Andy's Glasses

An Irishman walks into Spearmint Rhino one night. Rather, an Irishman staggers into Spearmint Rhino one night, blind drunk, and, remembering nothing of events the morning after, finds a credit card receipt from that worthy establishment, to the tune of £7,500. Its not a joke, but sure has a worthy punchline. Had he been sold a used car by some unscrupulous saleslady writhing on his lap wearing nothing but a thong? Did he buy a work of art? Some bespoke suits?? He couldn’t remember. He apparently had nothing to show for his expenditure other than the receipt which includes the signed (by him; or a very drunk version of him) acknowledgment that he is in ‘full control of his faculties’. Yeah, right. And the bill was for some booze, sure, but mainly for the tokens they sell to be used for ‘private dances’. He must have danced the night away. And all his mates on the stag party too, at his expense, and a majority of the rest of the fair town of Bournemouth, where this travesty occurred.

And thus he is suing Spearmint Rhino for ‘exploiting’ him when he really wasn’t in a fit state to make expensive decisions. And he has a point. Though not a very convincing one. And accusing Spearmint Rhino of being immoral is like accusing a petrol station of ruining the planet when you go to fill up your car. Its like complaining that the ISIS soldier beheading a prisoner wasn’t very smartly dressed.

Spearmint Rhino are in the business of exploitation. They exploit weakness and frailty. In a very overt way. They sell you drink to the point that you make ridiculous decisions arising in your gonads. And if, as they say, ‘a standing penis has no conscience’, if you couple that with ‘a drunken Irishman has no fucking sense, other than to impress the women, drink more and lay a credit card on the table’, then a fair picture of this tragic scenario takes shape.

What’s the shortest distance between a virtually naked hard-bodied, pneumatic babe and my lap? The answer: Seven and a half grand.

In an unrelated incident, Emmanuel Adebayor, Spurs (alleged) striker has spoken out that the recent dire fucking disgrace of what the team call ‘form’ of late, is due to the fans. They’re booing. And this booing has caused the team to become nervous, jittery and unsettled.

I’m not one of life’s booers. I don’t boo. I can do. I know how. I just choose not toooooooooo. But the fans are allowed to express their displeasure, their unease, their collective shame at what the players are doing in our name. Because its our club, not theirs. We pay them, we adopt them, we provide everything for them and all we want in return is some loyalty… oh, yeah, forgot, and some DECENT BLOODY FOOTBALL. Surely that’s not too much to ask. And its our club because they come and go. Managers certainly come and go. Owners, we wish would come and go more frequently, but its sadly not the case at the moment. Yet the fans are loyal. Stupid, daft, like a bunch of hapless, hopeless labrador puppies, because we are the club. Its all we know. And we can forgive missing open goals. And we can ignore fluffed passes, stupid fouls and any and all measure of ineptitude and catastrophe. But we can never forgive a complete lack of effort. We can’t forgive lethargy, tying bootlaces when a corner’s coming across and apathy.

The booing is not the cause of the terrible form. Its the result of it. My advice to the Togan Tosser, and all others who are honoured to wear ‘the shirt’ is MAKE A FUCKING EFFORT!. That’s all we ask. Its not the defeats that irk but the manner in which they’re conceded.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Saw a great movie last night. This is where I leave you. That’s what its called. And it was a preview as part of the London Jewish Film Festival. Because being Jewish is not just about chopped liver and bagels. Its not just about supporting Spurs (oyyyyyy; see later) and having opinions about everything. Its not even about praying. We get movies too. In this case, really great movies.

Its a film about a dysfunctional family, brought back together after the death of ‘the father’. And they can’t really stand each other, but they really love each other. Oh, its that kind of film. Yep, it is. And its great. Its from a book by Jonathan Tropper who is, undoubtedly, the funniest writer in the world. And he wrote the screenplay too, which is quite brilliant. Its Woody Allen in Hannah and her Sisters mode. Its a series of disasters, emotional rather than Towering Infernos, around this family, bringing back all the old rivalries, arguments and good feelings too, from their childhoods. Even Jane (fucking) Fonda, as ‘the mother’, can’t spoil this film. Its funny, heart-warming and great. Tina Fey is simply fantastic. Trust me; you don’t have to be Jewish.

Spurs are funny too. But not in such a heart-warming way. Only in a peculiarly unfunny way that is way more tragic than Towering Inferno. Because Shelley Winters and Carl Malden can’t save us this time. No-one can save us. Its Groundhog Day. Every week we play someone really insignificant; Uttoxter Town, Torremolenos, Cliftonville United, Zakinthos Zebras, and oddly, we win. Then the weekend comes when once again we face proper opposition, and we crumble and fold and lose. And its not like we’re playing ‘good’ teams. Just mid-table (or lower) mediocrity who should be the definition of ‘three easy points’. And we lose. Not that there’s ever any such thing as ‘three easy points’, but ya like ta think so. Arsenal thought so too, according to the most subdued Arsene Wenger everrrrrrrrrr, after their loss to Swansea that the Frenchman had been apparently banking on winning. Confidence? Complacency? Arrogance?? Whatever, they lost too. Banks collapse.

Even ‘my’ Bournemouth only managed a draw. Though it was against fellow top-of-the-tabler Middlesboro so ‘we’ can be pleased with that. Except sneaky fucking Derby County beat Wolves and leapfrogged both Boro and Bournemouth to the top. I should just become a Derby fan this week, but sadly ‘we have a history’ me and Derby. Going back many years, to the Brian Clough days when they thrashed us on a cold wet night down at the Lane, in the days when we stood for the match. And Roger Davies scored a hat-trick and he was a big fat lummox and I can never forgive them. Never.

That’s why we have movies; to help us forget the football. If only they lasted longer…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Living in London brings certain responsibilities. Most importantly you must always avoid any of the big tourist attractions. Even though no person with any degree of sense or taste should ever visit Madame Toussauds, whatever their nationality, for Londoners it is an imperative that such a shallow, hollow, pathetic facsimile showing of humanity’s obsession with celebrity, should be avoided at all costs. And it costs a lot. The Tower of London is great, one of our ‘national treasures’ so long as you’re just looking at it as you drive past and don’t join the queue to enter. Sherlock Holmes’ house is the best, probably. Or rather, the house that is situated at the address randomly selected by Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle for his fiction. “Yes, on the left you can see the bedroom where Sherlock would have slept if he’d been a real person. On the right is the room where Watson took a shit in ‘Sherlock Holmes and the Constipated Medic’ and that window facing the rear is where dastardly Moriarty would have fired his sniper shot if he’d been real, if Holmes had been real and if the building behind had 9 stories, which it doesn’t”.

The only tourist attraction I’m ever interested in is ‘tea’. High Tea. I know, its not a strictly ‘London’ thing, but it is to me. Because its better here, it has more history here, its nearer to me and its certainly much more expensive here. Normally.

Yesterday Mel & I ‘took’ tea (you don’t fucking ‘drink’ tea, ya pleb, you ‘take’ tea; Jesus, where was you brunged up???) at the Charlotte Street Hotel. And as well as wonderful, it was free. On the house. Gratis. Because the ‘tea’ we took a few months ago had ‘issues’ for Mel, so she complained (shock! surprise!! horror!!!! my wife complains…) and yesterday we took our freebie. And there may be posher places to take one’s tea; there are certainly way more expensive places where you can pay a hundred quid for two people to eat a scone and drink a pot of Tesco’s Red Label, but there’s certainly nowhere cooler than Fitzrovia’s fabbest hotel. And when they bring that layered tray over, filled with cakes and sandwiches and scones and buns, to me that is ‘the challenge’. It has to go. All of it. And it did. Well, mostly. And I felt sick. Really sick. But, in a good way.

Whereas Chelsea make me sick in a bad way. Though recently, I’m almost horrified to admit; its sick with a big dollop of admiration. They just win. Ok, except when they don’t. But that’s rare. And poor Liverpool (the absolute, undisputed, champion ‘victims’ in the entire world of football) are in a slump. Which they pretty much have been since about 1977 but most Liverpool fans seem to be under the illusion or delusion that they’re still the ‘world’s biggest team’.

Even more fun is watching Manchester City just crumble and fade. I used to only enjoy such sick schadenfreude whilst watching them in europe but now every league match they play is fun, fun, fun. If it wasn’t for the quite unbelievably brilliant Sergio Aguero, they’d be in the relegation zone.

Spurs have a massive game today. Massive. Stoke City. Who are so bad that on the rule that ‘we always lose at home to shit teams’, they will see little resistance from my absolutely dire team.

But hey, the sun’s shining and I’m still full of scones.

Happy sunday

A xxxx

Anjem Choudary, the hate-preacher and probable radicalising all-round horrible person, wants to go to ISIS. Not, as he claims, to ‘participate in terrorist acts’, but merely to live his dream of being in a Sharia state. Fine by me. I’ll start a whip-round for his ticket today. The man is pure evil and obviously belongs in a place where bombings occur nightly, if you survive the gunfire during the day. But there’s a problem. The government has confiscated his passport, so he can’t travel. So along with the whip-round, I’m starting to ‘let Anjem go’ campaign in tandem so this poor man can get his passport back so he can go to the Islamic State. Where he definitely belongs. What is wrong with this government? One evil fucker less, even a British one, within these shores, is good by me. And if the fact that he is a jihadist, make-Britain-sharia piece of vermin, if that’s not enough to deport him, the man’s a lawyer too. Some people plumb the depths.

Whilst others start from a higher point and manage to descend, all by themselves. Like Ed Miliband. Poor, hapless, hopeless leader of a Labour Party that hate him, have no confidence in him and would like to replace him but even in a party so full of ‘rock stars’ (phah) its only 6 months before a general election so timing would seem against them. And who do you elevate, even if you could which, under Labour rules, is so impossible they couldn’t even get rid of Gordon Brown without threatening him with death unless he resigned.

But what do you look for in a ‘leader’. Other than, perhaps, some leadership skills which Ed M seems to be so distanced from? They were debating this on the radio as I came home from Tai Chi this morning. With David (tosspot) Mellor (conservative party) saying that Miliband is a hapless nob, and Ken (asswipe) Livingstone (very very old Labour party) saying that Ed is just fine. Why? Because he’s not interested in what people think of him, only that they accept his ‘vision of the future’. Which unfortunately changes with such regularity that by the time they’ve written a manifesto its out of date. Ed doesn’t need to look good, sound good or even be any bloody good, according to Ken, who can empathise with all three of those missing traits. He just needs to have a clear view.

And this is true. If you’re a 70 year-old has-been communist with a whiny voice. But politics must change to reflect and appeal to the changes in society. A society which now demands a more youthful, vibrant leader who is media savvy, who makes the right noises and, most important, who instils confidence. Ed doesn’t tick too many of those boxes either. The ‘young’ of this fair nation spend their time in a digitalised world obsessed with image and soundbytes. A world where celebrity is revered. So surely even if leadership skills and a degree of engagement were not natural, the ability to act that way would be of benefit? Like David Cameron??

Maybe they should make Anjem Choudary the labour leader. At least he has a plan. Albeit a fairly abhorent one.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Did you ever read ‘American Psycho’? Its one of the very few books I started and in a very un-Mastermindish way, I didn’t finish. Brett Easton Ellis’ tale of a sick yuppy puppy. A highly successful banker in New York who in his spare time liked to torture and kill women. The book was a cross between the Goldman Sacks handbook and the power-tools brochure from B&Q. The ‘hero’ used all manner of increasingly sick and brutal ways to kill his women, lured to his appartment by his good looks and platinum Amex card. Chain saws, power drills, hedge trimmers, even one of those really annoying leaf-blowers, all used to cause maximum pain and suffering on his victims. Sick fucking dude. Sick fucking book. Unless your name is Rurik Jutting. Which at first I thought was a medical condition curable only by orthopedic intervention.

But was this man, who brutally murdered and butchered two lovely women in his own home, a sad case of life imitating art? Or just more quite compelling evidence that all investment bankers are closet psychos and thus are all a similar tragedy waiting to happen? In fact all bankers seem to be thus afflicted. Its probably genetic. The same DNA that requires you to live your life as a parasitic bottom-feeder making billions at the expense of absolutely everyone else, that commands a greed culture not otherwise seen except in sharks, that DNA creates a desire to mangle up the flesh of women. In which case forget ISIS, we need to worry about bankers. Eat one today. Save the planet. And start with the ex-pats; the most dangerous of all.

And no sooner did I mention my new-found love of Bournemouth FC, stated right here, just 3 days ago, a team I’d never heard of until 3 weeks before, than they go top of their table. They are Championship Champions. For now at least. And in football, as in life, ‘now’ is all that matters. How could this happen? A team previously only famous for ‘being near where Harry Rednap lives’ has vaulted the expectations of their competitors and gone to their rightful place at the summit. Poised, in just a few short 6 months, to make the final leap to stardom, fame and fortune that is the Premiership. Of course, a lot of water must travel under the pier before that moment should come, but I’m confident my newly-promoted 7th best favorite team in my whole world can do what needs to be done.

Must be better than going to Arsenal and suffering all that disappointment.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

If the Republicans win control of the Senate in the up-coming mid-term elections in the States, then they will control everything, already enjoying a majority in the House of Representatives. Leaving Barak Obama, as a Democrat President, in a rather sorry position of not being able to pass any motions. Political constipation. He would become a ‘lame duck’ president. When he heard this expression he asked: ‘is that like a birdie?’ And went out to play more golf. It could always be worse. He could have Nick Clegg.

Over here we’re going to get ‘virtual id’. Having shied away from ID cards as a form of invasion of privacy for decades, we’re now going to use on-line government schemes to prove identity securely and safely. Until some Westminster mandarin leaves a print-out of everyone’s secrets and lies in a briefcase on a bench in St James’ Park, of course, but that won’t happen. This is safe. Secure. Right. And ya know what: we need it.

Every time I have dealings with any kind of financial institution they want the same stuff. A utility bill. Which I haven’t received since coal was delivered in sacks. All done on monthly direct debits. Then they want a ‘bank statement’. Do it all online. Haven’t received a bank statement in a decade. Could probably print one off for you? Oh, not good enough, hmmmm. And I’ve been moaning for years that none of these requirements are in any way applicable to now. To where we are and how we pay for stuff. Yet it has endured. Until today. When they’re gonna stop all that shit and do it properly with what will doubtless be the most unimaginable nightmare to set up; passwords, special phrases, secret numbers, retinal scans, bloodwork, rectal examinations… but then: wow! You’re Andy… (3 second pause)… yes, you are; that is now officially, governmentally confirmed. You do not even need to look in the mirror, you are definitely Andy.

And all it will ‘cost’ in real terms is a complete loss of privacy. Because they’ll know your bank details, your mortgage details, your lawyer’s details, they can link it up to your Oyster card and see where you go, they can find out how much you put on Amex in Waitrose shopping for groceries last week, they’ll know which books you downloaded onto your kindle, which movies you booked to see, what football team you support, for whom you voted on Celebrity Big Brother and how deep you ran the bath last Sunday.

So yet again, the question: do we lose too much, do we enter the realm of Big Brother, just for the sake of expedience? Big question late on a tuesday,

Enjoy the rain

A xxxx

Mauricio Pottechino, Spurs esteemed head coach, can understand the frustration of Spurs fans because ‘we are still 3 points off the Champions League places’. We’re also 5 points off the relegation places, thanks only to a rather messy win at Villa Park yesterday. But Mauricio’s cup is indeed half full, and that’s not counting the other cups. The Primark Bank of Bengal League Cup and the Europa Other Cup. He is veritably runneth over with cups.

We (notice, following my threats of abandonment just yesterday, my team have now become first person once more, my blood, my brothers, my life) played brilliantly against Villa. Ok, we didn’t. We were shit and I’m reverting to a place of delusionment and optimism following my manager’s words of encouragement and ‘positives’. We won. 2 set pieces. The first that Villa forgot how to defend at the far post, and the second which took a ‘mild’ deflection on the way in. Fortunately though, they both still counted. And yes, Villa had to give us a one man advantage to even get that far. But that’s fine. Christian Benteke must learn that you can’t go around being violent on a football field and get away with it. Unless you’re wearing a Manchester United shirt. Then ya can.

Our team is worthy of consideration. The most positive thing you can say about our back four is that there are indeed four of them. I counted. At a time when Younis Kaboul was actually present, mind and body, on the pitch and hadn’t drifted to thoughts of whether his Virgin Galactic flight will ever come good. Well he must have been thinking of pretty serious things whilst repeatedly losing the plot in the first half.

Then we have the liabilities. Capoue. Even the once-reliable Vertongen. Eric Lamela, who came on as a sub. And does two things. He is a superb attacking midfielder. Classy, cool, concise, considered. Then he’s a dangerously bad defensive midfielder; wasteful, risky and a penalty-magnet in the wrong sense. He gives them away. Them and free-kicks in dangerous places. Yet he is capable of making the ‘killer pass’ through a defense. A wonderful skill that Ericsson once possessed but seems to have left it in Denmark last summer. Soldado plays a clever ball too. Which is not his main job. But more a part-time hobby as his main job, that of striker, is a bit on the quiet side at the moment.

Emmanuel Adebayor is Emmanuel Adebayor. There’s nothing more needs to be said about his goals, his lack of goals, his skill, his stupidity, his brilliance. He is what he is. You always know what you’re going to get with Adebayor. Which is never knowing what you’re gonna get.

And then there’s our (new) Harry. The Kane one. And Harry scores goals. Not usually in the league, but that’s only because he doesn’t normally play in the league matches. And he brings enthusiasm, movement, endless running, maximum effort and quite often, the goals that result from such hard graft. And we love him. He’s even got a proper name. ‘Arry Kane. Its a Roy of the Rovers name, its an England team circa 1949 name. Its as British as Chicken Tikka Massala. And although Harry has what my mate Spurs Paul once described as: ‘the first touch of a rapist’ (no insult to Robin van Persie, who was acquitted on all charges), and he lacks finesse, we love him. Particularly as we are not awash with goalscoring options of late.Damien Camolli decided that he wasn’t prepared to ‘waste’ any of that 100 million quid on ‘just’ strikers, and he knows best.

The Manchester derby? The hateful against the hated? Who gives a shit? Awful game marred only by a truly fantabulous goal.

Happy(ish) Monday

A xxxx

Its a shitty day here in London. Dull and wet and wetter and then more wet. And for ‘wet’ read: ‘no tennis’. Which is awful. Someone should invent indoor tennis. Oh they have. And I don’t like that either. So what does that leave? It leaves football. That’s what it leaves. Lots of football. And most of that horrible too.

I mean, who wants Chelsea to win? Yet it doesn’t seem to stop them. Nothing seems to stop them, last ditch goals from Robin Van Persie notwithstanding. I don’t even want Newcastle to win, but it doesn’t seem to stop them doing it either. Because if all the teams who are playing really badly start playing well, then where will that leave Spurs? At the bottom of the pile, that’s where. From our ‘forth place finish’ aspirations of every season, I’m now thinking ‘forth from bottom’ then at least we won’t get relegated. And if that sounds pessemistic, then go watch Spurs and tell me different.

But football fans are fickle. In a ridiculously loyal-in-the-face-of-any-logic-to-the-contrary way. But we’re fickle in that we are always just one win from sublime happiness and confidence, one loss from the suicidal depths of depsair.

One more loss and Pardue loses his job, 3 wins and the man’s a veritable god. Now that’s gone to 4 in a row and they’re tearing down the statue of Alan Shearer and replacing it with one of Pardue headbutting someone.

West Ham even managed a last-gasp draw at mighty Stoke, to keep up their own top 4 challenge, which is due to end very soon. We hope. Because it doesn’t matter how many football matches you win, how pretty the game you play, to represent our nation in Europe requires a certain class. West Ham would be an embarrassment were they to play in Europe. It would be like Justin Bieber on University Challenge. Out of his depth.

So today its the last chance for Spurs. If we lose at Villa today I’m done with football. And if that’s too hard I’ll support Bournemouth instead. They’re a lovely team. Winning lots of matches, quarter finals of the Costco Cup, lovely red and black shirts, and right by the beach if the match gets too dull. Me mate Tai Chi Alex supports Bournemouth and he’s so happy he’s even managed to stay clean of almost all his drug dependence for nearly a week now. Just a little crystal meth, particularly around Hallowe’en when the world gets a bit scary for all of us.

And speaking of Hallowe’en costumes, Luis Suarez played for Barcelona last night. And they lost. Two in a row. And at home too. Incredible. There’s probably going to be a flood of Catalans all looking to find where the hell ‘Bournemouth’ is pretty soon.

Happy rainy sunday

A xxxx

The Virgin ‘Galactic’ rocketship crashed yesterday somewhere over California. Not on its way to the Moon, or to Alpha Centuri or Mars, but to the Mohave Desert to test the fuel. Shame. Pilot killed, another injured and half a billion dollars worth of high tech aviation left in pieces on the floor spoiling the ecology of the area. So all those folks who’ve paid $500,000 each to take a flight on this vehicle will have to wait a bit longer. Its not like they had to take out a mortgage, or pay interest. The list of the 700 people who bought tickets (and are probably seriously considering the merits of such an investment, let alone a risk assessment) reads like the invitation list to the Oscars, or to the American Sportsman of the Year Award. Or ‘World’s Best’ as they probably call it. So none of them are short of half a mil to sit there for a few years gathering dust whilst Branson et al try and build a spaceship that is capable of passing its MOT test, at very least. But I notice that on that list are Russell Brand and Katie Perry. Oh, but they’re no longer an item. And due to the somewhat transient nature of ‘celebrity commitment’, I can envisage an entire planeload of exes, all trying to avoid their once-significant-other, if not half a dozen former mates/wives/husbands/partners/friend-with-benefits. It will be the plane-ride from hell. Hopefully not ‘to hell’ like yesterday’s. With an atmosphere you could cut with a knife. And that on its own has got to be worth the price of admission on its own. Can anyone lend me half a million bucks until…

Not a great week for Ed Milliband. Though in honesty the nearest that man has had to a ‘good week’ was when he brutally stabbed his own brother in the back to steal the Labour Party leadership from him. And if that counts as ‘good’ in chez Milliband, then you can see why Ed spends his whole life with a grimace on his sad little face. Midweek, Maureen Lipman, lifelong Labour member, supporter, voter, stated that she would vote for no party with Ed at the helm. Next came the entire Scottish nation. Pledging that collectively they will not vote Labour any longer. And even if they do, they don’t have a Labour leader ‘up there’ since the last one stood down. And if Scottish Labour is to have no powers in Westminster, what’s the point of them being there anyway?

Oddly, one prospective candidate, Jim Murphy, is unlikely to be elected because of his position of defending and supporting Israel. Which apparently makes anyone unelectable north of the border. Odd that ‘Israel’ should be so divisive, when there are dozens of other pressing, engaging and horrendous issues in the world to consider too.

Even Sol Campbell, ex-England, Arsenal and Spurs traitor has entered this ‘debate’ (not that its a ‘debate’ that Ed M. is a tosser, more a statement of fact), stating how his career as a centre-back has prepared him brilliantly for a future in politics. Obviously. And he would naturally be a Labour man, coming from working class East London roots, but feels himself now to be ‘more conservative’. Nothing self-serving about Sol. No more than there’s ever been previously, that is. His change of (political) heart stems from his massive property portfolio, in which are at least 2 homes that would fall into the mansion tax category. Which would cost Sol some of his not-very-hard-earned billions. And rather than that, he’ll save himself a few grand and change sides to the one he actually hates just to further his own personal gains. Same old Sol then.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

When Apple Inc introduced the i-pod in 1853 it created a revolution. A million records in a piece of digital wizardry the size of a finger-nail. Ok, I exaggerate. The original i-pod held just 2 tracks and was the size of a bus. De-scaling came later along with increased capacity. Then came the i-phone which changed the world even further. More remarkable was the ipad, upon which I’m writing this. Because no-one needed i-pads, no-one was crying out for something too big to shlep around but too small to be brilliantly multi-functional. Yet we embraced out inner-geek, put our reservations aside and channeled another $57billion into Apple for just making the effort.

And now, another startling innovation, the latest ‘must have’, to-die-for bit of kit, launched yesterday. The Homosexual CEO. Its simply brilliant, hard-working, imaginative, industrious, ground-breaking and bent as a five-bob note. The i-gay. Its honest, out-the-closet and a role model for any others trapped inside a false world they can’t survive. Well done Tim Cook.

Very 2014. Except in Russia where one St Petersburg politician has already demaned Mr Cook be ‘banned’. Doubtless others of a homophobic bent (???) will come out of their closets in the not-too-distant. ISIS will doubtless throw away all their i-phones and the ‘Christian Right’ in the USA has been thus far uncharacteristically quiet.

So best take a holiday until its all blown over. Where d’ya fancy? If Cliftonville is a bit too exciting for you, the Grand Canyon a bit bland, New York too noisy and Koh Samui too bloody sandy, then how about North Korea? Oooohhh, that’s different. Apparently they are trying to encourage a tourist trade. Based, so it would sound, on ‘just being in a really wierd place that most people haven’t visited’. You fly in, you can never be without a ‘minder’ who is not there to protect you but to make sure you don’t go astray or actually speak to anyone who might tell you their horrors. You can’t use a phone or take photos and you may end up in prison for life. if this sounds just what you’re looking for then send me your credit card number and all your passwords and I’ll rob you blind.

They’re making a new Thunderbirds movie. That is very very exciting. I love Thunderbirds. Especially The housekeeper’s daughter. Always had a thing about her. As did that bastard Alan Tracey. Or, ‘old wooden-dick’ as I called him. But the son of the Andersons has raised funding to make a new Thunderbirds type movie (£8.43 for string, £28.90 for spare wood) and its out soon. Who need sodding CGI???

Happy Friday

A xxxx