Andy's Glasses

Do you ever read about trials and sentences and just think: ‘what the f-??’

In South Africa, land of the wife-killer (I know Oscar Pistorius wasn’t actually married to the woman he murdered but he probably would have chosen to marry her at some point if he hadn’t put a few bullets through her instead), Shrien Dewani walked free from court after the most bizarre case following the death of his ‘real’ wife on their honeymoon 4 years ago. Mr Dewani has been changed in his description by the press from being ’34 year-old care-home owner’ to being ’34 year-old bisexual care-home owner’. Well now its ‘out there’ we might as well use it to give a fuller, more rounded account of the man. But the judge over there had to virtually abandon the trial because everyone was lying, the witnesses all cutting deals to testify against Dewani to have thier own sentences reduced, it was a fucking joke. Except for the family of his bride. For them its no laughing matter that they not only have no idea who killed their daughter/brother/sister but they have no idea why. She’s just ‘gone’. Get over it, the South African system seems to cry out, move on; Next case please.

For what its worth, I reckon he arranged her murder as suspected. Here’s a ‘bisexual’ which in this case a euphemism for ‘gay’ man, from a deeply traditional Hindu family. Where the pressure to not just marry but to marry the right person (religion, caste, family) is immense. For him to come out as gay would be a disgrace for the whole family, it would bring shame and dishonour. And honour is a much bigger thing among Indians that for many others. So he went along with the family’s wishes, married the girl probably of their choice, whilst comforting himself with rent boys and escorts. We’ve all done that. He realises that he can’t live a lie and rather than think of annulment, divorce, seperation, all of which would bring shame and dishonour, as above, he takes the ‘3rd option’. The radical one to liberate himself from a world he hated. It only takes money, and he’s not a poor man.

So now he walks free. Or minces free, depending on which part of his bisexuality was freed.

The British legal system is much better. The court of appeal yesterday freed a man from an indefinite jail term for child abuse and for raping a 9 year old girl. He’s a serial offender, has shown no remorse, no promise to change his ways and he admitted to all his crimes. His own lawyers call him a ‘danger to the public’. But the judges, who apparently know best, have declared that his Imprisonment for Public Protection was unlawful. I agree. Just shoot the fucker. Let him either spend the night with Oscar Pistorius or go on honeymoon with Shrien Dewani and all will be sorted.

Even football is uplifting compared to that lot.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

Interesting article the other day about why ‘we’ all fucking hate ‘tests have shown’ and ‘surveys’ and stuff because we can’t trust them. I can’t remember the specifics but the gist was; whoever pays for the study/survey/whatever, generally gets what they want to show/prove. Climate change was a big culprit/victim in this. And a senior scientist commented that one result showed an 85% kind of result in one direction. But as it wasn’t the direction the funders of the research had wanted so the published result showed a 60% swing the other way. After ‘rationalisation’ and ‘weighting’ and ‘easing’ and ‘allowances’. So its all for nothing.

In an unrelated matter, they’re thinking of including frozen pizzas as part of our essential ‘5-a-day’. And I’m not talking about 5 lumps of lard-ridden, heart-clogging, sugar/fat laden guaranteed killers, but our 5 ‘fresh fruit and vegetables’ a day. Because they hacked up a pizza (well you have to; you can’t eat it all in one go; I’ve tried loads of times) and found minute traces of things called ‘vitamins’ or ‘vegetable related goodness’, and so have decided to add that food to our list of ‘healthy eating’. A fucking pizza. A frozen pizza. In a ‘supersize me’ act of benevolent madness, I intend to eat 5 pizzas a day for a week and then posthumously sue the government, and Tecos, for my heart attack. If they include beer in the 5 a day, due to the hops its made from, and they must be some kind of vegetable, surely? then I’m prepared to raise my consumption to 10-a-day. To make me doubly healthy.

The only thing being really supersized are the kids whose parents would actually see a ‘healthy eating’ sticker on a packet of frozen shit and believe it.

UKIP have finally made it as a proper, up-there, major political force. They already had the followers, the support, the structure, lots of councillors, several Euro MPs and even 2 in government. What they were missing was a sex scandal. To show they’d really made it into mainstream politics. So Roger Bird, the party’s general secretary, made improper suggestions (which would have been proper suggestions if she’d fancied him, but then we’d never have heard about it) to a young woman as he ‘interviewed’ her to be a candidate. The woman, Natasha Bolton, a defector from Labour because of ‘misogyny, sexism and tokenism’, joined UKIP. Which is a bit like the Chief Rabbi joining Al Quaeda to get away from religious intolerance. And Natasha found, believe it or not, the same shit at UKIP but with racism thrown in as an added benefit. Quel surprise.

All UKIP now need a few pedophiles and we’ll all start taking them seriously.

Happy slightly cynical tuesday

A xxxx

Yesterday afternoon it got dark early, ahhh, life in the northern bit of the world in winter, so I sat in front of the telly with a nice cup of tea and fell asleep as Aston Villa beat Leicester. Two teams I have no care nor contempt for, in fact, no nothing. They’re too weak to be significant and are as inoffensive as teams can be, which is itself quite rare as I’m very easily offended in football.

Why can’t you fall asleep in front of Gone with the Wind? Or Celebrity Makeovers?? Come Dancing? Grand Designs? Kim Kardashian’s arse? Mel inquired. Why is it always football?

The answer to which is 2 simple words: its on.

If it was Spurs playing Arsenal my wife could understand. If it was Spurs playing anyone really. But West Ham playing Swansea? Aston Villa and Leicester? The MK Dons playing Barnsley?? Why would I want to watch that?

The answer of course is that I don’t have to do anything. Its that I want to. Because on the 8th Day G-d gave us football to watch, for all eternity (if my wife is to be believed) and Man watched it, and it was a good thing, So He watched it some more. And then yet more. Amen. I don’t question the word of the Creator.

Spurs drew nil-nil with Crystal Palace on Saturday. And, by all accounts, were lucky to get away with a draw against a team who played better than we did. With all due respect: CRYSTAL FUCKING PALACE!!!!!!! What is the world coming to? What has happened to our ‘forth place’ aspirations? To our pride? To our ability to win the odd game at home. Ok, Everton was that odd game, the rest: total shit.

Spurs have scored 18 goals this season, in 15 games. That’s… errr… well, that’s not very good. Lionel Messi alone has scored about 90 in 4 games. Ronaldo even more. Our 200 million pound team of superstars and legends; 18. Even Chelsea have managed 32 and everyone thinks they’re doing well. Though in their last 2 league games they’ve slipped a bit. Is this the proverbial ‘blip’ that all champs encounter and have to overcome to show how really dominant they are? Or have they just gone to shit, having beaten Spurs as the last decent match they played? Only time will tell. Morinho blamed the fans. If you can believe. Because he has to blame someone and the ref was fine and the players did little wrong, except get beat. Tosser.

West Ham are third in the league. No-one wants that. Even West Ham fans are embarrassed by it. Which they manifest by becoming unbearably gloaty, horrible and gobby, smug and scummy. But I know that’s just a cry for help. Help get them down the league where they feel more comfortable, where they’re more acclimatised. Like in the bottom 5. But with Andy Carroll ‘fit’, the sky is the limit. The man who’s fitness is measured, in between arrests, in single minute units, certainly saw off the Swans yesterday.

And Arsenal played their favorite game of the season. Stoke at the Britannia. The place of dreams. In a ‘Nighmare on Elm Street’ kind of way. But this time it was different. Stoke didn’t need to produce their normal weapons of mass destruction to beat the Arse, they just had to expose their terrible defensive frailty. 3 times in fact, in the first half. Their second half come-back was apparently commendable. Not good enough, but commendable. And, unlike Spurs, at least they had one.

So if I didn’t watch football, where would I get sufficient misery from? How could I understand true depression and sorrow without the beautiful game?

Happy sodding monday

A xxxx

London is 4 million years old. It was built by a Diplodocus called Harry and a Wooly Mammoth called Nigel. I’m not talking about the land where London is situated, I’m talking about LUUUNDUUUN, the city, the area, the best place in the world. And its big, like all, er, big Cities. So we break it up into bite sized bits so you know which traffic jam you need to sit in to get somewhere, or which tube station to disembark. Other cities have their ‘bits’ too. All cities have their Soho, or SoHo, or Les Halles or Ramblas, or Grenwich Village or Santa Monica or Little Italy, Chinatown, whatever. And other than the Soho thing, which was stolen from us, they are pretty much unique areas.

Until now. When suddenly someone has decided that London needs to be New York. Or a Paris. And its stupid, unnecessary and fucking pretentious.

We are in the process of acquiring a Mid-Town. Ooooooh, that’s nice. No, in fact it isn’t. Its the nothing strip between Holborn and Centre Point. It used to be called ‘that nothing bit between Holborn and Centre Point’, now its gonna be ‘mid-town’. Because that way they can charge more rent. Iss juss maffs, innit?

We now have Silicon Roundabout. We couldn’t afford a whole valley, so just have the roundabout. And you couldn’t really build a valley in Shoreditch; it wouldn’t fit. But when all the tech companies locate somewhere you have to name it ‘silicon’ something because all those female executives who managed to smash the ‘glass ceiling’ all have breast implants to celebrate. New job= more money= bigger tits. I understand that.

Then there’s ‘The Science Quarter’, which used to be known as Bloomsbury. A lovely name. A uniquely London name defining an area famous for lots of dead people of note, The British Museum, Great Ormond Street hospital and three pizza shops.

Now we’re getting The Cultural and Education Quarter. Wow. In Stratford. Hackney Marshes to be precise. The Olympic Park (just head east, keep going and when you fall asleep on the Central Line, you’re there). The Victoria & Albert Museum are building an annexe there. Right where the goalposts for the Women’s polo event was held. The London Arts University is building something there (that’ll be the ‘education’ bit; if you call ‘art’ education) and Saddler’s Wells, the famous dance and theatre company are having a Saddler’s Wells 2, or Saddler’s Wells East, or a Ballet Hackney Marshes, branch opening in the olympic park too.

And the final resident of our soon-to-be ‘Cultural and Education Quarter’ is West Ham United. Who will move in to the old Olympic stadium as soon as all the corruption, fraud and misappropriation of funds charges are dropped and they’ve reduced the size to accommodate all 625 people who are preparted to watch that football team on a regular basis.

A perfect fit; West Ham and the Cutlural, Educational bit. Because, by incorporating all those words into the only true sentence that can accommodate them: West Ham are the least cultured club on the planet and most of its players, fans and management are completely lacking an education.

A pig in lipstick is still a pig.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

A woman is pregnant. And alcoholic. Every day she drinks a bottle of vodka and 8 pints of ‘strong’ beer. Or ‘normal behaviour’ as its called in Newcastle. Her child is born with brain damage due to the alcohol. Which is tragic. The woman is taken to court but they find it is not a criminal offense to be a drunk pregnant woman. Its taken to appeal where the judges uphold the original decision. They won’t criminalise excessive drinking during pregnancy. Even though 280 children a year are born with the terrible legacy of the mother’s excesses and are deprived of anything like a ‘normal life’.

But the judges are right in their decision. Tragic though the consequences are. Because if you do criminalise the pissed when pregnant, you have to firstly draw a line and then you have to enforce it. And that’s where the problem lies. Do you breathalise pregnant women routinely? Randomly? Spot checks? Are you dutybound to report a drunk pregnant woman? How do you know they’re pregnant, not just large? And what about the first 3 months when they don’t ‘show’? How do doctors know if a woman is an alcoholic? And if so would they insist on a termination? That is morally, if not legally impossible. You don’t need to ‘register’ with anyone to conceive a child. Nor do you have to report excessive drinking. So there’s no natural place for checks.

You just have to educate and hope. Yeah, good luck with that.

On an unrelated note: I’m a man. Therefore I love breasts. Its the honest version of ‘I think therefore I am’. Homo ergo amo Titi. Or something. Ask a dead Roman.

And I like breasts in virtually all situations. Walking along the beach in a bikini; in a tight sweater, an evening dress, a wet t-shirt… oh, a wet t-shirt…, in a sleazy pit in Kings Cross swirling round with tassels, or spinners or little windmills.
LOOK IN MY EYES WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU, NOT AT MY CHEST!!!!!

The only time you can’t really appreciate breasts are when they completely covered up. Say by a baby. Then they’re no fun at all.

So I applaud Claridges, that most up-market of posh hotels, for their stance taken with a woman breast-feeding her child in the tea room the other day. And they told her off, made her ‘cover up’ by draping a tea-towel over baby-covered breast, which oddly upset the baby. Oh dear, an impasse. Crying, hungry baby vs stuffy, Victorian-valued hotel. Only one way to decide. Ask Nigel Farage. The world’s leading expert on social niceties, protocols and breast-feeding. Huh????

Farage stood by Claridges, stating that they have the right to impose rules and not upset other diners. That breastfeeding should be discreet, not ‘ostentatious’ and preferably done in a dark corner, ‘if you must’. Though he did first enquire what colour the woman was.

Whereas I feel that there is simply never a wrong time get breasts out in public. It should be encouraged. But please, don’t cover them with a baby. That moves it from the erotic, the pornographic, the smutty, to the mere ‘natural, nice and dull’.

So march to Claridges today and join the protest. A whole bunch of us feminists are heading to Mayfair to make our point. Many will be with babes, Nigel Farage will probably stay away and the values of the post-modern world will be explained to that pompous hotel. Which is why my banner states: GET YER TITS OUT!!!! in no uncertain terms.

Happy Saturday; it looks gorgeous out there but who wants to play tennis on an ice-rink?

A xxxx

Well we’re not going to talk about football. We’re just not. I’ll change the subject. It was bad enough that my invite for Tuesday night’s Victoria’s Secret fashion show, held in London for the first time, failed to arrive, then we had to go to Chelsea. And, as Elvis Costello prophetically sang: I don’t want to go to Chelsea. Even though Harry Kane really does not look like Elsie. And we hadn’t beaten Chelsea at Stamford Bridge since 1990, and we still haven’t. Hardly likely to with the blues sweeping aside all who dare come before them. Bastards. And we were on a ‘roll’. 2 wins running. That counts as a ‘roll’ where I come from. But we’re not going to mention it, ok? Its depressing. Arsenal won, West Ham won, even bloody Liverpool won, and we lost. Bastards.

So to divert my attention away from the football or, at least, to delay the inevitable depression, we went to see a movie. At the Everyman. Where you snuggle up on little 2-seater sofas, get your coffee delivered to you, or beer, wine, champaigne or a little box of sweets for a bleedin’ tenner, and enjoy the fact that what you’re watching is not your team losing. Even though my mate The Judge, the film buffs film buff, reckons the Everyman is for tarts, thinks its Starbucks with an incidental screen somewhere in the corner, we just love it there. Its like having a home cinema but with someone else clearing up after you.

We saw The Imitation Game. What a superb film. The best I’ve ever seen Benedict Cumberbatch. Even though I’ve never previously seen him in a movie. He plays none other than Alan Turing, the code-breaker and computer pioneer. And he plays him superbly. Everything about the film is superb; the acting, the costumes, the atmosphere, the script. But what elevates it to the utterly brilliant is the story itself. A true one about Bletchley Park during the war where they broke the German’s Enigma code. And Turing, as a perfectly normal, run-of-the-mill semi-autistic gay mathematical genius, beat the Krauts. Virtually on his own, other than a little help from Kiera Knightly. Who was very good too. Other than that smile. The most scary thing since Freddie Kruger first appeared on our screens.

But that aside, the film is a fantastic tale of its time. Both the good and bad of that time. Because back in the 1940s homophobia was not merely institutionalised but actually legislative. Being gay was illegal. And thus Turing, fantastic hero that he was, suffered persecution from the authorities.

I laughed, I cried, I did some maths. Then I came home, checked the scores, worked out that 3 is a bigger number than 0 and thus we’d lost to Chelsea. I checked the sums again using a calculator; still lost. Fuck.

Happy Thursday; go see that film.

A xxxx

Charles Babbage invented ‘the computer’ in the early 19th Century. His machine fills a massive room at the Science Museum and performs one task. Differential calculus. Useful. A hundred years later and Alan Turing, the 2nd World War code-breaker, came up with his new, improved version. Which had more similarity to a tractor than to an iphone but he was on the right track.

Their machines were just that; mechanical devices geared in such a way that they could produce results by converting every stage of a calculation to a ‘binary’ process. One that is either ‘yes’ or ‘no’, then passes on to the next gate for the next yes/no decision. Its how computers work. I know because…

In the early 1970s I took ‘computer science’ as an optional in the sixth form at school. Probably the only ‘optional’ academic thing I ever volunteered for. And we would take a formula, a very basic formula, and create a problem ‘for the computer’ using that formula. A problem for which any kid could work out the answer on the back of a fag packet in about 6 seconds. And every schoolkid had a fag packet in those days. But we would translate that formula into a ‘computer language’, cos they didn’t speak English in those days, and then came the laborious task of ‘punching’ the translated formula onto cards, making little holes in the appropriate places. Essentially this was converting the formula to binary, but they never told us that. Took fucking hours. Then we’d drive half an hour to North East London Polytechnic at our allotted time-slot, to use their ‘main-frame’, inserting our little stacks of pre-punched cards in the correct place. Marked ‘here it is!’ on the side of an immense electro-mechanical structure. The next week we’d return and pick up the print out. “Yes!!!!” we’d cry, 4 plus 5 equals 9. Fucking brilliant machine. I love computing.

Then someone invented the ‘silicon chip’. The same silicon responsible for Pamela Anderson’s amazing chest, enabled all those binary gates to be compressed into thing no bigger than… no bigger than… a silicon chip. Which was very small.

40 years later and I’m sitting at my ipad, blue-toothed to its keyboard, wifi’d up by magic in such a way that every piece of information in the entire world is 3 clicks away and I can compute as I walk along the street and annoy everyone by getting in their way, bashing into doorways and dawdling at a snail’s pace.

The progress of computing is not linear. It is exponential, because new computers are designed by the old computers, not by people.

And now no lesser mortal (probably an inappropriate phrase in the circumstance) than Stephen bloody Hawking has said that Artificial Intelligence will result in the end of humans. We will become extinct because of the robots we’ve created. And this coming from a man who is one part the greatest living brain and six parts computer/robot. Bit ironic really. Biting the hand that feeds him, but literally so.

Its all a bit Terminator, a little 2001 Space Odyssey, with the robots taking over. And he may indeed have a point.

They just need to make computers and/or robots a bit more shaggable. Work to do there, then.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

When I was 49 years old, plus about 357 days, I received an email from Saga, the ‘old age’ company who send the ancient on cruises upon which there are first class geriatric medical facilities and funeral directors, arrange care homes, offer BMW Zimmer frames cheaply and generally cater for ‘life over 50’. Motherfuckers. I wasn’t 50. Not for few days anyway. But not being particularly sensitive about my age, I decided that deleting the offending email (filled with pictures of smiling, false-teethed, silver-haired very old people) wasn’t sufficient, so instead I smashed up the computer with a sledge hammer, then my desk, some random furniture and went looking for Olga, the cleaner…

Now another bunch of parasites, those who prey on the over 50s because we’re a great target market, this time ‘silversurfer.com’ have conducted a survey. And we all love a survey. The ‘top priorities’ for the over 50s were: 1. Security, 2. Health, 5. Happiness, 8. Travelling, blah, blah, blah. Not one mention on the list of football. Which is odd. Maybe that comes under the ‘top 10 causes of depression’ for those of any age. Anyway. The first suprise was that (financial) ‘security’ came higher than ‘health’. Better to have money in the bank than the ability to walk. Think how rich and secure you are whilst plugged into a hospital bed with tubes and wires in every orifice.

One in four interviewees stated that they felt ’10 to 14 years younger than their actual age’. 3 out of 10 probably couldn’t actually remember their actual age and 2 didn’t hear the quesion properly. “Aaayyyy????” “Whaaaatt??” “Can you speak a little louder??”

How do you judge how young you feel? How do you actually quanify it in any meaningful way? I can’t remember where I had breakfast yesterday, how would I know what 10 years ago felt like. Though it probably felt a bit less stiff in the early morning limb depertment and less fillingly in the teeth.

I wake up feeling 85 years old, then once the drugs and some minor movements have kicked in, with a little eye-liner and a lot of concealer, I’m 26 once more. Its show-time, folks!

The alternative, of course, is to beat yourself up in the gym every day, lose 22 pounds in weight and turn your face into that of a skeleton. Or, as it is now termed: ‘gym face’. Yes, they have a term for those who lose excessive weight and their faces kind’a collapse, like Matthew McGonaghay in Dallas Buyers Club. Or Jake Gyllenhall in his latest pic. Oh. So you need a few ‘fillers’ and a jab or two of botox to de-line your boat-race.

Life’s all about balance really. And if you can balance your beer can on your belly whilst watching tv, you probably need some affirmative action. Otherwise, just grow old gracefully and beautifully. Like me. And never look in the mirror.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

The best footballer in the entire world is the lovely Harry Kane.
Ronaldo may score a lot more goals but he’s a total fucking pain.
Our ‘Arry may not be quite as pretty but he’s Spurs fru’ an’ fru’
so deep is Tottenham in his blood he could almost be a Jew.

So Everton, looking for a certain win, came down to White Hart Lane,
the easiest place to get three points, to our eternal shame.
But no more Mr Nice Guy, no more the softest touch
We’ll get right in their faces, hit ’em hard and kick ’em in the crotch.

Because this was the game that changed it all, heroic performance all around
No more the booing crowd as cheering echoed across the ground.
Our team of hapless journeymen suddenly gelled like aspic
Pochettiino’s patient masterplan for once didn’t sink like a brick.

The game was brilliant, exciting, furious, turbulent and fast
Then Miralles scored his wondergoal and memories came of losses past.
But hold on a minute; what could this possibly be?
A Spurs team that didn’t instantly collapse, give up and want to go home for tea.

Instead they stood their ground, raised their chins, pressed hard and passed really well
the football was exciting and graceful, for once no descent into hell.
Five minutes was all it took to equalise the score
But stil Spurs pressed on, eager, alert, always looking for more.

The team looked fantastic, effortful to a man,
working hard, neat and precise, like bankers in Japan,
Then on the stroke of half time, all that industry did indeed pay off
Soldado, of all people, scoring with class at which no-one would dare to scoff.

Defenders, attackers, midfielders all working off their lillywhite socks
For once not descending into a rabble of clueless shmocks.
They fought, they battled, they gave 100 percent
Playing with pride, with skill, with a confidence that really looked heaven-sent.

At last the final whistle, a victory for Spurs at the Lane,
The angels sang, the gods appeased, the effort was not in vain
Once more the joy of victory, free points to put in the bank
Wednesday we go to Chelsea, who are a load of bleedin wank.

The season’s changed, the omens are looking bright
This Spurs team is suddenly brilliant, win the league we might…
But we’ll take it all just one game at a time
God’s very own team for once worthy of the rhyme.

Very happy Monday

A xxxx

Why do I read the Mail on Sunday? Why does anyone? Its rubbish. Total fucking rubbish. Yet on the basis of ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ I feel dutybound to see what the reactionary Right is thinking, doing, saying. And nothing is more reactionary than this piece of trash. I’ve heard of ‘gonzo journalism’, this is the introduction of ‘bollox journalism’. Its where you take something that isn’t a story, misrepresent it in a stupid, facile and misleading way, and create a high horse big enough to fall off.

This picture is of a royal Prince executing his son. Ok, ha-ha, very funny. Yet that, basically, is what those morally indignant tossers at the Mail expect us to believe. A PRINCE AIMING A GUN RIGHT NEAR HIS SON’S HEAD!!!!!! DON’T SHOOT EDWARD, YOUR CHILD IS RIGHT THERE!!!!

Have you ever seen those pictures taken on the salt flats. Where you put a bottle on the ground, walk 200 metres away whilst your mate stays near the bottle and takes a photo which, due to the flatness of the ground and the relative distance, looks like you’re in the bottle. Everyone does it where the land has no undulations to give away the distance. Could be sand. Could be anything really flat. And its a trick of perspective. A great word. The Mail on Sunday always lacks perspective, but not usually in such a literal sense as today. Edward is obviously in front of his son and in the foreground too. DOES THE BOY LOOK WORRIED? Even through his blurred out face his body language is completely relaxed and at ease. Maybe they’re implying that this son of a Prince is too dim to realise his life is in peril? Which, being Edward’s son, he probably isn’t. Not the brightest of the royals, that little ‘stream’. And that’s a bit like not being the most considerate suicide bomber.

But country folk know about guns. They know how to hunt, shoot and kill. That’s all they know. And if Wellington Boots and a flat cap don’t qualify you as ‘country’ then I really don’t know what does.

So leave Edward alone. He has enough problems of his own. Real problems that come from being the forth child of a reigning monarch with nothing much to do and too much time in which to not do it. If he wants to shoot children, we should let him.

I’m off to anger management.

Happy fucking Sunday

A xxxx

Its always tense before Spurs play.