Andy's Glasses

Easyjet, the, errrr, well, someone’s favourite airline, probably, are going to use a drone to check their planes for fuselage damage. Brilliant thing. It hovers over, under and round the entire aircraft using cameras and sensors to check for cracks and bad things. They can detect holes of 1mm in the metal. And all in just a few hours as opposed to the 2 days it takes humans to check the plane over. Fantastic.

What a shame they can’t use robots and drones to replace all the Easyjet staff, streamline their awful operation, reduce the horrendous queues at check-in, maybe even make the coffee on the flights (that’ll be £8.25, Sir) which is awful. I’m no flight snob but I hate Easyjet and will only go to Gatwick if kidnapped and dumped there in the back of a van.

But technology is a wonderful thing. Even if I consistently fail to use most of it. They’re working on sensors that can work out when you’re stressed. As the anger builds, tiny sensors in your keyboard, mouse, phone or even steering wheel, detect it and… and… and…

Well what? What can it do? Administer an instant shot of valium? Punch you pre-emptively on the nose?? Activate your phone to shout out ‘Naah, ‘Arrry, don’ ‘it ‘im!!!’? Play the sound of waves lapping on a beach somewhere near Rochdale??

They haven’t thought that far. They’re just, for the time being, working out more ways of monitoring us. All of us. They already know where we are (gps in phones), where we go (Oyster card logs on the tube), what we buy (credit cards) and what we’re wearing every day (cc tv cameras everywhere), with whom we have sex (sex tapes on youtube), so now they will know what mood we’re in too. And send down one of Easyjet’s drones, which could be circling round above the streets, to administer some ‘executive relief’. Euuuuw. Although…

They want to make a car that changes colour with the mood. So as you get angry-to-the-point-of-road-rage (and what is the point of road rage?) your car will turn, what, red? What if its already red? No-one will know. If you’re really happy and peaceful (or stoned, same difference), it’ll go a really nice shade of aqua-green. If you’re pre-menstrual, it should go black. Very black. And fill with bars of chocolate (something Apple and Cadburys need to get together on). On the way to Spurs the car would be fabulously yellow and sunny, and on the way home it would be grey, dull and shattered. When you pull into the driveway after work your wife (or husband; sexist bastard!) will know your mood and be able to act accordingly. Either open the front door with a smile, or run out of the back door screaming.

Great idea.

Big Brother is not just watching you but sensing how you feel too. That should make you feel so secure your keyboard turns a lovely shade of puce.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

Manchester City are amazing. They play lovely football, score truckloads of wonderful goals, they entertain, they are winners, they are smooth, relaxed, creative, classy and elegant as a unit and they achieve top levels of success.

So why do we fucking hate them?

Its an interesting question. And even if its not interesting, even if its a pointless, dull or downright stupid question, I’m going to answer it all the same. I’m that kind of guy.

And ‘that kind of guy’ is anyone who loved football before Sky came along, brought in the Premiership and changed the fundamental value system in the game. From ‘football’ being the prime concern, that shifted to become ‘money’. Taking away ancient concepts like club loyalty, like decency, fairness and any degree of equality between the clubs.

“But you can’t buy success!!!!” they shout. Oh yes you bloody can.

Just look at Chelsea as a model. An average team on the very verge of bankruptcy when in steps Roman Abramovich with his ill-gotten Mafia-esque rubles and just starts buying the best players in the world. All of them. When poor men are under threat for their lives from a tyrannical government or business people they’ve screwed over, they run and hide. Rich men don’t. They get a load of guards and they buy a horrible football club to raise their own profile to the point where they feel untouchable by the men with the uranium-tipped umbrellas and sharp stilletoes (the knives, not the heels, though maybe both). Lo and behold, Chelsea win the league. Then they win it again, having waited over 60 years since their previous success. They win cups, they win everything including the biggest prize of all, the Champions League. Bringing them the glory they wanted and the money to make them even richer.

So along comes Sheikh Mansoor, a humble Emiratee. From Abu Dhabi. And he buys failing no-hope club Manchester City, injects a billion quid in players that Chelsea would otherwise have bought, and guess what? They start winning stuff they’d never before dreamed of. Turning football into a dick-measuring competition for the uber-rich playboys of the world.

Uefa being Uefa (ie toothless, hopeless, moronic and probably in the pay of the Chelseas and Man Citys) under pressure from the other clubs, bring in their pathetic ‘Financial Fair Play’ rules to try and limit clubs’ spending to a level vaguely related to their earnings. Vaguely because clubs are still allowed to make ‘losses’, which is the bit the owner just gives them at the end of the financial year to balance the books and reduce his personal tax bill. Except Sheikh Mansoor, who doesn’t pay tax. You don’t when you own the country.

And thus Manchester City exceed these Fair Play rules. In which losses are acceptable up to £37 million per year. After lots of creative accounting and shuffling into acceptable piles of lossage like infrastructure and youth training (which amounts to about 3 weeks of Yaya Toure’s salary, but who’s counting). In two years Man City’s losses total £150 million. Not counting the very very dubious ‘naming rights’ deal of the Etihad Stadium for an internationally never-before-heard-of, £350 million for 10 years. Coincidentally, Etihad Airlines is owned by Abu Dhabi, which is run by Sheikh Mansoor.

And if any of this smell a touch ratty, then you’re wrong and prejudicial, just because its Man City and you hate them. They are challenging in court Eufa’s punitive measures to their excesses.

Quel surprise.

Happy Wednesday, let’s get football back to black and white, where it was lovely, and standing up at matches, and bring back smallpox and scurvy and rationing while you’re there.

A xxxx

There’s a new website in the world. Ahhh, that’s exiting, a new website, only about 3 million of those come along each week, so its big news. But this one is different. Its a kind of dating site for dog owners and lovers. Not really ‘dating’ in the sense of sleeping with a dog (either literally or euphemistically), more a way of dog owners and dog lovers to ‘hook up’ so the latter may ‘borrow’ the owner’s dog for times. Thus the owners get a break (shouldn’t’a bought the fucking mutt in the first place then, should’ja???) and the borrowers get to play House with a dog for a day/weekend/week. The perfect site where dog-hating dog-owners meet dog lovers who are shy on commitment. Who then get a chance, for the term of the borrowing, to pick up all the dog turds they need to make them happy and fulfilled. Great idea.

So great I’m thinking of setting one up for children. borrow-my-little-bastard.com will do just that. It’ll give stressed out parents a welcome break from the incessant demands of caring for sprogs, whilst wannabe mums and dads can be parents on a part-time basis. I suppose I’d have to have some kind of scanning process, ensure suitability and shit like that, but generally it’d be just a weekend away, or a 3-week trip to Thailand, unencumbered, or a one-way ticket to Rio and make sure little Johnny has a good life; bye. This is such a wonderful idea that I’ve already been approached by sponsors who are keen to get this up and running. Mothercare and Toys-R-Us jumped right in, as did Max Clifford (though due to ‘unforeseen circumstances’ we may put that on hold), Gary Glitter, Father Joseph McCleary, Bishop Murphy and several MPs who asked to have their names withheld.

Whilst watching ‘American Guns’ the other day, there was an odd thing. Other than the programme itself. What would you imagine to be the demographic of the typical watcher of such tv? Rednecks from Tennessee? Truck drivers from Green Bay? Serial killers from Chicago? Big butch, bearded game huntin’, fishin’, shootin’ good ole boys from everywhere?? Yeah, so would I. Ok, and opticians from London.

So why, we wondered, was the first advert shown during the show for Tampax. Followed by L’Oreal hair products, tights, perfumes and all manner of girly paranphernalia? It made no sense. Did the advertising mavens who study such things and analyse them to a ridiculously scientific degree, get their demographics wrong? Its the only explanation. Unless… unless women are really into guns in a big way, or (as I’ve always suspected) are psycho killers at heart. Or that most gunmen are cross-dressing transexuals who like tampons.

Poor Liverpool. Poor, poor Liverpool. There’s always so much to cry about in Liverpool, as soon as I hear someone talking with a scouse accent these days I automatically reach for the tissues. As we say at Spurs: there’s always next season. And look how well that’s worked out for us.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Sometimes you have too much time on your hands. Bank holiday weekend, lovely sunny day, ahhhhhh.
So yesterday I played tennis; oh what a joy, then after lunch mowed the lawn, walked over to Kenwood to get ice creams (about an hour, round trip) but there were about 200 people there with kind’a the same idea, and the ice cream’s not that great, but its charged as if it is, so we came home and drove up to a fab ice cream place in North Finchley. Or, The Land Time Forgot. We got fantastic ice creams from Chix Chox, little Italian restaurant with the best ice cream machine in London, who’ve been there since the Romans invaded Britain in 374 AD, or 762 BC or whenever it was. In fact Chix Chox may be run by those very invaders, they are very old in there. We sat across the road where Costa have placed some chairs in the sunshine. To watch the world go by. And what a world it is. Filled with strange, exotic and very drunk peple (5 in the afternoon), weirdos, freaks, Poles and oddities. Not so much like being in another country (3 miles from home), more like being on another planet. So we returned to the genitility and peace of home. And I watched tv with Rachie. Something I seldom do during daylight hours.

And there’s was little on, after I saw Athletico Madrid lose their football match. So we watched a real fave of mine (even though I’ve only seen it about 3 times), American Guns. The place where ‘the right to bear arms’ is taken beyond any known extreme. The place where Charlton Heston is probably buried. This store, in Colorado, not only sells guns, but makes them, customises them, turns them into nuclear devices, whatever you would or could want in a gun they will oblige. They buy guns too. And in yesterday’s show the shop owner visited a guy to buy some of his ‘collection’. The guy, who didn’t appear particularly bright, could have been from North Finchley, was very rich. And opened a sealed vault of 3 rooms to show what was basically a gun shop of his own. Rows and rows, racks and racks, cabinet after cabinet filled with weaponry. An army would be proud of his collection, but may find it a little excessive in quantitiy. Richie (the good ole boy store owner) was interested in some machine guns. Like, fully automatic, proper, 30 shots a second killing machines. And this guy had dozens. Literally. Putin would have been envious.

Then a guy came into the store to get an ‘old family heirloom’ (probably means one of his grand-daddies used it to shoot up a school in 1937) converted into a ‘weapon for household protection’. And he knew what he wanted, how aggressive it had to be, how powerful, with a light on it (burglars come at night) and what colour he wanted it. And this guy was a pastor. A fucking priest. Who wants to flaunt the 5th (or maybe sixth or seventh, depending on biblical convention chosen) commandment and get hisself an ultimate killin’ machine. In Colorado no-one could see any irony is this at all. There again G-d herself (always politically correct, to a fault) did some flaunting with Sodom & Gomorrah, with the Red Sea closing and a zillion other ‘acts of God’ that resulted in mass murder of one kind or another. But this isn’t a biblical debate; THIS IS GUNSSSSSS. BIG FUCKING GUNS FIRING BIG FUCKING BULLETS AND LOTS OF ‘EM.

I caught the end of the amazing Real Madrid match in which they were losing at home until the 92nd minute when Ronaldo (who else?) scored yet another remarkable goal. But really remarkable.

I’m glad I’m Spanish; English football is shit, whereas ‘ours’ is wonderful and we’re all set for an incredible finale.

Happy Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

Why the fuck would anyone ever support a football team? It simply makes no sense whatsoever. Its a one-way deal; you give everything to the club and they give nothing back in return. Nothing. No joy, no happiness, no pleasure, nothing. In exchange for all that misery you just pay them a vast fortune each year to watch them, to buy their merchandise (simply essential, I could never get out of the bath without my Spurs dressing gown, nor drink out of anything but my Spurs mug, wear my Spurs cufflinks, eat my Spurs cakes and take my Spurs Ibuprofen in times of pain… other than match days, doesn’t help that much) and give them our hearts, souls (Chelsea fans excluded, obviously, they don’t have them), our love and devotion. Unconditionally and forever. You can divorce your wife, you can abandon your kids, but your football team is forever. See how far I’ve come to become this reconstructed new man iconic figure?

Take yesterday’s results. Who is happy and who is sad?

Spurs lost. To West Ham. Because we were just pure shit, and even then only 10 shitty players instead of 11 following the sending off. Misery. West Ham should have been happy because they actually won a match, but they weren’t, they’re all angry at their manager for having the cheek to keep them in the Premiership for another season in a dull and drab manner, when they’d rather be playing ‘beautiful’ football in the Championship.

Manchester City won the most important match of their season, but are probably miserable because they haven’t won the title already, and Everton are unhappy because they lost and have given up any chance of Champions League and the only way Man City won’t win the league is if hated rivals Liverpool win it.

Liverpool are miserable because they threw away their title chances last Sunday against Chelsea, who are doubly miserable because they’re still not going to win the league and they were humiliated on Wednesday night by the awesome Athletico Madrid. In an effort to make Chelsea happy, their (moronic, horrible, wanky) little manager has taken to slagging off all their best players in public, blaming them all for his managerial shortcomings. Tosser.

Here’s some teams with nothing to be happy with at all: Cardiff, Fulham, Norwich (though that may change if they beat Chelsea today or if the world turns into a giant cream cake with cherries on top; each equally likely to happen), Stoke, Newcastle (even though they finally won a match), Manchester United (the Giggs effect lasted as long as a single dose of viagra) and Doncaster (who were relegated to division 1 at the end of a gruelling afternoon that saw Birmingham cling on).

Me mate Dave might be happy because QPR are in the playoffs, but so are 3 other teams and only one will win and get the right to have a horrible, disastrous, struggling season in the top flight.

So me, football, we’re finished. Over. Done and fucking dusted. Hate the game, hate the players, hate the managers, hate the fans. Its ice-dancing for me from now on. That and darts. Or darts on ice, once I’ve invented it and sorted out the inevitable dangers.

Happy fucking Sunday

A xxxx

Its that old ‘judging books by covers’ thing all over again. Rolph Harris is arrested for alleged crimes and I thought, ‘no way’, not Rolph, he’s a nice guy who would never abuse his didgereedoo, nor anyone else’s. His only real crime was ‘Two Little Boys’ and if you could be punished for awful songs then Abba would be serving life sentences and Gary Glitter would have been hanged. Which he should be anyway, but that’s for other crimes. See how complicated the law is?

But Max Clifford. The moment his name was mentioned along with ‘sex offences’ I though ‘good’ and ‘he’s guilty as fuck’. Even though that’s probably the most inappropriately appropriate way of expressing myself. See how complicated English language is?

Max Clifford is a fucking pig. I think that makes my feelings pretty well known. When he was accused I ‘knew’ he was guilty. When he was in court he acted like an arrogant piece of shit, and now he’s been sentenced for 8 years (though if he’s only going to serve 4 of them why not just call it ‘4 years’?) there is no-one that has any sympathy for him. Because he’s a horrible man who has consistently ‘served’ his clients, and himself, with a complete lack of any sympathy or empathy for those on the other end of his ‘work’. So he annihilates characters, he assassinates reputations, he ruins marriages, careers and even footballers. Without a thought nor a care other than how much shit he can spread and how much money his ‘kiss’n’tells’ can produce for him and his accomplices. He is bottom-feeding scum and now, a rapist and sex offender. Which oddly, raises his standing as a human from its former position. May he rot in jail.

The royal princes, not little Georgy Porgy, but Harry and Wills, are in Memphis Tennessee for the weekend. I thought, ahhh, must be an international convention of in-bred people; mid-westerners, European royals, people from Norfolk, all gathered together to compare extra toes and hare-lips. But no, the princes’ mate is marrying a Southern Belle. Elizabeth Wilson is just that, gorgeous babe. And an heiress too, to a billion dollar inheritance (once she kills off a few pesky relatives and siblings). Oddly though, for a fortune made in The South, this one is NOT made from moonshine or even the slave trade. That’s a shock. Her grand-daddy invented the Holiday Inn. Wow. Without him hotels would never have evolved into the crammage of as many tiny box-like rooms as you can squeeze into one small space. We’d have to suffer proper rooms and hallways and stuff; would be awful.

Like at the Dorchester. One of London’s finest hotels. No little boxes there, no sirree. Fucking great suites that sleep the Sheikh of wherever, most of his wives, half his children and several servants, eunuchs and still room for a camel or two. Its a wonderful hotel, with London’s biggest ballroom, in case you wondered. But all is not well in that part of Park Lane. Because the Dorchester is part of a group owned by the Sultan of Brunei. One of the world’s richest moustaches. Who has now changed the law in his native Brunei imposing full sharia rules. Including stoning to death of homosexuals, outlawing the preaching of any religion other than Islam, flogging women who have abortions (but it doesn’t say for how much), chopping off hands and feet for pretty much anything, the usual shtick. So gay people are boycotting the Dorchester. Quite rightly so. And for what its worth, I’m going to boycott it too. Well, I won’t be staying there this weekend at all. That’ll show that poxy Sultan of Brunei, hit him right where it hurts; in his moustache.

Its not a perfect world, just a rather nice sunny one today,

Happy saturday

A xxxx

Poor Nigel Farage was ‘egged’ yesterday in Nottingham. Poor man had a life and death experience with a chicken embryo and the embryo won as Nigel, having just got out of his car, jumped straight back in and was driven off. To the pub. Of course to the pub. Where else does he ever go? Four pints and half a pack of fags later he was restored to the cool, confident, slightly pissed, fag-smelling Nigel we all love.

Though this is ‘new Nigel’, this is ‘Nigel the bottler’. Who decided for numerous reasons, all of them good, viable, credible and solid, that he would NOT stand for the parliamentary seat of Newark, so recently vacated by Patrick Mercer, tory scumbag, slimeball and racist. The man who took money for asking questions in parliament. Then ‘manned up’ and ‘apologised’ and told of his ‘shame’ and ‘disgrace’ when resigning as a MP. One has to wonder if he’d have been quite so manly if he hadn’t been caught.

So Nigel is presented with his golden opportunity; a parliamentary seat to contest. The chance for his tin-pot party to actually have a member of parliament. Ahhh, but it will detract from UKIP’s high expectations in the European elections. And remember, European seats are really important for the future funding of their political party by fleecing money out of the endless cash-cow that is ‘Brussels expense accounts’, even though its against the rules.

But the real reason Nigel ‘bottled it’ and decided not to stand in Newark is because he couldn’t win. And Nigel, though many things to many men (most of them offensive or ignorant or just plain drunk) is not stupid. So he’d rather leave fighting the parliamentary seat to one of his colleagues in the party.

And that’s where the problem lies.

We live in the age of the sound byte. We adore ‘personalities’ and ‘celebrities’ and ‘characters’. And UKIP possess just one of those. Just one. Nigel. How many other UKIP members can you name? Errrrr, well there’s errrrr… that bloke who blamed the floods on God’s wrath and punishment for making gay marriage legal. There’s the one- sorry, the seven, who used to be part of the BNP, there’s that woman who no-one listens to and is just a puppet so they look more like a normal political party, or there’s that bloke with the swastika tattooed on his face, you know, the one who’s not a racist but supports West Ham anyway.

I can’t name one other UKIP member. So for most of the country, UKIP IS Nigel Farage. And if he doesn’t stand for parliamentary seats, then his sorry band of Daily Mail devotees won’t win seats. Which is good news for the rest of us. Good news for those who aren’t xenophobic, misogynistic, racist, chauvinist or just pissed. And for egg-throwers in general.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Sex tapes: wonderful memory of private and beautiful deeply personal intimacy shared? or a porn film with extra beer belly and cellulite that only lasts 2 minutes, 14 seconds and contains the essential words “oh bollocks, Harry, I got pins’n’needles in me frikking foot again”??

Social philosophers may ponder the reasons, the purpose and effects of ‘the sex tape’ for generations. And I can see the point, in a way, that it is a memory, a vanity, something to have. And as kids today are probably on their phones whilst having sex anyway, as they are whilst doing everything else in life, its only a flick away to tape the event. For posterity.

Back in the day we didn’t have phones with video facility; phones were tied to a wall in a room ten minutes walk away, only for those fortunate enough to have them. So the ‘selfie’ then involved arranging a portrait artist to come for several sittings. Making sex tapes a bit difficult. Especially if you suffered from premature illustration.

Now its a different kettle of fish-eyes lenses. Everyone has ‘the facility’, so when you find yourself with Paris Hilton on her knees in front of you (don’t you just hate it when that happens? all the bloody time…) let the cameras roll. So you can enjoy it together in that close and erotic way, for the five minutes the relationship is destined to last, then you can circulate it on YouPube for everyone else to see and cause shame and humiliation to all concerned.

Some guy published his ‘sex-tapes’ of an ex. And her brother, who was his flat mate (I hope you’re following this; do try to keep up), complained to him. So the guy stabbed him, then fired a harpoon gun in his neck. Guess he didn’t like to argue. Ok, the guy had psychological issues. No shit. He worked with Goldman Sacks and they almost insist upon it, or instil it as part of the basic training. And he (the murderer) was an actuary. So he could easily work out the probability of the harpoon causing damage. Errrr, 95% chance of puncturing, exit velocity of 261mph, throat versus steel… hmmm. The answer is 7!!!! I never said he was a good actuary.

I wonder if Harry and Cressida have sex tapes. They’ve never shown them to me. Because now they’ve split up and the world is in tatters. I’m organising a protest march and demonstration of our collective upset that another royal wedding won’t be forthcoming any time soon, giving us all a day off work. Royal Bummer.

I’ll miss Cressie. Which one was she? But look forward to seeing the film.

Ok, I’m off to bed; where’s my camera? And a director.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

I had an interesting conversation with Aussie Johnno last year as we traipsed round Ayers Rock together, all 12k of it, in about 45 degree heat. Maybe it was the excessive temperature doing funny things to his brain. But he always likes to be contrary, and always believes that there’s a solution to every problem, even if there isn’t really a problem in the first place. So his idea was that football fans should be made to support different teams every year. Forced to. By law. So the Bastard Squad come round, take away your Spurs season tickets and replace them with ones for Wigan. Or Stenhousemuir. Orient. Randomly. What a great idea!!!! Fans would no longer need to fight or abuse one another, because next year YOU might be a ‘Yid’ or a ‘Gooner Scumbag’ (heaven forbid) or even have your heart and soul surgically removed (without anaesthetic) and support Chelsea.

I never said he was bright. Just contrary. And I pointed out some obvious flaws to his otherwise logical (???) suggestion. Like what do I do with the full-face cockerel I have tattooed across my boatrace? What if I have to go and watch Shrewsbury Town and my kids get stuck with Burnley?? The family unit as it is in England would be broken beyond repair. And what about loyalty? And the feeling of continuity and fraternity you feel, deeply, when you go to see your team? Just before the riots start or you get food poisoning from a dodgy hot-dog??

Nick Hornby describes, in the wonderful Fever Pitch, how he became an Arsenal fan. Because it was the first game his father took him to. Even though they were shit. (Plus ca change). I have no such eureka moment in my memory. No light shone, no beacon lit, no I’VE SEEN THE LIGHT… AND ITS LILLYWHITE!!!! Nothing like that. I just don’t have any memories of not being a Spurs fan. Its older than my memory.

So I can only be fickle and disloyal in European football, because Spurs are seldom playing in that. And for years I courted Barcelona. Because they were (collectively, I hasten to add) beautiful. And joyful, and such a pleasure to watch. I even, for a while, threw my hat in with Bayern Munich (no, it was not a steel helmet with a swastika on the side), because we’d needed them to beat Chelsea that year, (though they didn’t) and I learned that they were a team who had once defied Hitler, bless ’em. And even though the team sheet read like the guard list from Auschwitz, they were cool and classy.

Yet now I’m just drawn to Real Madrid. With whom I’ve been in and out of love for years. I loved the Zidane/Figo years; hated the early Ronaldo days, but now I find them simply irresistible. Last night, as they destroyed Bayern, I was playing bridge, in a manner that Zizou would have admired, though I stopped short of head-butting my partner even when she went one down in a simple 4 spades. I just saw about 5 minutes of the match. The third goal. A thing of wonder and beauty. And power, pace and consummate skill.

But I’m a Spurs fan and therefore must be grateful for what we have. Which is… errrr… hmmmm… errrrr…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I don’t do Breakfast tv. Just wouldn’t ever think to turn on the tv in the morning. Mornings are for lying inert in bed trying to force myself to get to the shower. They’re for quiet. Peace. Gentle. Introspection. Thinking about how best not to get out of bed. They’re not for talking, not for being given lists of things that need doing over the next 7 months (Melissssssa!!!!), not for jabbering, chattering, whistling, singing, nuffink. As little as possible is what mornings are all about. And turning on the tv just doesn’t even cross my mind.

Unless there’s a tube strike. And then, (are you reading this: tv company people) I NEED INFORMATION. I want to know how or if tubes are running, how often, which lines, station closures, I need details. Everyone has been banging on for days about how awful this strike is, how massive, how devastating, oh the poor people of London, blah, blah, blah. Then the day comes and these same people don’t even consider that it may be of benefit to actually give these semi-stranded travellers the information we all need to best plan our contingency moves.

Breakfast tv is not about making plans. Its not about information. Not about anything useful. Its about the presenters. Chatting, giggling, flirting, anything but imparting any useful information. Its as rewarding as sex-above-the-waist-only. It is chewing gum, when you’re hungry. Its a photo of a glass of water to a man in the desert. Its like watching Spurs; nothing useful happens.

I’m really not interested in the ‘chemistry’ between Susanna Reid and some tosser with floppy hair. If I want chemistry I’ll go to the lab. Sex may sell, but there’s none on offer on Breakfast tv. At any price. Better off subscribing to the porn channel. Probably get more tube information there too.

I did learn that a teacher was killed by a student. In Leeds. Lucky it wasn’t Louisianna or it would have been 73 kids and teachers laid waste by machine guns. One teacher, one kid with a knife. We don’t do school killers properly here. Like we don’t do travel news.

And I had read that the aforementioned Susanna Reid was ‘poached’ from the BBC over to ITV because of her stunning personality and long legs, and because she came second in celebrity come dancing last year. That was her prize. A move to ITV to flirt with floppy-haired tosser boy, its what it says in her job description. I learned this because people were actually complaining that seating those wonderful legs behind a desk is a waste of her weekly salary; she should be on view. Well, just forget the ‘news’ bit then and you can employ some minimum wage leggy Lituanian ‘models’ to just stand there in their underwear for 3 hours. In fact, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll suggest it to the producers.

Ok, off to (not) get the tube.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx