Andy's Glasses

17 to 2 is a good bet. Decent odds. Not so ridiculously high that there’s no chance of a payout, but not so low that its not even worth the stake. So you wanna take a punt? Do ya? Are you feeling lucky; Punk? Well, if its a fiver each way on a nag running at Ascot it makes not much difference either way. If it was the odds on Spurs winning the league I’d want at least 150 to 1 before digging out my wallet.

But its not. Its the odds on living versus dying if you take a daily hit of aspirin every day of your post-50 life. So doctors are playing the lottery every time they give such advice. As well as turning us into a nation of drug addicts. Which I don’t object to if those drugs are purely recreational, but this is really chancey. For every 17 people who will live longer due to the addition of aspririn, 2 will die younger from a stroke or internal bleeding that it can cause. And the best bit is, of course, you don’t know who. Can’t predict the winners and losers, just like any gamble.

I’ll take my weekly doses of Tai Chi instead, I think. It may be violent at times but you need to live to 120 just to learn it all.

Baroness Warsi has resigned from the government in protest because David Cameron won’t unambiguously critisize Israel’s actions in Gaza. Good for her. She was useless anyway. She got the job in the first place because she was a rare and exotic beast. Not only a staunch Conservative from a working class background, who is fluent in Northern, but a woman (allegedly) and a Muslim to boot. Not ‘to boot’ in a bullying, Eton, nasty kind of way; it means ‘as well’. So Sayeeda crossed lots of minorities off the government quota list of ‘people not like us who really should be represented’. Women, Muslims, working class scum. Fantastic, she ticks all the boxes, let’s get her on board. We’ll have her on board and then everyone else can be an upper class male twit. Fantastic. That’ll shock the Daily Mirror.

The interesting thing really though is that, whatever side of the argument you favour, here is a politician who resigned on a matter of personal principle. Not because of expenses scandals (she survived hers), not because of involvement with child abusers or corruption, but because of something she believed.

A politician with a deep value system and principles. It’ll never catch on.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Winston Churchill once described Russia as an enigma wrapped in riddle. I wonder what he thought of China. A mystery wrapped in a flour pancake with hoi sin sauce and guacamole, garnished with a Bentley Continental. Its a wierd place China. I’ve never been. The nearest I made it was Hong Kong. Which is a wonderful place that exists just to show westerners what the term ‘billions of chinamen’ really means. I’d never before realised how many oven-browned ducks there were in the world.

But China is an inconceivable place. Its still run by the Communist Party (and wow; what a party that is these days, more a rave really) the leaders of which are richer than Oligarchs. There is no Chinese character for ‘irony’. And China imports about half of the supercars the rest of the world produces. For their communists. From each, according to his ability; to each according to his needs. Yeah, well I ‘need’ a Lamborghini Aventura, don’t I?? A gold one.

So there’s lots of money in China, a quite a few people, so I’m led to believe. And the latest plan of that inscrutible but very clever nation is to go to the moon. As ya do. And not all of them, obviously, the moon’s not big enough. But this is China, so its not some vanity project to prove scientific ability nor engineering wonder. This is business. They want to ‘mine’ Helium. Those little Chinamen just love it when their voices go all squeaky. If only. But no. This is the very rare Helium3. Well, rare on Earth but abundant on the moon. And to describe it as ‘gold dust’ is to undervalue it massively. An ounce of gold is about 750 quid. An ounce of Helium 3 is around 20-50 thousand pounds. One space rocket full of it, about 40 tonnes, would power all of America for a year. They didn’t say what the rest of us would do, but America would be fine. So we should all really be packing our lunar gear and heading skywards to join this latest version of the goldrush.

If only life was that simple. Firstly you have to get there. My Transport for London Oyster Card stops at Barnet. I’d have to walk from there. Then there’s the problem of breathing. Can you hold your breath for about 4 months? I’m working my way up to it with 37 seconds the current limit. When you get to the moon you can’t just, kind’a, scoop up a sack of this Helium and take it to the nearest WE BUY YOUR HELIUM!!!! store. No, you have to get moondust and heat it to 600 degrees to get the helium out. I thought a little pick axe would do but that’s not the case. Then you have to get it all back to Earth and build a nuclear fusion reactor. And that’s the easy bit. Amazon probably sell them.

But the main problem was pointed out in Schwartzenegger’s movie Total Recall many years ago when they had a mine on Mars. Space is filled with really ugly, evil people, with five eyes and one leg and odd-shaped, intergalactic heads and I just hate to even think further south than arm level. So its dangerous with lazar guns and plasma bombs and shit like that. Plus, the phone signal is just awful on the moon and there’s no wifi.

Clever though, them Chinese.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Cheryl Cole has come up with some sage advice for X-factor wannabes. ‘Get your GCSEs first’, before seeking fame and fortune. Which is impressive. I didn’t know Cheryl could spell ‘GCSE’. Though she herself has one GCSE in her own right. She got a B in ‘gorgeous’ and quite frankly its the only qualification she’s ever needed. A talentless ex-singer, serial footballer-shagger, WAG in extremis, shopper extraordinaire, ultra-tattoed Geordie tart and now X-fucked regular, she’s had neither need nor desire for academic nor any other achievement that couldn’t be acquired by a winning smile (and oh my it is winning indeed) or a flash of inked up buttock. When she ‘racially abused’ a cleaner in some restaurant, we forgave her, when she brought out awful songs that made our ears bleed we forgave her, when she got drunk and killed 16 people with a mortar, we forgave her, but when she married reviled hate-figure and difinitive scum-bag Ashley Cole we thought we would never forgive her. Then she smiled and we loved her once more. Proof that a pretty face can get you a long long way in a world dominated by celebs and other worthless aspirations.

In another Sunday mag today is another class act. Abbey Clancey. Must be WAG Sunday or somefink. Another pretty face. This time married to half-man/half-giraffe, Peter Crouch. Ex- of so many football clubs I have neither the time nor patience to even start the list. Though I’ll mention Spurs just because I want to. Abbey has now reinvented herself yet again (first Scouse bimbo, then Scouse supermodel, then Scouse WAG, then Come Dancer), this time as a ‘clothes designer’. Oh; are Dior getting rid of Stella McCartney then? Are Prada starting a new range of shell suits? Have Burberry decided to ‘go common’??? No, she’s ‘designing for Matalan’, the supercheap clothing warehouses. Being a ‘designer for Matalan’ is a bit like being a racing driver for Team Skoda. Like being a ‘chef’ in McDonalds. But with more abused workers in Sri Lankan hothouses getting paid $2 a year for 80-hour working weeks (though wages are deducted for any time away due to the factory burning down or hospitalisation in the burns clinic).

So good luck to Abbey, and well done Cheryl in her new role as careers advisor. Who said you can’t be a peroxide blonde, relentlessly self-promoting superstar speaking in an unintelligible accent, and do good work at the same time?

Let’s hear it for the girls.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I invented a new recipe last night. And its brilliant. So I’ll share it with you. But don’t tell it to Gordon Ramsey or Jamie Oliver or Nigella, or they’ll nick it and call it their own. Its rather tricky to ‘make’ and requires a skill and delicacy that those so-called ‘celeb-chefs’ simply lack, being too busy at self-promotion and tv ratings to actually think about food.

I felt the need for ‘something’. At 11 o’clock last night. Felt an ice cream moment coming on. So I opened the tub of Caramel, vanilla whatever, that was in the freezer and started. I don’t believe in bowls where ice cream is concerned. Its just unnecessary washing up. And its restrictive. You put a dollop in the bowl, then you eat it. Whereas if you eat it straight from the container you get much more. Without the guilt of ‘seconds’. But it was lacking… something. So I went a’rummaging and found a packet of roasted, salted pistachio nuts. Wrestled a few of those fuckers out of their shells (without resorting to my hammer) and threw them in. And wow. Caramel, nut, sweet, salt, wow! I force-fed Mel and Rachie some and they agreed; best thing ‘everrrrrr’. But I went away before they could have more.

Pistachio ice cream is tasteless and always bright green. Not the best colour for ice cream. Even though I keep seeing ‘broccoli ice cream’ and ‘kale ice cream’ around, and they’re all green but they’re for people like Gwynnie who care what they consume, not pigs like me who go for taste only. And all the ‘salted caramel’ currently on offer (and it seems to be the ubiquitous flavour for bleedin’ everything) is not particularly salty. Whereas my creation is the perfect combination. Try some and think of me (as you’re sick from overdoing it, you glutton).

Tonight I’m going to mix some more favourites and see how they turn out. Rocky Road and Chicken Tikka Massala sounds good. Watermelon and pepperoni. Yummmm…

There’s a debate brewing after a Sunni imam in England said that women and men don’t need to be segregated in public and held a meeting in which they all sat together. So the ‘debate’ immediately deteriorated into several fatwas coming his way. Yeah, well why not, miss out the ‘discussion’ and move straight to ‘death threat’; do not pass ‘GO’, do not collect £200. Its all about interpretation. The whole fucking world is at war because of ‘interpretation’ of one thing or another. But in religion that’s always been the case. Though I’m a firm believer in segregated public toilets. Mainly because I don’t want to queue for half an hour to take a pee at a football match when any corner of any room will do just fine. Long as its not in my house.

Yet the move from women ‘staying in their houses and not displaying themselves’, as is written, to being a repressed and subjugated underclass who can be shot for not covering her entire face (as happened in Sudan the other day) is an interpretation of profound consequences.

In my synagogue men and women are separated for praying, but mainly because the women talk too much and it disturbs the men’s conversations.

So in the secular world everyone’s striving for equality and equal pay and a fair share for all. Yet step into the world of God, (any version of God) and it all turns to shit. Women bishops just about being allowed, segregation, different rules for the sexes. Because they’re all based on 5,000, 3,000 or 2,000 year-old rules. Which don’t really apply any longer. Or really shouldn’t.

Ban all religion, its the only way to equality and peace. And eat more ice cream.

Amen

Happy Sabbath day

A xxxx

Now here’s an interesting thing. Last year in England, Culture beat Sport, by 92 to 36. Yes almost three times as many millions of people visited our theatres, museums and music venues than attended mainstream sporting events. Its possible that many of the same people did both. Greedy people. Families of ticket touts. Its even possible that one person was counted at a million different events, just to up the votes. Like a Tower Hamlets mayoral election. However, there are many ways to look at these seemingly, er, appalling? errr exciting?? errrr catastrophic numbers and interpret them.

Some say that whilst our sportspeople have sadly let us down tragically of late, with World Cup debacles, cricket and rugby losses and a failure in the darts in Sheffield, we’ve always been totally world class and premiere league at ‘dull’. We might grow shitty footballers but our historians are second to none. So for those who find the thought of Lancashire versus Warwickshire unworthy of a visit for 3 whole days in a rainy period in June, there’s always the Cleethorpes and Wheeltappers’ Museum of Stuff, currently exhibiting their stunning collection of pre-Victorian horse brasses from Derbyshire. And how many people would look at thier tickets for Sunday’s match beween Chelsea and Manchester City and think; ‘naah, fuck dat, I’m gonna go see the Neanderthal cave paitings at the British Museum’? Many, I think. The lure of all that history and culture is simply too great to resist at times. (There are others among us who would opt for voluntary, unnecessary root canal dentistry without anaesthetic than ever go to Chelsea, but we are sick people. With fucked up teeth).

There is of course another way to look at the figures. 92 million visitors to culture, only 36 million to sports. Which I personally see as a total failure of this so-called ‘culture’ to actually become part of mainstream culture. Because football is on the tv. All the time, every moment of the weekend is filled with matches from all the divisions, with hilights, with French, Italian, even German football. So the real, true, dedicated sports fan never ever needs to get off his fat arse and leave the lounge. His only cultural concern is whether his wife bought him sufficient beer and whether his pizza(s) will arrive before the second half starts. That’s a true fan. That’s a man of the times. Or a woman, perhaps, but she’d be a bloody hefty one.

Whereas the failure of so-called ‘cutlural events’ is that you actually have to move somewhere to see them. Thus in reality there were 785,000,000 games of sport watched by, mainly, drunken slobs, with only the sad 36 million with broken tvs who actually needed to go to the grounds. 92 million attended museums and theatres because they’re not on the telly and there’s no choice. They don’t even have an ‘app’ that can show you Chagalle’s greatest, currently at the Iron Brew Gallery in Aberdeen.

Culture needs to step up. Needs to get gambling involved. Should be accessible from your ipad. Then it can compete with football. Until then, pass the Doritos and if you want to eat all the guacamole, buy some yerself!!

Happy friday

A xxxx

Do you remember, when you were very young and your mum took you to the Doctor’s to have inoculations and vaccinations, and when you turned up there were 27 little kids all sitting on laps awaiting their turn in the injection clinic, and one kid was screaming. Really screaming. The screams of horror, of panic; screams so loud and protracted that you’d think he was being tortured at Abu Graib? Being forced to listen to Cliff Richard’s greatest hits. Well that kid was me. It was so bad that when the nurse called to make the appointment she’d tell my mother: “the clinic is from 10 to 11.30, so bring Andrew in at 11.45 so he doesn’t upset the other children”. I got over the shame, but I’ve really got over my fear of the needle. Can’t watch them on tv. When they show smallpox vaccinations in villages in Africa, given to stoic little kids who barely blink, I’m behind the couch. When I took my kids for blood tests or anything vaguely involving needlework, my head swiveled so far away from the ‘action’ it took a week before the strained muscles in my neck eased.

This morning I went to have my yellow fever and hepatitis vaccinations for our Christmas trip. An early Christmas present; being stabbed in both arms. And I’m not happy about it. I still scream. I’ve just learned to do it internally. I said to Mel: let’s just go back to Cornwall at Christmas; you don’t need injections to go there, just statins for all the fish’n’chips and cream teas. Such a wimp. And as usual, its virtually painless. VIRTUALLY. That doesn’t mean its ok, but I survived. You have to laugh.

Unless you’re a woman in Turkey. Then you can’t laugh. Not in public anyway. Bulent Arinc, the deputy PM, has deemed it ‘inappropriate’ for women to laugh loudly in public. So presumably sniggering is ok, smirking acceptable, giggling just about fine, but laughing? What kind of country do you think this is? Women laughing in public?? Inexcusable. Might as well wear a sign saying ‘TOTAL FUCKING SLUT!!!’ Because happiness is not next to godliness, that’s cleanliness. And overt happiness is… is… somehow related to ‘immodesty’ in that parculiarly ‘honourish’ type mentality that certain cultures seem to promote, or at least accept.

I’m not in the best position to comment really, on what happens in Turkey. The nearest I’ve ever been is to Efes kebab shop on Great Titchfield Street. And a mighty fine place it is too. Filled with raucous women. And wonderful kebabs. But I grew up in the 60s and 70s when ‘equality’ and ‘freedom’ were the words of the day, along with ‘pass that joint this way’ and ‘whilst you’re burning your bra you might as well get rid of the rest of your clothing’. I also find religious doctrine repressive, though I do appreciate that some find it liberating. Mainly odd people, but who am I to judge? I scream at having a jab. But we’ve seen in so many countries that once you start imposing limits and constraints on ‘women’ (men can laugh all they like, can piss themselves laughing for all Bulent Arinc cares), its a short hop to the full niqab, to removing females from education, from public stonings for ‘adultery’, even, as in some places, for raped women.

So Turkey is hanging on to its ‘secular’ status by the thinnest of head-scarves. Watch this space.

Happy pain-free Thursday

A xxxx

The banking giant, Santander, have refused to open an account for a circus company, ‘on moral grounds’ because the troupe are a little risqué in their attire and a little ‘burlesque’ in their performances. But this is a circus. The girls dress for acrobatics. Its like making a judgment on runners in the Commonwealth games for wearing skimpy shorts and crop-tops. The Circus Uncertainty, as they’re known, are heavily involved in charity work. They visit kids in cancer wards dressed as the favourite cartoon character. Ahhhhhh. Whereas Santander make money. Take money. Steal money. Very aggressively, very successfully and very thoroughly. They even have my money. Which they lend to Greece and Spain and lose zillions, which they give out in toxic loans, whilst selling spurious insurances and protection vehicles which have been now deemed illegal. And they get bailed out by the government at massive cost to taxpayers. Yet some blond in a bikini and a feather boa is deemed immoral. Blondes in bikinis and feather boas should always be encouraged by institutions. And everybody else. Otherwise where would society be?

Our esteemed mayor of London has now stated that he wants my City to be pollution-free-ish. To which he is now proposing yet more punitive measures for drivers. Particularly drivers of diesels. Charge them a tenner to enter the City. On top of the tenner they already have to pay in congestion charge. Makes it an expensive business. Better off taking the tube. Unless you’re carrying 12 tons of merchandise for John Lewis, then its a bit more problematical. Yet just a few years ago everyone was encouraged to buy diesel cars. More efficient, more reliable, MORE ENVIRONMENT FRIENDLY. Suckers! They bought that one, now we’ll fucking show them. Even Mel’s car, a Fiat 500, sold on the promise of ‘no congestion charge’ will in fact be congestion charged from 2016. If its still in one piece. It has an engine smaller than the Magimix, emits rose-scented vapour and can cure certain illnesses (that’s what the advertising said), make you more alluring to women (of the tree-hugging, hemp-vest variety) but its too polluting for London.
Which is fine. But they shouldn’t keep shifting the goalposts after people have made a relatively significant expenditure specifically for the existing guidelines. Immoral Bastards.

The dating site OkCupid has 30 million lonely hearts all looking for a quick shag with a stranger. Or ‘love’, as they call it on the website. And for ‘a psychological experiment’ the site purposely mismatched applicants. O.M.G!!!!! So Douglas from Berkshire stated his ideal mate was bikini-clad blonde on stilts with a feather boa and ended up with a Priest called Henry from Reigate. They’re now very happy together and are considering a trip to Africa to steal an orphan together. Whereas Matilda from Basingstoke wanted ‘tall, dark, handsome, GSOH, non-smoker, sober intellectual’ and ended up with a Scotsman.
The site has been reprimanded by a stunning, mid-30s (she’s 57), bundle of fun who loves ciabatta, chianti and chess.

Happy immoral wednesday

A xxxx

I love a good book. Or a good ‘bookish download’ as is now the case as they arrive in my kindle 1.6 seconds after buying them from Amazon. As long as you turn the wifi on. Of course. What? You think I’m stupid?? Cos you can’t download on the tube. Don’t work. Trust me. Or trust a more stupid person.

And I just read a great book. By the master of all good book-writing people. Stephen King. Or ‘God’ as we call him. Though maybe ‘The Devil’ is more appropriate given his earlier offerings. Its called Mr Mercedes but I won’t tell you why or it will spoil… well it will spoil page 3. Maybe. But its not horror and its not vampires and its not telekinetic schoolgirls, rabid dogs, psychopathic book fans, killer cars, devils wrapped in clown costumes or even prisoner accountants escaping from prison (yes, He wrote Shawshank, but people can’t make the connection between that and Pet Semetary. Unaccountably). Mr Mercedes is a crime thriller. And it is thrilling and, er, criminal. Bad people. Good guys. Even a bit of luuurve. Just a bit. Not like 50 shades of grey, (like my beard), because if Mr King had written that it would have been a good book. Because he does write exceedingly good books. All of them. Mr Mercedes is not ‘brilliant’, just pretty damned fantastic. Which is as bad as his books get.

And then it finished. The way books do when you really don’t want them to. So I started a book by Robert Galbraith. Who? You know; Robert Galbraith. Tall blond bird. Looks great in a (very) dark room. Pays as much tax as she possibly can, then gets all holier than thou about it. Wrote all those Harry Potter books; Robert Galbraith.

Oh, JK Rowling? No, Robert Galbraith. Says so on the ‘cover’ (the cover on my kindle is black leather; whatever book I’m reading). For some reason, Ms Rowling has written 2 detective novels (so far, ya never know with ‘her’) under this nom de plume. She was fed up being a West Country billionaire that everyone expects to be riding round on a broomstick, so she morphed into a Scottish geezer called Bobby, probably has a beard, unruly shaggy hair, a kilt (no underwear) and a Celtic scarf. He beats his wife, drinks like a fish and goes to church every sunday. Sometimes all at the same time. Banned from driving for 3 years. Hasn’t told the social security about his new job in case it affects his benefits.

And its a good book, because JK Galbraith knows how to pen a tale. Well written. And yet… ‘Harry Potter and the Dog that did Calculus’ it ain’t. Those books all moved with a pace. Ne’er a dull moment. This book has many dullish moments. In fact its almost one big dull moment interspersed with a few good bits. Maybe being liberated from writing books for kids and their limited attention spans, she has no empathy with adults suffering the same condition. Four pages describing a hallway in a Mayfair house is just about 3 and a half pages too much. I’m 55% through this tome and it kind’a feels like it, yet I’m not inclined to abandon it. Mainly because I never abandon books. Only wives, children and relatives who don’t buy me presents. And pets. Though I’m not sure cooking them is actual ‘abandonment’ according to the law.

Ok, to work, to the tube, to read in a tunnel.

Happy Tuesday

Doreen (well why not?)
xxxx

Why is it that no other country in the world is questioned about its ‘right to exist’? Only Israel. Which became a country in 1948 when the British mandate pulled out and left the natives to fight it out. It is a country. There is no question. No more than there should be about Italy or Bosnia or Zimbabwe. By every criterion of what makes a ‘country’, Israel is one. And it therefore has a right to be left in peace. But its not. It is bombed daily by neighbours who seek its destruction. The neighbours who gave the world ‘ the suicide vest’ as its contribution to civilisation, as well as its repeated ‘gift’ to its host nation.

Backed by the Qataris, Hamas has weapons and the ability to build tunnels into Israel for the sole purpose of death and chaos. Any country would in such circumstances defend itself. Protect its people from a very very real threat. Yet Israel is denied that by the world’s press, in most cases. They use the phrase ‘disproportionate response’. As if armies in a war (and by any definition this is a war) would attack in a manner that doesn’t give them some advantage? As if the D-Day landing was ‘disproportionate’ because they sent in hundreds of thousands of soldiers to attack just a few nazis.

I don’t necessarily agree with everything Israel does, but I do agree with why they do it. And the destruction of the tunnels is of paramount importance. No-one wants to injure innocent civilians. Except Hamas, who exist for little else. And Hamas, for years, have chosen to locate their weapons, their missile launchers and their arms in hospitals, schools and UN buildings. Cynically defying the Israelis to choose between leaving these instruments of death alone or face the wrath of the world’s indignation.

No nation in a war has ever sent warnings for people to leave before bombardment.

I’m not an Israeli. I’m British. Born in London. As were my parents and their parents. Cockney’s all, born within the sound of the Bow Bells. Which unfortunately stopped ringing before they could welcome me into the world.

Yet there are those, all across Europe who, whilst declaring themselves ‘not anti-semitic’, blur the line conveniently between Israel and Jews. The banners at last weekend’s pro-Palestine rally declared: “Free Palestine: Hitler was right”. Nice. Hitler died before Israel was born, though he undoubtedly had a bit of a thing about jews. Similarly, across France, Germany and even here in England, there has been a massive increase in anti-semitic attacks under the ‘leave Gaza alone’ banner. As if the destruction of a synagogue in Manchester could have any effect on events in the Middle East. As if all jews are somehow responsible for events in Gaza, even those who, unlike me, are passionately opposed to it.

Politicians like David Ward have done their bit for this end too. And assholes like Joey Barton. As if by the subtle blurring of the line between Israel and Jewish, it can be open season for anti-semites.

As I walked to tennis this morning, in the sunshine, in my lovely leafy suburb, with my fairly blessed life, for the first time ever, after reading today’s papers, I wondered if that was the sort of complacency that German jews felt in 1935 in their comfortable, affluent, settled, respected environment.

Its enough to make anyone paranoid. And sadly, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve always been rather concerned about the welfare of crabs. In much the same way I worry that all grass seems to be green. Or that East Molesey cricket club lost a game on June 17. Or my shoes are a bit scuffed. It all falls in the ‘who gives a shit?’ category of too much important or interesting stuff going on to bother about.

Until now. Because apparently, the ‘proper’ way to cook crabs and lobsters, by immersing them still alive into their boiling cooking pot, is now being questioned by animal welfare organisations. Several interesting questions arise:

1. WHO THE FUCK ARE THESE PEOPLE???
2. HAVE THEY NOTHING ELSE TO THINK ABOUT???
3. WHO PAYS THEM??
4. IS IT ME?? In which case I am now officially refusing to pay any more tax until its spent on more important things. Like banks. Maybe these animal welfare people are all unemployed bankers with nothing to do and too much time?

An Italian chef (I won’t bother with his name; long and Italian; any of them will do) tells of how he is still ‘haunted’ by the screams of lobsters being immersed into their watery graves. Nob. Typical fucking homocentric Eye-talian. No, that’s not a gay thing, though in his case, bloody crying at a stupid lobster…
Its giving every action the assumption that its exactly the same as if humans did the same thing. So when ‘a doggy looks sad’ he really doesn’t. He looks like a fucking dog. Upon whom we’ve mistakenly applied the expression to look like sadness if it was on a human. Maybe it means the dog is hungry, horny, thirsty, upset about the Lib-Dems in government (homocentric joke), anything. But if that’s the look you’d see on a sad human then ‘the dog is sad’. Even if its happy as Larry. And Larry is a right homocentric.

So maybe lobsters scream when they’re happy. If its kind of the only noise you can make its rather hard to be that specific as to its ‘meaning’. We had the same problem with the girls in Essex where I grew up. But even if it is ‘a scream’, has this man never heard a woman orgasm? Has he never watched When Harry met Sally?? Maybe the only way a lobster can reach a total and pure climax is to be immersed into boiling water? And by changing that you’d be depriving crabs and lobsters of their ultimate thrill. It must be hard to masturbate when your ‘hands’ are razor sharp and made to chop things in half.

They’ve now invented ‘the Crustastun’, brilliant name for wonderful invention. You put your fresh lobster inside and its stunned by a few thousand volts of electricity. Ahhhh, that’s nice, lucky crabs. Then put into boiling water.

I think I’d rather be a crustacian in an Italian restaurant than a death row inmate in America. Where this week the ‘lethal injection’ took 1 hour and 47 minutes to kill the victim. He died of old age whilst waiting for the ‘lethal’ bit to happen. I’m quite opposed to capital punishment, but if you’re gonna do it JUST SHOOT THE FUCKER!

Happy sunny Saturday. Even for lingustines.

A xxxx