Andy's Glasses

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.

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