Andy's Glasses

1 Chelsea 16 23 39
2 Man City 16 19 36
3 Man Utd 16 12 31
4 West Ham 16 8 28
5 Southampton 16 12 26
6 Arsenal 16 9 26
7 Newcastle 16 -4 23
8 Swansea 15 3 22
9 Liverpool 16 -3 21
10 Tottenham 15 -3 21

I generally like speaking to football fans. Proper ones, who know about football. Not necessarily West Ham fans, who thrive on gloating and hatred, but real devotees who understand the nuance and politics and technicalities and subtleties of the game we all love.

And the consensus among these fans, genuinely speaking without point-scoring is: something’s not working at Spurs.

The question is: what is that ‘something’?

And how far is ‘something’ from ‘everything’

Obviously the whole team, but what is the cause of the malaise? And why can no-one within an organisation with a multi-multi-million pound turnover, work out why? Or rectify it. Make it better. Or make it go away, as most Spurs fans feel at present.

This afternoon we play Swansea at the Liberty. And we’ll pick a team that may (Everton, Arsenal) work, or may not (Crystal Palace, West Brom, Newcastle and too many others to list). It seems fairly random. Were it up to me I’d put a bunch of our home-grown kids in the team on the basis that they could really do no worse than our current ‘stars’. But allegedly, Daniel Levy and Damien Comolli will not allow that, as the stars cost so much money.

And therein lies the root of the malaise; that Pottechino is not allowed to pick ‘his’ best team because we have an interfering chairman and fucking useless ‘director of football’ who must at all times have the final word. Thus taking any autonomy away from the manager, reducing his power and yet leaving him to take the full flack from the press. He did a wonderful job at Southampton last year, which is why we spent millions terminating several contracts and paying off new ones in order to get him.

THEN LET HIM FUCKING MANAGE, is what I’d like to say to Messrs Levy and Comolli. Though really, I’d like Comolli gone. He is soooo surplus to our requirements and does way more harm than good.

With Man United’s continuing resurgence, the top 3 places in the table look pretty much sorted. Which makes the fight for that most precious of 4th slots all the more important.

West Ham won’t last, of that there is no doubt. Southampton, Swansea, punching well above their weight and again, it will end. Newcastle are running on vapour and Liverpool are the only team to currently makes Spurs’ spending and playing policy look good. Which leaves Spurs and Arsenal. And quite frankly, after the Goons struggled last night to thrash the Geordies 4-1, I think 4th slot is ours for the taking.

We just need to win.

NOW.

Happy Sunday? Ask me in 2 hours

A xxxx

Cats. Not the animal, the show. Cats: The Musical. You seen it? If not I would check immediately for a pulse. Because everyone’s seen it. Its essential. Part of growing up. You reach puberty, you masturbate a lot, you go to your first football match, you go on your first date, you probably still masturbate a lot, you have your first ‘relationship’, you start your first job, have sex with your first animal (only applicable in certain countries… ok, in most countries other than England) and you go and see Cats. Its on everywhere; London, New York…er… London… whatever. And its brilliant. Everyone tells you just how brilliant it really is, that show. Wow, all dressed as cats and singing, dancing, really REALLY catlike in all their mannerisms and movements, brilliant.

I fucking hated it. Ahhh the wonderful poetry of TS Eliot, brought to LIFE, like, really to total life, in cat form, by actors singing songs. Well, singing a song over and over again. Moonlight. Midnight. Both. Together, apart. TOUCHCHCHCH MEEEEEEE(oww). Andrew Lloyd Weber. In his early, unhyphenated days. Absolute bollocks, from start to finish. But more boring.

When the girls were young I felt duty-bound to take them to see it. Its a right of passage. Unfortunately, the back passage, as I remembered it. But maybe I was wrong? Perhaps I’d just had a bad day? Had a black cat run in front of me before the show? Maybe everyone else had been right all along and it IS and always has been the best thing to happen since Spurs winning the double in 1961. Maybe I saw it on a bad night for the cast? Their Kitty-Kat was off or something? A dog in the audience??

Everyone deserves a second chance. So back we shlepped to Drury Lane and I endured it again. It was more slick than I remembered it from 17 years previous. They hadn’t bothered to add another song, but really it is a very good song, how many do you need? McCafferty was still a stupid man wearing a cat suit. Everyone else was just a different stupid person wearing a different cat suit. And they stood around licking their ‘paws’ and wiping their little cat-like faces and I could have punched them all.

So they took the show off. What a loss to London. To the world.

But now they’ve brought it back. Well, there’s a new generation around who need to suffer it and try to work out what all the fuss is about. Ahhhhh, but the poetry, we’ll tell them, sniggering behind our hands, and the movements; so cat-like. We won’t use the word ‘bullshit’, nor ‘garbage’, nor ‘the poetry of TS Eliot’, even ‘the ability to lick your own testicles’. We’ll just take them because that’s what parents do; repeat the sins that were done unto them.

Except this time it stars Nicole Scherzinger. Who has ‘previous’, from being a Pussycat Doll. Ha, ha, haaaa…
So now the ultimate dilemma: to endure Lloyd-Webber’s bollox (not literally, you understand…) for the third and possibly fatal time, or to miss Nicole S in a leotard stretching her gorgeousness all over the stage for 2 hours. Hmmm…

Meooowww

A xxxx

We have house guests. Or had, they buggered off this morning, probably with half our silverware and the tv from the spare room. But what a joy to share one’s home, one’s house, one’s life, albeit temporarily, even with freeloaders from Australia. Yes, Bulawayo Johnny and Dr Bill (that’s a ‘she-doctor’ in case you’re wondering about Johnny’s sexuality; something we’ve all questioned at one time or another) came on Wednesday aaaalllllll the way from Sydney. Where, just 2 short years ago, they hosted Mel & me with such hospitality and charm, that we felt duty-bound to try to reciprocate in some small way.

So we took them last night for fish’n’chips. In Hatch End (don’t ask). Because its part of the true and full ‘British Experience’ that when you leave these shores your arteries should be just that little bit more clogged up than when you arrived here. So we went to eat that most British of things, singing ‘maybe its because I’m a Lundunna’ in the car on the way, to heighten the full, white-van-man, UKIP, Milwall-supporting, working-class, Inglish-wayya-loife. Strictly speaking we should have gone for a curry, but that for can be next time.

Even though they only moved to Aus 25 years ago and lived a long time impersonating Londoners before they were deported to the penal colony.

Bill was asleep in the car on the way back, Johnny at least waited til he lay on his bed, fully clothed, before appreciating what the words ‘jet’ and ‘lag’ really mean when strung together in a certain way.

So I watched Question Time. And came to the realisation that all politicians are totally worthless. Yes, this stunning insight came as I watched Nigel Farage (who personally defines the term ‘worthless’, sorry Wayne), some Tory tart, a Labour loser, Russel fucking Brand (politician? revolutionary?? he’s barely a credible comedian) and some horsey looking bird who was that curious mix of plummy, posh, poncey demeanour with right-on, slightly lefty attitude. And this is what I learned after devoting about a half an hour of my life (which I’ll never get back again) to what they had to spew out:

That any criticism of immigration, any mention of purely common sense ‘we’re full up and can’t take no more’ is met with cries of ‘racism!!!” from some nob or other.

That the Labour party are putting their house (or their chance to live in it for 5 years) in the hands of the NHS. They have cleverly(??) aligned their entire election campaign with the National Health. Everything they do, all the shit they spout, comes back to ‘protecting our NHS’. Mansion tax = survival of the NHS; increasing income tax = saving the NHS; slaying of the firstborn = saving the NHS. Its like a broken fucking record.

That all political parties waste more time on their parties than they do on the country, its future, its population.

So I’m done with politics; I’m going to follow football instead.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Was torture perpetrated on the inmates at Guantanamo Bay and similar detention camps by the Americans, and possibly the British, upon Al Quaeda suspects? And were the US and UK governments aware it was happening? These are the ‘big questions’ that are being asked. Though why they’re being asked now when the term ‘waterboarding’ entered the collective consciousness over ten years ago, is another important question. They’re all important questions, fucking thousands of important questions are asked every day, but they don’t all make the newspapers. And stimulate international comment.

Ironically, those first to shout ‘j’accuse’ at the Amercians (because it was mainly them, really, we were just playing along) are those fine nations: China, Iran and every other morally upstanding place for which ‘human rights’ is in the glossary just under ‘Father Christmas’ and for whom torture is as part of their routines as jogging.
Is torture ever justified? This is the big one really.

Ok, so if YOUR family (I’m assuming you like them, just for the sake of argument; if you really hate your family, skip to section D) was under a threat, kidnapped, in serious trouble and a man (or a woman; there are bad women in this world, despite what they say to the contrary) holds the information required to find/release/save them; you would ‘beat it out of them’. I would. Anyone would. He’s a baddy, they’re loved ones, no-brainer; whatever it takes.

So Bush/Obama, faced with a similar problem, but instead of his ‘family’ its up to 10,000 innocent people under his watch? More importantly, 10,000 voters? Do you ‘beat it out’ of someone who might know?

Therefore its a matter of unambiguously deciding who is definitely a ‘baddie’. You can’t just pull some dark, swarthy, maybe smelly person who flips burgers at McDonalds and waterboard them. We’ve all tried that. There needs to be evidence, proof really that they are bad. And you can work it out. You just have to read enough books by Robert Ludlum, Dan Brown, Lee Childs and then you’ll know exactly who’s da baddies. And then you can get the pliers and soldering iron. Eeeuuuwww.

There’s a fabulous private school in Brighton, called Varndean College. And the sociology students have been sent an invitation for a fabulous opportunity to go and observe ‘the working classes’ at first hand. Nothing remotely patronising or snobbish about that then. Plus, as an added bonus, to witness ‘gender performance’, racism, sexism, mob-mentality, possibly violence, aggression… All just by going to see Milwall play against Brighton tomorrow night. They also promise a chance to ‘actually speak to football fans’.

“Oh, so you’re a smelly, working-class, stereotypically male, moronic, under-educated sexist, racist, banner-waving oik, are you?” Fortunately, there’s a hospital very nearby. Though the A&E unit is in all likelihood closed.

Good luck with the sociology

Hooray Henry
xxxx

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