Andy's Glasses

The word ‘ruination’ describes the ruin of a nation. And Scotland has ruined our nation. Or rather, Scotland, Gordon Brown, Alex (bleedin’) Salmond and Ed (poxy) Milliband. It’ll never be the same. The whole democratic process is fucked up beyond redemption. We might as well adopt sharia law instead and start cutting off limbs instead of giving out parking tickets. I’d emigrate tomorrow if they’d let me take Spurs with me.

The problem is all the promises made by Westminster to keep the Scots in the Union. New power. More controls. Greater levels of independence. Cameron has to take blame too. And Clegg is a worthless simpleton anyway so we might as well heap a bit more scorn on him too.

Its fine to give these things, these promises, but there’s always a quid pro quo. And if the Scots get the right to independently organise a lot of their own finances and football matches, without interference from Westminster, then England must equally have the right to do stuff without input from Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dunfirmline or East Fife. We’ll leave aside for the moment the issue of Wales and Northern Ireland’s entitlement to the same consideration.

We promised the Scots independence, no-one but a hapless, small-dicked imbecile would expect a lack of reciprocation for England. Yet Ed Milliband wants just that. He not only wants the Scots to still be allowed votes on English matters in our parliament, he NEEDS them to. Because otherwise, on all such items, the Labour vote is greatly reduced. And should Wales be granted similar terms to the Scots and then lose the right to vote on English matters, Ed is royally fucked because the Principality is filled with Labourites too. The doomsday scenario being that Labour form a government (unlikely under Ed M., I know, but iss jest hyperfetical, innit?) and yet, without the MPs from Scotland and Wales allowed to vote, would effectively have a minority on all matters English under debate.

So, despite all the ‘stronger together’ rhetoric banded about over the past few months, these promises have in fact made us frail and weak together. Our constitution, not that we actually have one, is weakened and the whole democratic fabric is under a big question mark. We’d be much better off as we were before, with the whole of Great Britain being run by some Eton/Oxbridge ex-Bullingdon clubbers who don’t really know where Glasgow or Cardiff are situtated. And with the populations of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland remaining subservient to London forevermore, paying us taxes until they bleed and receiving nothing more in return than a visit from the Queen every 5 years to make them feel needed.

My country lies in tatters. So not much change there then.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Its tropical here in London today. Don’t know what its like in Scotland but I’d guess at miserable. For 45% of the population anyway. Its cloudy here, a little rainy, though not enough to keep superheroes like me and Spurs Paul off the tennis courts, however slippery they may become. (for ‘superhero’; read: ‘idiot’). But its hot. Horribly, damply, muggily, nastily stuffy and humid. Tropical. Without the need for going anywhere.

So last night as I woke up at 5.30 to visit the toilet (well, if you will drink that cup of tea before bedtime…). I was attending to matters, with my eyes closed, as I do. I’m capable of aiming with eyelids down. And if not I’ll just blame someone else. Though in house full of women that’s an interesting conversation. Anyway, eyes closed, taking a pee. And there was a flash of light. Ignore, I’m going back to sleep. Then another. Visible through my eyelids. Hmmmm. Brain tumour? Retinal detachment?? Haemorrhage??? Haemorrhoids?? Oh no, I’m going to die. Or need an operation where no-one wants an operation.

Oh, its just lightning. That’s ok. Loads of it. We were flashing each other. Me and the lightning. I gave up first and went back to sleep. Had to be up in 2 hours for Tai Chi. We don’t allow lightning in the dojo.

But last night we watched the Bake Off. I will say that I watched it to keep Rachie company. Or that there was no football on. Or that I would have been out attacking ISIS or brawling in Glasgow or finding loose women. But no. Bake Off. And I hate to admit but I love it. I find myself getting really attached to the bakers. I love them. In their own individual ways. Not in just a kind of Megan Fox way. I love food. And I’ve found that if there are times when its best not to be eating it, then watching it is almost as good. And I feel for their plight. When the dough won’t rise. Don’t you hate that? Ok, I’ve never made dough in my life. Why would you when M&S do such a good job. Yet these stars make it from, like, flour and stuff. Amazing. Then they bake it. Would you Adam’n’Eve it. And Mary Berry tells everyone how good they’ve been, how well they’ve done, how super it might have been, if only they’d just…

Then Fat Paul Hollywood, dressed in flowing denim shirt that hasn’t been washed since he bought it in 1973, criticises the bakers and complains of ‘underbaking’ and ‘under-proving’ and under virtually everything but a bus. I think he’s an Arsenal fan.

Last night (well it was recorded) Kate left the show. I loved Kate. There’ll never be another. Until next week. I cried along with her and Mary Berry.

I may never go back into the kitchen again.

Happy baking

A xxxx

The Queen was in Glasgow when she formally met Alex Salmond, Scotland’s First Minister.

‘country’ and you can carry on as you are.”

And now its never going to happen. Scotland has decided to remain as part of the Union, has declared by a majority that it wishes to remain ruled over by a bunch of upper-class twits in London, most of whom had never been to Scotland before last wednesday. And will probably never go there again.

So now, as always, having won the war, we have to survive the peace. Which, as recent history has shown, is far more difficult.

This whole episode of Salmond-driven arrogance has been massivly divisive for Scots. They are now a nation split. Nearly half of them have lost a battle to which they had become passionately supportive and emotionally involved. The early nicey-nicey news feature of ‘the wee twins from Falkirk supporting different sides. Ahhhhh’ have given way to threats, fighting, near-riots and a whole demonstration of the full range of man’s hositility to fellow man.

As a Londoner, I’m much happier now because the pound is immediately stronger again and share prices have risen overnight, taking my pension back from ‘breadline’ to ‘just mere poverty’ in one fell swoop. And really, its all about me.

But leaving my own personal gains out of it just quickly, there’ll be trouble. Already everyone’s favourite Scottish whipping boy (other than Salmond), Andy Murray, is possibly regretting tweeting his support for the Yes campaign on Wednesday. He’s always had a difficult relationship with England (read: WE FUCKING HAAAATE HIM) which will not be exactly enhanced by his words in favour of seperation. People have to go back to work today (or back to the dole queues) in Edinburgh and Glasgow and sit next to people they were facing off with full aggression in various squares just yesterday. Scotland’s always been rather partisan on religious grounds, now there’s something else to divide the nation’s populus.

And we have to work out the consequences of all the promises made by our Government before the election. And the repercussions on our own democracy, as well as those of Wales and Northern Ireland. If Scotland is indeed remaining part of the Union, it cannot be constitutionally different from its fellow states.

Everything to play for.

Happy united Friday

A xxxx

Ahhhh the Champions League. The league of, er, champions. Europe’s finest. Except Spurs. We were only allowed to play in it once and were the best team there by miles. For just a wee while. Ahhhhh…

But now all is not so pretty. Not that I saw any of the matches so far but that’s irrelevant. They play them without me. I didn’t watch Liverpool play Ludo Razgd and they didn’t watch me play bridge. Though we both won our games.

Man City had it tougher last night. There’s certain teams you don’t want in your group. And the number one (ok, maybe two) team would be Bayern Munich. And City lost. Only just but as ‘a miss is as good as a mile’ so no points is no points, however close it may have been at the night. Hanging on gallantly until conceding a goal in the 89th minute is very disappointing. But if you got points for disappointment Spurs would be world champions at everything. Fact is you don’t. You get nothing. Gornisht. De nada. Zip. And City seem to be struggling this year a bit. I know, it may not last, they may be in stalking horse mode, like Man United may be in the league, but they just don’t seem… like Chelsea.

Who also managed to drop points last night, at home to Schalke. Even though in the league thus far they’ve looked completely invincible. Which begs the question, that without Diego Costa (rested, can’t play 3 games in a week, what do you think he is? some kind of professional athlete or somefink??) does the juggernaut that is Chelsea turn into an overpriced dump-site? Even with ancient legend Drogba back in the blue. Just a thought.

And Arsenal. Ahhhh, Arsenal. The cause of my deja vu. Although its more like Groundhog Year really. Every summer Wenger buys A player. One. A significant One. “But you’ve lost 3 players!!” the pundits cry. No, says Arsene, we need no-one else. “But Vermaelen’s left, Sagna’s gone; you’re weak in defense”. No, we need no-one. Always the same. Wenger has his ‘war chest’ to go buy playerS but instead buys player and keeps the money safe in the bank earning 0.03%. For a rainy day. In case the roof caves in at the Emirates. Oh, it hasn’t got a rood. Well, just nice to have a reserve. Of cash. Though apparently not of players. And then by Christmas, normally, we get the “of course we’re strugglling in *******, all our players are injured and we have no back-up”. Same old, same old. Every bleedin’ year. Except this year its come early and Arsenal are already looking a bit thin on the ground back four-wise.

Today Scotland votes. Thank Christ for that. We can change the subject now. To: ‘the aftermath of the vote!!! the repercussions!!!’. Its gonna be a long haul.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I love the world of fashion. I’m very very fashionable, exceedingly stylish and so beautiful I’m often mistaken for Cara Delevine when I’m in McDonalds. And although fashions change every season, every year, all the time, I adopt the ‘stopped watch’ approach to what’s trendy. In that a stopped watch tells the right time twice a day, so I wear Levis and t-shirts and every decade or so I’m bang-on with the trend. The rest of the time, quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. Ok, I could go out and buy a bright yellow 3-piece suit with short trousers and the waistcoat in puce, and be totally fucking Shoreditch, with accompanying fluorescent green Doc Marten high-tops and a Pharrell Williams 10-gallon hat but it will be out of fashion by next weekend by which time Mel will have left me on the grounds that “you look like a total tosser and actually cause my stomach to turn”. And who could blame her? Plus we’d be about 3 grand poorer for the effort. High fashion ain’t cheap. Which is probably the main reason I never, ever, voluntarily enter a shopping centre without great duress.

But its London fashion week, so make a bleedin’ effort, will ya? And I know this because when I walk past Somerset House on the Strand on my way home the pavement is even more crowded than usual. Vans and lorries are blocking up the traffic as they are unloaded, not by burly Scotsmen in boiler suits (how 1970s is that???), but by effeminate and androgynous creatures in Stella McCartney, mincing their way under the weight of big boxes of stuff. And although the street is insanely packed with bodies, its not actually hard to get past. I don’t say that in a Lawrence Dellaglio kind of, shoulder barge, head down, press on kind of way, but you just glide through. Because a street full of apparent anorexics simply doesn’t occupy the same volume of space as a street full of normal people. And I don’t know if this crew of 6 foot 2 girls with 13-inch waists all taking photos of each other on smart phones (before they disappear altogether, perhaps) are models, design students, trainee lampposts or what, but they are quite gorgeous. But so painfully skinny, all of them, that, and I say this with no degree of sexism or objectification, they don’t have a pair of tits between the lot of ’em.

Yet in a way I love fashion, skinny birds aside. Because although the ‘new midi length skirt’ will not stop ISIS, and Putin is still Putin however ridiculously he may choose to dress, clothes are a celebration of the most superficial layer of all of us (ok, naturists aside). They are your costume, your disguise, your elected role for the day. You wouldn’t wear jeans to visit the Queen (well, I might, but you wouldn’t) and you wouldn’t wear a tuxedo to play football, even if you could well afford it on 200k a week wages. And in a world beset by major problems, we need the ridiculous, we need the stupid, we need to irrelevantly superficial and pointless just as a counterpoint to all the dross that we’d otherwise drown in.

Happy fashionable Wednesday

A xxxx

I can think of only one good reason for Scotland to seperate from the rest of Britain. And that is that if it succeeds it will become an independent country and will have to apply to become accepted by the European Union. Like Albania. And will have to prove its economic viability and its desire to become part of Greater Germany. So whilst in that limbo-state of un-Britishness and un-Europeanality, we could get duty free Scotch. Therefore I vote ‘YES’ to separation and let’s keep their Euro entry process dragging on until I’m totally pissed.

The other interesting facet of this seemingly endless parade of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ banners, Union Jacks and Saltires, and fucking kilts, is the avenues of support voicing their views for an Independent Scotland. Which would become, geographically, North Korea. The bad guys in the north, sharing a border with their enemies to the south (the good guys).

And oddly, North Korea is a firm ‘Yes’ vote. If North Koreans knew what ‘vote’ meant. They support independence because they like whisky. How shallow and sad.

Other words of support have come from China, Russia, Iran, Zimbabwe and even everyone’s favourite, ISIS. Ok, most have the agenda that whatever makes Britain weaker is good for them/the world. And all are places devoid of democracy in any form other than the superficially meaningless. In that ‘vote for me or you’re dead’ kind of way.

And Argentina. They are keen for Scotland to leave British rule because it augers well for the Falkland Islands, even though that little group of worthless isles in the frozen south Atlantic consistently vote to remain British, even the sheep. And as they’re in a majority there, you simply have to listen. But Argentina claims the largest number of people of Scottish descent anywhere outside the English speaking world. Presumably ‘outside the English speaking world’ includes Scotland too? I’ll check on that.

Yet what’s also odd is that Argentina also has the only region in the world outside Wales where they speak Welsh. And, uncommonly for these pages, that’s a true and proper fact. I’m going to Argentina at Christmas so I’ll take an English/Spanish/Welsh phrase book and see how I get on.

Diego Daffyd Bryn Williams-Thomas-Maradonna.

I’m waiting to see Alex Salmond in a Kim Jong-Un wig. Then I’ll vote ‘yes’.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

“THERE’S A FUCKING GREAT HOLE IN THE OZONE LAYER!!!!!” they exclaimed (hence the exclamation marks; if they’d just kind of ‘said’ it, we wouldn’t need the punctuation). “AUSTRALIA WILL MELT!!!!! THE SEAS WILL RECEDE!!!! ELEPHANTS WILL GO BLIND!!!! THE WORLD WILL END!!!!!!!” “THE ONLY WAY TO PREVENT OUR PLANET FROM DYING IS TO STOP USING DEODORANT SPRAYS”.

That was in 1988. The year they banned underarm deodorising. Ok, you could use roll-on thingys, powders, liquids, if you chose, or you could just forget deodorants altogether like tube travellers do and go ‘au naturelle’ and smell like a warthog in heat. But Carbon Fluoro Chlorides, the propellants used in aerosol cans, were history. They destroyed life, as we know it, and were now banned. As unwelcome as ISIS, they left our lives.

And now, in celebration of Scotland leaving the United Kingdom, the ozone layer is ‘better’. Yippee! Throw out that awful ‘factor 50’ sunblock that goes on like white gloss paint mixed with iron filings, get back on the beaches, the sea level will rise once more (or fall once more, I can never quite remember which is the good one) and life will be long and fruitfull.

What kind of overly simplistic, nobbish, moronic world does Al Gore, and all the other eco-panickers, inhabit? Oh, they live in a world which is 6 billion years old but 30 years of non-spray can seriously affect the entire atmospheric make-up. Wow. Evolution takes millennia, changes happen at the rate of glacial movements, yet throw out your ‘Sure’ and the Heavens will replenish. Amen.

I’m all in favour of being a little cautious (a little, mind, just a little) about ’emissions’ and stuff, because I live in a place where we have no air quality worth being proud of. London is an ecological wreck with pollution levels always way higher than we’d like them, and certainly miles higher than the Euro-beaurocrat free-loading pedants would like it to be to come up (or maybe down) to the levels laid down in Brussels. Which also, ironically, has shitty air quality.

Yet I simply never bought into the whole SAVE THE PLANET routine, the massed hysteria of a thousand screaching Greens telling us how to live in a proper, tree-huggy, clean, fresh world with no cars, planes and farting cows (the most significant source of world methane production), where everyone recycles their grass-cuttings, eats dandelions and drives a fucking Prius.

So this OZONE LAYER IS GETTING BETTER DUE TO US!!!!! rubbish is precisely that. The Ozone layer forms a hole every spring since Diplodocus ruled the land. It just varies in size some years. Then it gets smaller. The current ‘improvement of 4% is just a normal seasonal swing. And yes the ozone absorbs ultra-violet light and thus the absence of ozone would increase levels of cataracts forming in mammels, but the whole episode is a massive overreaction and the creation of a new industry of holier-than-thouness that those of us with obscenely large car engines can really do without.

I’ll take the improvement as a good thing. We can all breathe easier now. Metaphorically if not literally.

Happy monday

A xxxxx

Its all to play for. The season’s young. There’s everything to win, nothing to lose. Its a fair game. Except when its not particularly fair. Its not fair for Chelsea to have bought Diego Costa and then use him to personally destroy the high hopes of Swansea. Its not fair that Spurs pissed away 100 million quid on useless players last year when other teams make just one significant acquisition and it changes their fortunes. Its not fair that Spurs drew at Sunderland having twice been in the lead. And its not fair that Arsenal… well, anything to do with them is not really fair.

Is it fair on Newcastle fans that Alan Pardew is still their manager? Though one thinks not for much longer as he is destined to be a very early, premature almost, one for the chop. And is it fair that when Spurs go to all that trouble to steal Southampton’s manager because he seemed to be doing a pretty good job there, we now see Potechino’s replacement doing even better?? Is that fair?? I don’t think so. Southampton in the top four?? Whatever next?

Diego Costa is the undoubted star purchase of the summer. With number two going to Cesc Fabregas. Who should really have gone back to Arsenal but at the last moment was heard to say ‘I’m not going back to those tossers’. I’m just reporting what I heard, even though there were rumours that Wenger didn’t want the Spaniard back because he’s quite ugly.

But he doesn’t play ugly. He’s ‘assisted’ in as many goals in the first four games of the season than Eden Hazard managed all last year, and he was Chelsea’s player of the year, deservedly so. Whilst Costa has scored 7 goals in 4 matches. Ok, he can’t keep that up but that is quite awesome. Fernando Torres took 43 games to score 7.

And Costa is the perfect fit for Chelsea. Because he’s a treacherous, back-stabbing, disloyal scumbag who, in former years, would have been hanged for high treason. He’s a Brazillian. Born there. Has one of those ridiculously long Brazillian names from which ‘Diego Costa’ is just the first part of a seven page list of every relative who ever provided but one DNA contribution to his body. He played for Brazil. Whoever wins what, to play for Brazil is the ultimate aspiration, the absolute inclusion into the most fab club in the world. So he left, abandoned them, and became Spanish. And got royally fucked at the World Cup. But that’s not the point. I’m not sure what is; I never do. But he changed international shirts mid-career and that is totally unacceptable. He might as well be Scottish if he wants to abandon heritage, history and class.

Today we see if Louis Van Gaal can beat Alan Pardew to early dismissal. Because if his 150 million pounds worth of recent buys doesn’t perform well enough to see off QPR at Old Trafford, they’ll be calling for his head too. And wearing green shirts again, demanding that the Glazers sell the club to Asda, complaining about their ‘right ‘to be in the Champions League, blah, blah, northern blah.

John Terry never apologised to anyone named Ferdinand for the racial abuse he gave to Anton. Rio’s pissed off.

Ahhhhh, welcome to the football season.

A xxxx

Not a lot of people know this but I have a degree in psychology. Doesn’t everybody? No??? Well, I do. And the reasons are historic, complex and involve impressing women and being easily led astray; the story of my life. And of course, I’ve forgotten most of the stuff, because a. that’s what you do, and b. because counting the number of times rats in cages shit every hour and dividing by the number of people called ‘Horace’ is simply not worth remembering. But a few ‘gems’ just kind’a stick there. And one was:

you don’t cry because you’re sad; you’re sad because you’re crying.

Ooooooohhhh. That’s pedantic. But its not. Its about primacy. Its about causation and reaction. And its frikkin true. We proved it. Statistically within a range of probability of greater or equal to 5% beyond any possibility of it happening by chance alone. (The sentence which pretty much sums up everything that was wrong with studying an otherwise beautiful subject; well sums it up using 4 different statistical analysis methods to ‘prove’ the validity).

Anyway, you’re sad because you’re crying. Except for Oscar Pistorius; he’s crying for his very life. And it seems to have worked. Having spent the last nine months in a constant stream of tears, those gullible South African judicial types have let him off the two major charges of murder and the lesser one, leaving only a very minor ‘manslaughter’ charge, which could see him imprisoned, but probably won’t. Because he’s a white sporting hero with several disadvantages in life. And the way South Africa has always been is that if you just kill one person, the police probably won’t bother turning up. Its only when it starts to reach ‘Zulu’ proportions that those fat Afrikaaners get off their arses and investigate.

So expressions of emotion precede the emotions themselves. We smile because we’re happy (or because Spurs have won a game) but the act of smiling makes us feel happier still. Like a feedback loop. Emotionally.

Then what happens if we prevent facial expressions from working? Like, f’rinstnace, if we were so stupid as to inject rat poison or another suitable anaesthetic into our facial muscles? Would stopping the expression of emotion reduce the emotion itself?? And the answer is apparently ‘yes’. Because those of us stupid enough to use Botox will suffer from reduced facial expressions; that’s what we’re paying for, but that in turn will leave us emotionally stunted. Thus doctors are now saying that their colleagues who perform such procedures are ‘ethically, morally and professionally wrong’. But what about the terminally vain? Or the vainally retentive, as I call them. Gwynnie, Gordon Ramsey, Simon Cowell, even the otherwise exquisite Kylie(!!!!), all devotees to Botox, all going to be prevented from enjoying the full range of emotions. Will this affect Gwynnie’s next Oscar speech? Less blubbing, less caring and (hopefully) less thanking everyone from her milkman’s aunt to her broccoli-squeezer.

More research is required.

Happy saturday,

A xxxx

A few years ago Wayne Rooney, noted England captain and Manchester United player (almost-)extraordinaire (sometimes), wanted a ‘better deal’ from his club. Upset that he was ‘only’ earning about £150,000 each week, barely enough to keep him in granny porn mags, he demanded more. The club refused on the grounds that ‘YOU EARN MORE THAN THE FUCKING QUEEN YOU POTATO-FACED LITTLE THUG’, or something like that. So Wayne did what every decent person would do. He put in a transfer request and asked to go to Manchester City. The place where money, quite literally, grows, if not on trees, then out of a hole in the ground in Abu Dhabi. It just pours out, black and thick and sticky. Manchester United had no choice, even though they suspected the bluff by his agents. And football agents have been refused entry into ISIS on grounds of immorality. United paid up, the fans heckled him for about 10 minutes until he scored a great goal, kissed his shirt-badge and has lived happily ever after on about 250 grand a week, under-performing week after week.

I therefore suspect quite strongly that the entire ‘get Scotland out of the UK’ campaign has been orchestrated by football agents. Not Scottish ones; they’re stuck with Scottish players who are worthless, and 10 percent of nothing is still nothing.

Because Scotland is basically ‘pulling a Rooney’. By threatening to leave the Union they are now receiving promises of further devolution and accompanying powers that had previously been scoffed at by Westminster when requested by the Scots. They wanted tax powers, control of their health and education and all that oil revenue, and the Eton/Oxbridge toffs in Westminster laughed, scoffed and derided those dirty, haggis-eating oiks as incapable and unworthy, having only been mainly educated in Scotland and thus unfit for power. So down goes the Rooney “then we’re off!!” card and suddenly those same group of pompous, stuck-up southern pooftahs are straight up there on the 7.27 from Kings Cross, with their aides, their butlers, footmen, chamber maids and basically, ‘the full Downton’ to offer those Scots the world, and more, if they’ll just stay with ‘the family’, the Union, the Jack, the rest of us. And like many ‘families’ most members fucking hate most of the others, so the metaphor is indeed valid. You can have it all, they say, just stay together and we’ll give you more than you could have dreamed of.

In the debate last night, one of the ‘panel’, the one representing the ‘NO’ campaign, was George Galloway. So I’m voting YES. Whatever they’re voting about.

Ok, I’m really bored with Scotland now. Let’s try and get rid of Wales.

Happy Friday

A xxxx