have a halo.

I want to know what mobile phone Elon Musk uses. And if he has to charge it up every 20 minutes like I do with mine. And if so, WHY IS HE WASTING SO MUCH TIME SAVING THE FUCKING PLANET WHEN HE COULD DO SOMETHING REALLY USEFUL WITH HIS LIFE???

Happy Saturday, keep it green

A xxxx

Some stories just kind’a grab ya. Right in the cajones. Or, in the tits, perhaps. Or for Bruce Jenner, maybe both.

Because its an amazing story. Of winning, of success, of fame, fortune and limitless plastic surgery, of attention-seeking taken to a stratospheric level and of the ultimate in bizarre.

Bruce Jenner was an athlete. An Olympic decathlon winner in 1976, world record holder and all round, clean cut American boy. He married, had a few kids, made a lot of money in business, then divorced because American statutes dictate that once your fortune reaches over $100 mil you have to find a newer, younger wife. Or one that’s had so much ‘work’ that she at least looks a bit younger. So enters Kris Kardashian. ‘The Mother’. They become the first family to put themselves right ‘out there’ on tv for the whole world to observe the day-to-day happenings in the lives of the super-rich, vain, spoiled rotten, ultra-superficial morons who get a Range Rover for their 16th birthday present and a breast enlargement for every birthday thereafter. Or a new bum. Both if its a ‘big’ birthday. Or a big bum.

My daughters lurved the Kardashians. I fucking hated it. I’d rather pay attention to what’s happening in my own house that watch what’s happening in theirs. Which was generally nothing of any value. Other than monetary. But Bruce, the father figure, was obviously no stranger to the scalpel. Nor to bottles of hair dye. And he and Kris had some daughters of their own too. As ya do. Gorgeous ones, obviously, or the show would have been cut.

And now, having left Kardashian hell by divorcing Kris, all those years among those beautiful women made him decide that he wants to be one. Not only that, he wants to become Mrs Doubtfire. Good luck Bruce.

I’ve never trusted men who dye their hair. Its stupid. Look at Andrew Neil. Can’t be any more stupid than that. But now its more serious. Dying your hair can lead to penis removal; BEWARE. Its a slippery slope.

I missed the leaders of the main parties last night as they embarrassed themselves in front of an audience in Leeds. (Why Leeds? Why not somewhere normal??) But I did see Nigel Farage. And I may not agree with him but I don’t half admire him. Because he is normal. He has the confidence of a man who has lived and worked in the real world and it shows. Something the Camerons and Milibands, professional politicians since birth, simply lack. And Nigel is credible. Human, charming, very intelligent, engaging and yes, nice. I would never vote for the bastard but in terms of presence he leaves the other pathetic offerings standing.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

This is Yangyang. She’s what your mum would look like if you lived in Hong Kong. She looks like an Eastern version of Dustin Hoffman’s Tootsie. If you put an assault rifle in her hands she’d be Sarah Palin. But in fact she’s a robot. Wow! A robot!

The latest in the ever-increasing push towards AI (that’s artificial intelligence, not the great north road) has come up with this… thing. And it looks friendly and nice, lacks the Terminator Cyborg menace, is (just) more aesthetically appealing than a Dalek, and can shake hands with people. And speak to them, in a limited way.

China and Japan, who actually managed to put aside their total hatred for each other just long enough to produce Yangyang, see ‘her’ as the future. Both countries have ageing populations and apparently suffer ‘growing labour shortages’. China, 1.6 billion people and they can’t find 150 factory workers. So they’re building them instead. Desperately installing all the robotics they can into the workforce. But can she handle a wok?

Meanwhile back on Planet Almost Human, Ed Miliband went to meet Russell Brand. Which some say is odd due to Brand being the leading anti-voting campaigner as well as all round obnoxious tosser and vile human being. But Ed thought he’d ‘court’ Brand to try and get him to support Labour. And to do this he chose the ‘come down to his level’ method of chumminess. Ed spent the hour dropping all his aitches, glottal stopping for all he’s worth (not a lot) and turning into the political equivalent of a Rude Boy gang-banger. Ed became ‘street’. Worked well too.

But Ed is now a desperate man. Scotland is voting SNP. All of it, apparently. So Ed will lose sufficient seats in the election, as previously Scotland was Labour, to force things to happen. Cameron will win most seats. But possibly not enough for an overall majority. Then Ed will have to do a deal with the Scots. Who all want to leave Britain. That’s what the SNP stands for. Scottish Nationalism. And Ed has repeatedly, unambiguously, constantly denied that he would ever do that.

Nicola Sturgeon meanwhile is so entrenched in the whole Scottish psyche that anyone questioning any of their policies is immediately seen as ‘anti-Scottish’, whatever the argument. Sigmund Freud once stated that anyone who questions pyscho-analysis has unresolved issues and needs psycho-analysis to overcome them. Perfect circularity. Sturgeon has taken a leaf from his pipe and made her party into one that cannot be questioned. Hitler did that too.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

A phobia is an irrational fear of something. If you’re arachnophobic and you see a little spider dangling from its itty-bitty thread, you leap around screaming and breaking things until someone disposes of the animal. That’s a phobia. Its irrational. Makes no sense. An itty-bitty mider can’t hurt you, you know that. Ooooh, but its got legs and things and… eeeeuuuw. Whereas finding a 6 inch tarantula in your bed, with fucking great fangs and dripping venom and looking right at you with its 73 eyes, seeming to say: ‘come on then; you want some??? Muthafucka!!!’, that’s not a ‘phobia’. That’s real, genuine, rational fear.

I suffer from Wengerphobia; the irrational fear of Arsenal. Also Tosserphobia, the irrational fear of every other driver on the roads. Because they’re morons. And I am genuinely Claustrophobic which is the irrational fear of Father Christmas.

So up steps Ed (fucking!!) Miliband, once more, having identified a million or so extra voters he hasn’t yet tried to bribe, blackmail or coerce with stupid and unsustainable offers of riches beyond their dreams, and states that ‘when’ he is Prime Minister he intends to make Islamophobia a crime.

Because Ed too is a tosser. And fails to understand the basics of the English language and its implications. You can’t outlaw a fear. Rational or otherwise. Ed probably realises that. Even Ed. But the word Islamophobia has become a catch-all phrase to imply some kind of race hatred motivation on the part of the alleged ‘Islamophobe’. As recently so used and abused by Lutfar Rahman, the ex mayor of Tower Hamlets. He called everyone an Islamophobe. As if accusing the cheating, stealing, pocket-lining, lying, scumbag of any of his very evident crimes was merely race hatred. It was used as an umbrella of defence. Fortunately it was a very transparent umbrella and they got rid of the evil bastard. But obviously not transparent enough for Ed, who has identified a lot of Muslim voters, so has ‘thrown them a bone’. A rather pathetic one. Everything that man does is pathetic.

Bournemouth AFC. Football club. Based in… er… Bournemouth, probably. They won promotion last night to the Premiership (in all but a statistical implausibility) and I’m happy for them.

In 2008 they were bankrupt, ‘fined’ 10 points and on the verge of going out of both the league and of existence. Without an Abramovich to save them (one of them came a bit later) the fans bought the club, they survived relegation and six years later they have found the holy grail. Well done them Cherries.

Happy Milibandophobic Tuesday

A xxxx

I met my mp last Sunday. He’s a Tory. Nice little fella. Mike Freer. All round good guy, nice guy and decent bloke. I was walking down the road with Mel and the elder daughter (a ‘football widow for the day as hubby was at Newcastle watching glorious Spurs) when I saw a ‘threatening group’ amble into the street. Threatening because all groups of 8/9 people are threatening because its unusual. Ooooh, I don’t like the look’a them, I thought. Then I saw a bunch of blue rosettes and a familiar face (my mate Adam, who I’d never known was a political activist) and realised it was a canvassing party. Or canvassing Party. Either works. So I shouted out some abuse along the lines of ‘GEDDOUT’A OUR STREET; DIS IS A LAYBOUOUOUR STREET, NAR CLEAR OWFFFFF!!’ Elder daughter, a staunch Conservative, hid in a nearby hedge. So then, as Adam smiled, the rest all looked worried by their perception of ‘threatening’. We met, we hugged, we made up. Ahhhh, nice.

So why have I not met my mp before? In the last 5 years of his tenure? We have had emails, that’s true, about high speed broadband (don’t ask; a long and sorry tale, though to his credit, our mp is trying to mediate) but never a face to face.

Because there’s an election in 10 days time. That’s why. And so its time to show your face. If you’re a normal, hard-working mp.

Its also a time to make rash promises to the electorate. Sweeteners.

We’ll help with your gas bills.
We’ll reduce your cholesterol.
We’ll improve the NHS.
We’ll protect your rent.
We’ll help you buy your first home.
We’ll extend your penis.

And the promises are hollow and vacant. And all have a flip side. Yes, they can give you a stamp duty free first home purchase, but that leaves a hole in the budget. Which Miliband will fill with ‘a tax crackdown on rogue landlords’. Whatever the fuck that means. But it sounds great. All the messages sound great. Its election run-up, that’s no time for bad news. So make a gesture; no stamp duty, better hospitals, higher wages, and then fund it by taxing some baddies. Be they ‘rogue landlords’ or ‘bankers bonuses’ or tax avoiders. Because we all love to punish the bad guys and if we can win something at the same time, so much the better.

And the promises get bigger and bolder. And less thought out and credible. They wreak of desperation.

It’ll all be better when we’re Scottish.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Watford have been promoted. I couldn’t be happier if… if… if I appeared on today’s Rich List. I couldn’t be happier if my neighbour’s dog stopped shitting in my sodding garden. I couldn’t… Actually, although I feel for Watford, many fans of which are personal acquaintances, it doesn’t really make me HAPPY happy. Just, kind of, ‘oh, Watford are coming up, yeah, fine’, kind of happy. And all by virtue of Middlesboro’ losing at Fulham.

So now all eyes (well, mine) are on tomorrow night as Bournemouth play Bolton. If Bournemouth win, they’ll get automatic promotion too and Boro will have to endure the horrendous trial of ‘the play-offs’. Though in theory they could still get automatic promotion if Bournemouth beat Bolton but lose their remaining game by 17 goals. Or more. Never say ‘never’.

And what if Bournemouth only draw with Bolton? Or lose?? Then its all still wide open.

And when I say ‘all eyes are on Bournemouth’, there may be a few, just a couple, with an interest in today’s match at the Emirates. Where the Arse take on Chelsea. Which is the true battle between 1st and 2nd, even though Arsenal are currently 3rd. Because you can’t count Manchester City. Firstly they’ve played 2 games more, secondly they really didn’t deserve to beat Aston Villa yesterday (David Cameron’s team, unless he changes his mind to suit the situation) and thirdly, because I fucking hate them. Can’t get better reasons than that.

So we’ll consider it 1st vs 2nd for convenience. Amazingly, Wenger has never beaten Morinho. Obviously that refers to their teams, although I’d love to see those two slugging in out in a bitch-slapping, handbags-at-dawn, mano-a-mano event, unlikely to happen. (My money would be on Jose because you know he’d fight dirty).

This really is a tantalising prospect. Two top London teams, both vile and hateful in their own unique ways and both with fans you wouldn’t wish on anyone. But for different reasons. Arsenal’s are all smugness and superiority, intellectuals ‘advising’ everyone why their team is so wonderful and how trophies are meaningless symbols, useless metaphors for success but only in an ‘all that glitters’ kind of way that is, quite frankly, beneath their total brilliance. Whereas Chelsea’s fans are just a throwback to a 1970s era of sexism, racism, Stanley knives and knuckle-dragging, gang-raping, moronic criminal classes. And John Major.

And another Argentinian scored with his hand yesterday, in honour of the 29th anniversary of Diego Maradona’s goal against England. Well call Lamela’s the ‘hand of Dog’ goal. He’s certainly unworthy of any other label.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

A young boy, a teenager really, was arrested yesterday at an airport after being found to have become radicalised by the evil preachings found on his computer. The poisoned ideology, the quest for world domination, the turning of innocent views distorted for wicked aims.

The arrest, at Glasgow airport, was the longest in an increasing number of vulnerable youths who are becoming ‘radicalised Scots’. He was setting off to join IS. Independent Scotland. Having been seduced by the Osama bin Laden of the North of Hadrian’s Wall; Nicola Sturgeon.

Why would this young man, British by birth and upbringing, who just has the misfortune to own Scottish grandparents, why should his mind have been turned to such a bad place? Police are investigating his school, his church, to find where, exactly, this radicalisation may have taken place.

Because Scotland is fast becoming the new Syria. The latest Iraq. The place where evil germinates and spreads.

Having failed to achieve the nationalist separation that so many truly desired, the Scottish nation has been forced into a rethink. And that thinking is specifically targeting England. And how our fine nation can be ruled, robbed and then abandoned, by the marauding scion of William Wallace and Billy McNeill.

And its all so odd, so sudden.

A year ago no-one gave a thought about Scotland. It was just the place where our whisky was produced and goalkeepers were shit. It was an exotic distant land filled with deep-fried Mars bars and southbound geography teachers.

Then came ‘the VOTE!!!’ and suddenly we’d have sacrificed our own children rather than ‘lose Scotland to independence’. And phew, they voted ‘no’. Just. And since then its been nothing but trouble.

Not content with the Scottish mps having an influence down here that ours aren’t allowed up there, they now look set to actually be playing a very large part in our next government (or ‘the doomsday scenario’ as its known in… well… in my house).

And Nicola Sturgeon has made it perfectly clear that she hates London. Not the place, not the people (well, not some of them) but the entire concept of the capital as a financial powerhouse for the entire nation. So she wants to rob it blind, tax it to death, so she can send our money north, whilst at the same time denying any reciprocity by demanding total tax-raising powers for Holyrood.

But all with the rather ironic aim of setting Scotland free from Westminster altogether. Or ‘biting the haggis that feeds your’.

And Scotland is becoming this hot-bed of nationalist radicalism. And its not nice and I don’t like it. Not one little bit.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Do you remember, as a kid, (I hope), getting a ‘compendium of games’? It was a normal board-game sized box but inside were the slimmed down versions of a dozen different games. Ludo, scrabble, chess, draughts, snakes’n’ladders, loads of games, all kind’a wrapped up together to save space and time and create so many options? Remember that?

Well that’s what we’re going to get at Spurs. A Compendium Stadium. And its a brilliant idea. Money-spinning. Ergonomic. And making the best use of facilities.

On saturdays they’ll play football there. At the new stadium, come 2018, may it please God, pth, pth, pth. Then on Sundays they slide the pitch aside (it can be done, it is done elsewhere) and reveal artificial turf upon which will be played American Football. NFL. We’ll get a franchise as the NFL are (for some unaccountable reason) keen to have a team in London. Probably for the easy commute to New Orleans.

The plans for the new stadium, now all those pesky local businesses have been removed by buy-outs or fires, are moving forward and they’re building special changing rooms, really fucking huge ones, that can accommodate not just the 52 immense and mountainous players on a gridiron team, but the 25 coaches (people, not buses) that have to be with them at all times to stop them taking drugs.

Spurs are in negotiation with the NFL as you read this, because they want promises before making big investments in the structure modifications that are required. You can’t play American Football on a proper football pitch, they churn it up, like they do at Wembley every year. So we’ll have the two pitch scenario.

I think we should take this further. And on Wednesdays, the whole stadium slides neatly underground (like it would in Thunderbirds) and they play golf there. Of course you’d need to be very carful strolling down Tottenham High Street dressed like a pratt, or ‘in golfing attire’ as its known, because muggers love golf clubs.

Thursdays could be cricket day, sliding the stands back by 50 yards or so for the boundaries, and on Friday you could play bridge there.

Which leaves Tuesdays, and I’m thinking Formula One. Big money in F1. Little drivers, but big cash.

The only question that remains: what will we call ‘our’ NFL team? The Tottenham Texans? The Tottenham Rioters?? The Cockney Bastards?? Or The Scottish Braves??? if Nicola Sturgeon becomes prime minister. Though if that happens I’ll be living in Kabul for safety.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Its the foundation stone of commerce. Pay as little as you can for something, sell it for as much as possible. Nothing new there. And its not just physical objects that you can buy and sell, since the ‘Big Bang’ changed trading of stocks and shares, futures, options and all kinds of bizarre ‘derivatives’ to be traded electronically. And unlike physical objects, which tend to depreciate in value (other than a 1966 Ferrari California) trades can do all sorts of things. But if you know which way a share is going to move, that’s a great thing, from an investment standpoint. Its also very illegal and is called ‘insider dealing’ and can land you in prison.

So that’s out of the question then. But how wonderful if you knew market trends and how they were going to change; that would be wonderful. Like betting on a horse-race that actually happened yesterday. Can’t lose.

The fact is though that share and derivative trading is purely speculative. You make a guess which way markets are probably going to move.

Or, you can actually manipulate them to move where you want them. Is that a crime?

According to the Americans, yeah, it kind’a is a crime. A pretty big one. Which is why they want to send Navinder Sarao, a reclusive wierdo from Hounslow, to prison for just 380 years.

Navinder traded from his own home. In fact, from his parents’ home. A modest little semi in West London. And he was rather clever. He traded American derivatives and made some money. Shit loads of money.

He used software which simulated multiple trades. So he’d pick a ‘future’. And when he hit the ‘sell’ button it would appear as if hundreds of traders were selling the stock. So the price would plummet. Being electronic, this happened instantly. And when the price hit a very low price, Navinder would then cancel the sales, as his system allowed him to do, and instantly buy all of them back at the new, very low, manipulated price. Sell high, buy low. Just like all commerce but the wrong way round.

Unfortunately, his manipulations caused billions of dollars of devaluation on share prices on American markets on one day. Which is the post-millennial version of ‘cattle rustling’ so the posse is out to hang him high.

So this geezer, who only and always wears tracksuits from Sport Direct and eats sandwiches only after they’ve been reduced late in the day, paid his own bail of £5million.

I think he’s a hero. I don’t think he should be extradited to a lynch mob. As far as I can ascertain the man’s a bit of a genius. His only real crime is wearing clothes from Sports Direct.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

There’s all this fuss and excitement made about the Champions League. Players move clubs just to play in it, clubs ransom their fortunes to appear in it, owners want to win it beyond any other prize. Though most can afford all the other prizes currently available to billionaires. And although you can’t buy that esteemed trophy like you can buy yachts, planes, palaces or strings of blondes, many do try.

So in the blue corner there was Roman Abramovich, Russian oligarch, money-launderer and all round person of extremely dubious character who bought an impoverished Chelsea, pumped in a few bil and they did in fact win the Champions League. A shame for old values.

But more have tried and are still failing. The Abu Dhabis bought Manchester City who, rather amusingly, crash and burn in that competition every year.

Another bunch of Emirates have bought Paris St Germain who left the stage last night at the almost eternal graveyard for away team aspirations; the Nou Camp in Barcelona.

Already 3-1 down from the home leg, Lauren Blanc’s Qatari-Parisians had hopes in Catalonia. And hopes, as any Spurs fan will tell you, approximately 39 times a season, will kill ya every time. I watched a little bit of the game before bridge last night, just 15 minutes or so, and it was enough to know everything about Barcelona and the Champions League. Because they virtually define what makes it so brilliant. And it was all about Andres Iniesta. Who is now about 73 years old and has always been the least extravagant of world superstars but probably the most effective for it. He picked up the ball outside his own box, turned and ran. About 70 yards he ran, leaving in his wake half the PSG team swinging their legs at thin air or falling on their asses. Then he threaded the ball to the feet of Neymar. Who ‘did the rest’. Which sounds easy and in fact looked easy, a testament to the troubled Brazilian’s amazing ability. And the legacy of the brand of football inspired by Pep Guardiola.

Whilst over in Bavaria, the other Guardiola team, the current one, were starting against a Porto team who amazingly were 3-1 up from the first leg. And Bayern Munich simply annihilated them in that brutal German way that (much of the same players) beat Brazil 7-2 in the World Cup. Bayern were 5-0 up by half time, 6-1 the final score. You could almost feel sorry for Porto who, unlike most of the quarter-finalists, are not a rich team. Yet you simply had to admire the style and quality of the German team, even without their two most lethal players, Robben and Ribery.

It is often said: ‘you can’t buy class’. Well, in football you can. But it doesn’t always work.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx