Andy's Glasses

Don’t you just fucking hate politicians? Why do we even need them? Oh, to run the country. Allegedly. Or to ruin the country. Allegedly. Depends who’s making the allegations.

Andrew Mitchell, Mr Plebgate, we now learn from those who know him, is a man very very likely indeed to call a policeman, whilst performing his policely duties, a fucking pleb. Had Mr Mitchell let this almost-gone-to-sleep dog lie, we’d have all given him credit and believed his story that it was nothing more than a police conspiracy to discredit him and make him look like a nasty, vicious, poncey, upper-class twit. But no, he had to push it too far, take everyone to court for accusing him of something that, on appearance, he actually did, and lost the case, his credibility and his right to be respected as a decent human being.

This week, former politician (ok, sacked after shagging a hooker wearing a Queens Park Rangers kit, but we need not go into that now, other than for fun), broadcaster and opera snob, sorry, opera aficionado, David Mellor, has been dragged across the coals (if only) for abusing a taxi driver. Who had the presence of mind to actually record the tirade on his phone. And this ex-Tory told the cabbie: “you drive a cab for 10 years and think you’re experienced? I’m a QC, an award-winning broadcaster, I’ve been in government…” As if that qualifies him for knowing the quickest route from Westminster to Elephant & Castle.

So why do these stories even make the news? Why does an argument between two men even rate one line in the local rag, never mind endless pages and hours on the radio and tv? Because they are/were mps? Because they’re vaguely famous??

No. They rile us in an extremely horrible way not because of the sheer unnecessariness of it, but because of their choice of argument. Which is one of class, one of position, one of SUPERIORITY. And we (the plebs) simply fucking hate that. Had Andrew Mitchell called the policeman ‘a fucking c**t’, bizarrely that would have been much more acceptable than calling him a ‘pleb’. Because the former is a general insult and the latter implies something much much worse. It implies a superiority. And no-one wants to feel inferior. Not a policeman, not a taxi-driver, no-one. Its class war reborn. These men may relate to Downton Abbey but they have no place in this age.

Whereas Tristram Hunt (not rhyming slang, but…) is on the verge of the other unforgivable sin for a politician; hypocrisy.

The shadow Education Minister wants private schools to provide aid and assistance to state schools otherwise his party, should ever reach power, which under Ed Miliband is rather unlikely, will remove the tax breaks private schools receive due to their charitable status. And why? Because Tristram has noticed something remarkable. That everyone else noticed about 9 generations ago. Which is that private education is a massive advantage for children to then progress to universities and great jobs. The obvious answer is to ‘just improve state schools’ but this would be costly and difficult, as those establishments are filled with plebs. Oops. So Tristram’s idea actually has merit. If it didn’t come with a threat. Private schools, like UCS, where Tristram Hunt attended, famous for great education, superb sports and fabulous quality of drugs, already ‘pay’ to the system by taking kids out of the over-stretched state system. Without any ‘rebate’ for the parents for ‘not using their state school place’.

Hunt went from UCS to Cambridge, then to the University of Chicago and got a job as a historian on tv. From there, off to Westminster as a politician. In other words; he’s never done a day’s work in his life. Other than possibly spending some of his gap yaaaah patronising villagers in Africa, slapping a bit of paint on a mud hunt to ease his personal feelings of guilt.

So there you are: politicians. So useless its as if Spurs had moved to the Houses of Parliament.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

How is it that I’ve never ever heard of campylobacter? When apparently it is the bacterium responsible for 280,000 cases of food poisoning a year and 100 deaths. Arsenal make you sick but campylobactor can actually kill. Amazing. And if you’re interested about his horrible thing, just buy a chicken from Asda and you’re virtually guaranteed to learn more. 78% of the chickens from that supermarket contained the bacterium. 67% of chickens from Marks & Spencer. So its not just about price. So I’m worried now, being a bit of a chicken lover.

And I have to wonder if kosher chickens get this too, or if its just the supermarket mega-mass production techniques that are to blame.

Kosher chickens have a much better life than those destined to end up at Sainsburys. They have carpets on the floor, to keep them clean in the yard. They have carers to make sure they bath regularly. They get to watch Stricly Come Dancing every week and they are fed at the dining room table. Then they go to heaven after a really nice ceremony involving wine and songs. And all for just six times the price of a regular chicken.

What about my beloved chicken campylobacter tikka masala? Is it safe? IS IT SAFE?????

Tottenham last night breezed through to the knockout stages of the Europa League of Plonkers. We beat Partizan Belgrade 1-0 and top our group. Yippee. But this wonderful victory was somewhat marred by pitch invasions. Remember pitch invasions? Big in the 70s. Though back then they were big things involving hundreds of fans at a time, normally in response to an opposing fan pulling out a chain-saw. Last night’s was more about individuals taking ‘selfies’ with the players. In the middle of the fucking match. It was planned and, I’m ashamed to admit, they were Spurs fans. Which you could tell because they weren’t waving Albanian flags nor anti-semitic insults. Like they did in the Belgrade match. Instead they were wearing ‘Base Bud’ t-shirts. So whether this was some publicity stunt, which coincidentally rhymes with the type of people who do such things, or just 3 drunk, misguided tossers, we’ll never know. You can watch it on YouTube if you like. And it really is just as pathetic and destructive as it sounds.

There again, our recent home form has been such that fans possibly need something in the way of entertainment. Why can’t they just do pilates then?

Happy friday

A xxxx

In a landmark case, Her Majesty’s Customs and Revenue, (known by the acronym: BASTARDS; British Association of Stupid Taxation And Ridiculous Double Standards) have declared that Pilates, the life-affirming, longevity-assuring system of stretches, poses and meditative postures, does not qualify as ‘educational’ even though its job is to teach its victims, sorry, its pupils, the path to a better, healthier lifestyle. And in removing the educational umbrella, Pilates is subject to VAT. This is a double whammy. Not only will Gwyneth Paltrow have to find an extra £726,547 per year for the tax on next year’s classes, but also, this ruling is backdated to the very beginning of time. To the Big Bang. So all classes ever have been subject to vat, so cough up the last 30 years of back tax, NOW. HMRC decided that rather than an educational activity, Pilates is ‘leisure’ or ‘entertainment’.

Have they never done it then? Leisure?? Plank? Downward Dog?? Constipated Warrior Before the Martians Land???? (Ok, I made that one up, but they probably have something similar). Leisure? Its about as leisurely as a week with ISIS. As a prisoner. Its as ‘entertaining’ as boot camp. I am starting a petition to HMRC in protest to this ruling, on the grounds that Pilates is in no way whatsoever enjoyable, leisurely or entertaining. And if it makes you more ‘stretchy’, more supple, more likely to live longer, then I shall remain a stiffended up old creaker who lives less long but at least enjoys what little time he has.

Poor Philip Hughes. What a tragedy. Its always a tragedy when a young man dies, even when he’s Australian. And at 26 years old, really really awful. Thus cricket must be banned for the horrifically dangerous sport it obviously is. That’s now, errr, 2 deaths in first class cricket in the last 250 years, and the other one actually died of old age whilst waiting for Geoffrey Boycott to hit a run. As did 4,627 of the crowd at Trent Bridge.

Yet you know this will be the cry from the media, from the hysterics, from the knee-jerkers, from all and sundry: Cricket = DEATH, sure as night follows day, or dusk, or the previous night, or whatever. Pretty sure anyway, unless you live in the North Pole.

And terrible though this tragedy is, it must be seen in perspective. One death. An absolute freak, random ball that managed to hit him on the back of the head in such a way that his helmet didn’t work sufficiently. That doesn’t mean we need to dress batsmen up in submersible suits. Its just an accident. Could have happened crossing the road, walking upstairs to bed, being fired as a ‘human cannonball’. You simply can’t legislate for every and all possible occurrences that may, once every millennium or so, happen. Its life. Or, more accurately, its death.

Cricket’s fine as it is, thank you very much. Leave it alone.
Feel very sorry for Philip’s family and friends. And very very sorry for the poor bowler.

Happy, slightly saddened, Thursday

A xxxx

… in the early hours of Tuesday morning? Well? Do you have an alibi??

There’s one enduring problem for the redevelopment of White Hart Lane. The proposed stadium rebuild, which will grow it from a 34,000 capacity to one of 56,000, in order to capitalise on those Spurs fans who are masochistic, depressive and who haven’t yet killed themselves during the start of this season, needs extra land in which to build this expanded stadium. So Tottenham have acquired all the adjacent land they need in order to ‘flip’ the current stadium through 90 degrees and turn it into a new kind of Disneyland, N15. A place of magic and thrills. And hopefully decent toilets. Rather than the current ground which is full of frustration and suicidal thoughts and stinks of piss.

The problem is (sorry, was) the Archway Sheet Metal Works Company, which has lived quite literally in the shadow of the wall of the ground. And they won’t move. Law suits are already in place. Rumours that the place is filled with Arsenal fans ranks higher than any facile protestations of family history and company requirements. Like Tottenham High Road is the only place that the Archway Company can work. About 5 miles from the ‘Archway’ of its name. Though there is obvious prestige in having your business is the most horrible, squalid, under-developed High Street in the country.

At approximately 5am yesterday morning, a fire started at the Archway Sheet Metal Works Company, which destroyed the building. Job done. Sorry, I mean: this tragic event is a sad day for all the local community (rioters, muggers, the killers of PC Blakelock, hookers, etc) and we all feel for the family and their business.

Investigators have been called in to find the cause of the fire. Obviously they’re looking for some Spurs arsonist, but in fact I see this as a modern day miracle. A ‘burning bush’ for the post-millennials. This was the ultimate ‘act of God’. Looking out for His own team.
Let us say: amen.

In an unrelated incident 2 Argentinians scored 6 goals last night. Police have been called in after rumours that Lionel Messi, in becoming the all-time top scorer in the European Champions League, in fact scored all 3 of his goals with his right foot. A feat, or feet, never before achieved by the wonderful little left-footed Argie. And you can only wonder at someone who, although famed for scoring spectacular and intricate goals, can also do the incredibly simple so well, so effortlessly and so wonderfully. I hope he plays till he’s 50.

The other Argentinian never has it so easy. Sergio Aguero IS Manchester City. They have no other threat, no other chance, not a fucking clue. But they just have Sergio and last night he showed that really, that’s pretty much all you need as he beat Bayern Munich 3-2.

3 shots on goal, all 3 on target, 3 goals. Ok, one was a penalty, which is almost like cheating, but it still has to be scored. Ask any Spurs fan who had the joy of watching Robbie Keane and Jermaine Defoe squander dozens.

White Hart Lane Nouveau. The dream takes a step closer to reality. Albeit a bit of a dodgy step.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

This is the Long Room at Lords. The most famous room in, errr, in the cricketing world. Its not the best picture because my phone has limitations and the photographer has even more. Especially after a couple of pints of some deviously delicious bitter that they serve from pumps pulled by cricket stumps. All the beer pumps are cricket stumps. A good way to recycle.

Last night was a ‘supper night’ and I was the welcome and freeloading guest of Spurs Paul, who is a fully-fledged, bacon-and-egg-tie-wearing member of the MCC, the Marylebone Cricket Club, celebrating its 200th anniversary this year. And although I’ve been to Lords before, mainly to see (and sleep through) cricket, I’ve never previously entered the hallowed ‘Pavillion’, which belongs to the players and the members. And quite frankly its wonderful. I’d join tomorrow if they let people like me join. Which they do, but the waiting list for membership is generally measured in decades, and my offer of a tenner to the doorman to push me up the list was met with derision.

The Pavillion is like a cross between a gentleman’s club and a stately home. But a stately home dedicated to the consumption of alcohol. Instead of ‘this the dressing room, and this is the parlour, the card room, etc, etc’, at Lords Pavillion you just move from one bar to the next. This is the Members’ Bar, then on the next floor you have the members bar, and over there is the members bar. Every terrace has a bar, every bar has another bar. And all the portraits are, oddly, of men in white holding cricket bats.

The food was simple but fantastic and the place was filled with, generally, old people. Old white people. And the Long Room itself is beautiful. The room through which every player who ever hit or bowled a ball at Lords has walked through on his way to the wicket. Tears of nostalgia fell onto my steak pie crust as I considered all those who’d made that walk right past my seat over the years. Then I drank more beer and forgot all about them. Beefy Botham and Viv Richards and Graham Gooch and WG Grace and WC Fields and Geoffrey Boycott and boycott South Africa and all the history of the place.

I had to wear a tie. For the first time in a year. Had to borrow one. A sign of the times.

Another sign of the times is the aging population. Not just at Lords, where it is very apparent, but in the nation as a whole. By 2020 we’ll need to find an extra £20 billion to fund all those free-loading old people. Although by then I’ll count myself among them and will eagerly await my billion quid from the government. The number of pensioners will increase by a fifth between now and then. So we really need to get rid of some. And quickly. They’re after my money. And many people are wealthier in retirement than they ever were in their working days. Yet they also become a bigger drain on NHS resources as they get ill more often than the young.

We need to start eating old people. Its the only answer.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Ok, let’s talk football. Again. Its safe this week. Spurs won. And, much as last time we won, it was away from home and against 10 men. Fine by me. We’ll take those points and put them in the bank, ta very much.

My problem is that, much as I try to be this impartial commentator on the beautiful game, much as I seek objectivity in my view of the footballing world, try to present a balanced and fair assessment of events of a Premiership nature, it just becomes impossible after a win.

Yesterday was a celebration of my father’s 90th birthday. Quite a feat really, for a wonderful man. And as we left the restaurant at about ten past four, word emerged that Spurs were already a goal down. On the way home I missed the entire first half, one in which apparently we struggled, were unproductive and against better finishing would have been 2 or 3 down. The fact that their goal was scored by Spurs old-boy Jake Livermore, who’d never scored in a Spurs shirt, was not lost on too many of the faithful.

So, already half-depressed (or, ‘first-half-depressed’ as is now common among Spurs fans) I sat to watch the rest of the game. And Spurs, for once, came out firing. This is the first ‘positive’. We came out and attacked them. No fiddling round with boot-laces, no stretchy yawns, no last minute tweets, just focussed play. And we looked quite good, particularly Erikssen and Lamela. And then disaster struck.

Well, not so much ‘disaster’ for us, more ‘a very very good thing’ as Gaston Ramirez, a foreigner playing for a northern club, was sent off for an appalling act of violent petulance on Jan Vertongen. And although Steve Bruce, the Hull manager, felt a red card to be excessive punishment for the crime, he’s the guy’s manager; what else would he feel? But whatever; Hull down to 10 men. At which point I’d have to agree that the game became a touch one-sided, other than a few breaks by Hull. The other 84% of possession for the half was ours. And inspired by the wonderful Christian Erikssen yet again, we equalised then won in the last minute. Only because its better value for the spectators to win in such a style. Trouncing them 7-1 wouldn’t have been fair nor interesting to watch.

And this is where my objectivity leaves me. Because on Saturday Arsenal lost. And West Ham lost. Then just before we played Liverpool lost too. All of which combined to make me a very happy man.

Happy monday, happy birthday, Dad,

A xxxx

One ‘stroke of genius’ that Margaret Thatcher pulled off was to engage ‘Essex Man’ and win an election with ‘his’ support. And this mythical figure, who came also to be known as ‘White Van Man’, (much as the Abominable Snowman was also known as a Yetti), bought into to her policies, to her direction, to her values. He was a working man, builder, policeman, factory worker, who was convinced by her that under Conservative ideology and government, the nation, and in particular HIM, would fare well and prosper. And thus that nasty old woman regained power to inflict misery for another five years. The moral of the story being that you don’t have to be a rich, Eton-educated minor aristocrat with an Oxbridge degree to vote conservative. ITS AN IDEOLOGY.

So why, oh why, oh why, oh why, is there an automatic assumption that to have anything whatsoever to do with the Labour Party, you simply MUST be working class? And if you’re not, if you’re a professional, or heaven forbid, quite well off, or live in a nice house in Islington, and support Labour, then YOU ARE A FUCKING HYPOCRITE!!!!! As if being left of centre in your views is only allowable for those of limited means and some housing benefits. Surely, the Labourite brand of Socialism-lite is an ideology too?

The mass outrage at Emily Thornberry’s misguided tweet on Thursday has brought this ridiculous dichotomy to a head. Today’s Mail on Sunday (no fucking surprise there) leads the way with pictures of labour MPs with their houses and house prices and loads of exclamation marks!!!!!! to stress this point of how a ‘working class party’ has now moved into gentrified housing in trendy boroughs.

Political stance is an ideology. Its a view on relative values. The Conservatives (very very broadly speaking) tax less to encourage industry, both in individuals and in, errr, industry, so that money can be reinvested or spent, to enrich all as they pay for their goods and services, employing more people and with money trickling down to all. Labour are more concerned with the less well off and those who, even with every opportunity of free education, free health care, free housing, won’t be able to cope. So they tax more to fund those extra services. And the wealthy would pay more under Labour in taxes because they earn more. Simple.

Therefore, a Labour supporter who is ‘rich’, not by Daily Mail standards of ‘owning’ a house worth 1.2 million quid that has a 750,000 mortgage on it, but a real, fuck-off wealthy entrepreneur, is not a ‘hypocrite’ but someone to be revered. Someone who is backing a system which will take more of his money in order to help those less fortunate. Someone willing to sacrifice personal gains for the good of others. In the same way that a working man who votes Conservative is not ‘selling out to the bosses’ but is hoping that aligning his lot with a financial meritocracy will eventually enrich his and his (scummy, working class, boiler-suited, beer-swilling) mates’ lives.

The only hypocrisy in the political system is when parties seize on one issue, like, errrr, immigration, peutetre, as ‘the vote changer’ and realign their own stance about that issue in a cynical attempt to woo a few voters. That’s when the whole political system turns into a farce. And ‘farce’ is almost part of an anagram of Farage, almost. So for everyone else to suddenly try to encorporate hard-right immigration policy into their bigger picture is sad, tragic and woefully cynical.

This is not a ‘class war’. Its not a few Labourites living in nice houses that is the problem with our politics. Its the ever-shifting values to just try and gain votes, even if they are contrary to the party’s fundamental ideology.

Happy wet, rainy, dreary Sunday

A xxxx

People today, singles, tend to meet online. And marrieds sometimes, even though they shouldn’t. But I’m not talking about morality in this instance, this is more about shagging.

A girl from Epsom in Surrey ‘meets’ a boy from Boston Massachusettes, online. They ‘chat’, they skype, they flirt. Boy starts behaving a little stalkerish, a little paranoid, a little psychotic, but heh, he’s a yank, its well within normal limits for the type. Girl breaks off relationship. Boy pays a visit, unbeknownst to the girl, flys in, stays in the local Premier Inn (so you know he’s desperate and unbalanced) breaks into girls house and stabs her repeatedly with a knife until her brother stops him just as he’s about to kill her. True story. Much as anything you read in the papers is ‘true’. Boy gets life in jail. And hopefully some serious therapy.

So, an object lesson against internet dating. Yet, when you meet someone in a bar or a club, you have no idea about their psyche. You don’t know a fundamentalist Christian from a fucked up Cannibal just by looking. And even if you did, who would be the better bet? But I like to think that instincts can be pretty good, and judgments made on superficial evidence. Its how we deal with the world every day.

In my dating days, (with a wooden club, wearing a loin cloth, looking for a woman to drag back to my cave), I was never short of confidence. No charm, no personality, I was dog ugly, but in my mind I was irresistably gorgeous. And my mum would agree with me. So it must have been true. Yet I was not without success.

There’s the answer then. You wanna meet people, put your fucking phone down for ten sodding minutes and GET OUT THERE. Ahhhh, another problem. I’m shy. I’m spotty. I’m ugly. I’m obese. I’m not good at talking to strangers. Hmmmmmm…

Then you need coaching. That’s all. Its just a matter of confidence in yourself, your personality and your ability to pretend to be charming, interesting and shaggable. Though really, its just about initiating discourse. As opposed to intercourse.

In steps Julien Blanc. Here’s a man, albeit another American one, who can change your fortunes with women, who can change your success, who can change you entire life. From nebachy nerd to desirable hunk in just one course of lectures, a dvd box-set or $99.99 online subscription. A ‘PUA’. That’s a pick-up artist (‘scuse me while I puke). Ok, Julien crosses the line from ‘how to be confident enough to meet women’ to ‘how to fuck any woman you meet, even if she’s patently not interested and would rather eat her own leg than get naked with you’. And its that line that’s caused the problem. The one that’s between ‘be assertive’ and ‘ignore the word ‘no’ and even screams of RAPE!!!!’

So we’ve banned him from entering the country to lecture. The Home Secretary herself, Teresa May, who no-one has ever approached in any situation anywhere with an offer of anything, deemed this man a threat. Like a jihadi. Almost like a Lithuanian murderer, but those we let in.

We need people to help our young get together (apparently). But the Julien Blancs of this world do tend to slightly overstress the ‘from zero to sex in 11 minutes’ part of things. But to ban him? Get a grip.

Happy Saturday. Been busy. Don’t ask.

A xxxx

I’m a sensitive soul. Easily offended. Therefore I always try to be as inoffensive as possible. Unless I can get away with it. But the general rule is: say what you want, think what you want, but NEVER PUT IT IN WRITING. Or on the radio, for that matter. Its all about putting things in the public domain. Where they will stay and come back to haunt.

Malky Mackay, a football manager of third-rate teams (sorry to Watford fans, but that’s just the way it is in my ‘offense to no-one’ world) was sacked from his last job for some emails to a mate in which he described Chinese people as ‘chinks’ and referred to a Jewish football agent by saying ‘you know how a Jew gets when he sees money slipping through his fingers’.

So, having served his 6 month sentence in the wilderness as set by the court of public opinion; the standard sentence for disgraced football managers, mps, dodgy policemen, Malky has been given his ‘second chance’ and employed by Wigan Football Club. To much furore. And in his defense, on the radio, club owner, Dave Wheelan actually said that he thought the word ‘chink’ was acceptable. Then, using the same shovel to dig the hole a little deeper, he said: ‘well, jews do seem to chase money more than anyone else’. A wonderful, modern stereotype, not expressed publicly since Shakespeare wrote Shylock into the Merchant of Venice in 1643.

Is David Wheelan anti-semitic? Or just plain fucking stupid?? It really makes no difference to the outcome. Which is that Wigan’s sponsors are now making horrible noises about pulling out and everyone associated with Wigan FC who values public opinion will want to distance themselves from it and from Dave. They’ll be a pariah club. Hitler’s Team.

This on top of the Ched Evans saga in which the convicted rapist has been allowed to return to training with Sheffield United. Yet this debate is more interesting, even though its still really about gobby northerners. This question is: having served his sentence, is Evans not now to be given a second chance? Because once you ‘pay your debt to society’ (sit in a cell taking drugs every day for two years) you are free to re-join that society. But Evans has never apologised, nor shown remorse, nor admitted it was a crime. Which makes him worse than almost every other Welsh rapist in Sheffield. So, after the club have lost most of their directors in resignations of protest, all their sponsors, they’ve finally decided that ‘he’s just not worth all the bother’.

And the final warning about ‘putting stuff out there’ must come from Emily Thornberry, the former Shadow Attorney General, who resigned last night from that post after sending a tweet from Rochester yesterday morning showing this picture. I call the photo ‘white van man goes to UKIP via the BNP’. Emily called it ‘image from Rochester’. And Ed Miliband thought it was patronising, at a time when the Labour leader was showing his understanding and compassion for the folks in that part of Kent as to why they would hook up with UKIP in these troubled times. Never mind, Emily. Give it the mandatory 6 months and it’ll all blow over. Ed Miliband has done much more damage to his party by just eating a bacon sandwich and giving money to a beggar.

Happy Friday; just don’t put it in print.

A xxxx

I hate injections.

I’d rather face a man coming at me with a sword than with a syringe. At least my tai chi has shown me how to cope with the former. Obviously, as long as its a very very blunt sword and he comes in slow motion. But a syringe? You’re not allowed to ‘wave hands like clouds’ and break the nurse’s arm. I asked. She said ‘no’. With a Czech accent. I expected Hattie Jaques in full flowing blue uniform, instead I got Olga in a pair of jeans. Doesn’t really matter who’s holding the thing, a syringe is a syringe and only has one purpose.

But this morning, in about an hour, in fact, I have my last pre-travel injection for our xmas trip to South America. We’ve had typhoid, yellow fever, hepatitis A and B, tuberculosis, the Plague, St Vitus Dance, ebola and athlete’s foot. Ok, maybe I’ve forgotten some and made up others.

And rabies. Today’s is the 3rd and final one for rabies. I don’t have rabies, I think (but how do you know? I do foam at the mouth, but only whilst brushing my teeth) and I’m not sure if the jab is to protect me in case I’m bitten by Cujo or to protect the Brazilians in case I bite them. As Luis Suarez demonstrated so elegantly in the last World Cup, biting is a problem among South Americans.

Then its over. My body a temple for the next 10 years from all of the above plus the ones I’ve forgotten. My arm has been punctured so many times it now takes in water in the bath. But can shrug off a virus without even noticing it. I hope.

None of which will affect the voting today in Rochester and Strood for the by-election. Which UKIP will win. And claim their second Member of Parliament, Mark Reckless, another Tory reject. In that he rejected them, rather than the other way round. Another pretty meaningless protest vote. Its not like 2 MPs is sufficient to force a majority into closing the gates of Britain forever to immigration, be it from Europe or even further afield. And then start on the lengthy process of repatriation. Sending ‘them’ back. All of them. Fucking immigrants, nicking our jobs, living off the state, send ’em ‘ome.

My maternal grandmother arrived in England in 1900. My paternal grandfather about a hundred years earlier. Am I at risk? From deportation? Repatriation? Who’ll make my chicken tikka massala if everyone is sent back to Bangla Desh and Pakistan? Who’ll make my pizza? Paella? Crispy fried beef with chilli and beensprouts?? Sushi!!!!!! It’ll all be gone and we’ll be back with beef-an-ale pies, fish’n’chips and sodding Paleo. And who will do all the building and construction if there’s no Poles around?

I don’t care what Nigel F-F-F-Farage says to the contrary, he’s a smiley, boozey, faggy version of Hitler for the post-millennial times and has only one policy: make Britain single, solitary, alone and white.

Be careful what you wish for; vote anything but UKIP today.

Happy Election Day

A xxxx