Andy's Glasses

I love a bit of art, a nice pik-cher, a paintin’, maybe a skulp-cha, just love it.

Yet I managed to avoid all of Vienna’s almost countless galleries until our 11th ‘hour’, immediately prior to take-off, before giving in and actually entering an art museum. The one in the picture. Aptly named: The Museum for Modern Kun- well, whatever, you can speak German as well as I can (I sincerely hope). All the museums are wonderful buildings, in fact spectacular. But going inside?

This Museum of Modern Art, momak, had and exhibition of modernism. Ahhhh, modernism. Great. So we paid our Euros and in we went, into that building that was so splendid it was made of volcanic lava and looked like a massive, black shoe-box.

Modernism started in the late 1800s and there was Picasso and Maigritte and numerous other luminaries of the art world, some impressionists, some cubists, a few surrealists, dadaists and all was well and dandy. Until Modernism decided that it was ‘modern’ in repsonse to the changes in the world, led by Darwin and Freud, and thus became a philosophy rather than a mere art-form, and this opened up the doors to all kinds of ‘installations’, concepts, and general ‘stuff’ that was so revolutionary, so different, so ‘fucking out-there’ that it would not immediately be considered, by the moronic masses, as ‘art’.

Piles of metal, a couple of mirrors, some cardboard boxes, three tv screens showing disconnected images over and over again. This all became ‘modernist art’ and is really good. No, it is, really good art. Apparently.

Call me a philistine if you will, but an entire wall covered in pages with random numbers printed on them is not something you would want to look at in a museum. In an accountant’s office maybe, but not an art gallery.

Yet the exhibition made it much easier to leave Vienna and fly home. Arriving back at Heathrow just in time to hear the last 15 minutes of the Chelsea game on the radio coming home. European Cup quarter-final. And Chelsea did what was required. Paris St Germain are gone, Spurs never started, Viennese play football but in powdered wigs and long red coats whilst holding violins, and Chelsea are through. The Morinho effect.

Art is life. And life is football. It all comes around. Which was why my main thoughts whilst wondering round the momak were of Spurs beating Sunderland 5-1, Arsenal losing 3-0 at Everton and how different things have different meanings to different people.

Have a very post-modernist Wednesday

A xxxx

I think Ultravox got it spot on when they wrote the words: “all Viennese are bastards” in their classic song. Possibly their only song of any merit. Ahhhhhhh, Vienna.

Vienna is an exceptionally beautiful city. Amazing buildings, truly wonderful, incredible churches, more sculptures than… than… than somewhere else that has shit-loads of sculptures… maybe Florence… possibly Rome… even Paris. And lots more than Elland Road which just has one. Billie Bremner. Who, oddly, is not represented here in Austria at all, anywhere.

The architecture is simply breathtaking and every building is built with rows upon rows of statues, all different, all representing different aspects of Austrian culture. Which would seem to have been, historically: stabbing people with swords, wearing funny hats, riding horses to war, invading anywhere that you already don’t own, slaughtering infidels, being a soldier, standing on top of someone you’ve just defeated and playing a violin. Oddly, the most significant parts of contemporary Viennese culture are not represented at all. They are, sitting outside for 3 hours drinking coffee and eating cake, and being really really hauty and aloof.

I think the reason for this shortcoming is a practical one, that its very difficult to get ‘whipped cream’ in bronze or granite.

Anyway, me, Mel, Vienna.

Today, as you can see by the picture, has been simply gorgeous. Cloudless, warm, wonderful. We walked 57 miles. We even took a tram (really ‘going native’) up to a quaint little town in the Austrian Woods. Most affluent place I’ve ever seen. Great coffee. Then back to the city to walk more and just enjoy the moment.

The Viennese are smart. I don’t mean clever; that I wouldn’t know as they don’t talk to you. I mean, smart, sharply dressed, clean, fastidious, immaculate. They’re like Germans with attitude. Which is quite a statement. But they’re not Germans. And that’s perhaps the problem. After the last war the Germans were forced to integrate with other nationalities, accept immigrants, open their borders and basically, become more worldly. Austrians didn’t. They started the First World War then sat back and let Germany lose it for them. So the next war was started by that famous little Austrian with the funny moustache, you remember… whossisname. And he was trouble, so again, they sent him to Germany who once more lost the war started by an Austrian.
So Austria was never forced by the international community to make reparations, to integrate, to accept anyone. Other than more Austrians. Leaving them alone to become ever more xenophobic and compose some lovely music. And eat cake with whipped cream.

Surprisingly though, Viennese are not collectively obese. As they really should be because their diet is terrible and they eat cakes all day long, and most of the night. Yet they remain slim so can dress more smartly than big fat slobs. Which enables them to remain the snootiest people in Europe. And with Paris just up the road, that’s no mean feat.

But the city is magnificent and I can almost forgive the nation that was responsible for The Sound of Music.

Happy Monday

A(uf wiedersein) xxxx

…is a term used to describe those who have 3 or less ‘apps’ on a phone or appliance they’ve had for more than 6 minutes.
If a success in personal life is measured by Facebook ‘friends’ then surely the measure of cleverness, popularity or in fact penis length (especially for women) is the number of apps present on one’s digital interface.

I have one app on my phone. There are some others that were there when I acquired it, but for me, I have just the one. And I realise that I’m missing out on life, the universe and everything in this respect. I’ll never know where my nearest kung fu accessory store is located relative to my current, gps authenticated position. I’ll never watch Sky Sports news when I’m on the bus. And I’ll never bleep my bar code in someone’s face. So much lost. There ya go.

From our bank, to keep us ‘happy’ we get all manner of what can loosely be described as either ‘shit’ or alternatively, ‘added benefits’. One of which is called Airport Angels. Virtually every airport has an unspecified lounge that is for plebs who can’t get into the Swissair First Class Lounge, or the BA Fascists Only, or Lufthansa Business Class Uber Alles. And they’re neat and utilitarian and, for us, free.

So we pitched up at Heathrow at the ungodly fucking hour of about 6 o’clock this morning, and I needed coffee like a drowning man needs oxygen, like a fish needs water, like Spurs need a striker, and I was going to want to eat something to line my stomach before risking BA’s either super-frozen or microwaved within an inch of its life, offering. Ahhhhhh, Airport Angels; brilliant.

Excpet we’d forgotten to bring our little credit card thingys. Shit. Then Mel, of all people, (ok, there was only the 2 of us as we didn’t include the taxi driver in the conversation) suggested that we had in fact once downloaded the ‘app’. Holy. Shit. An app.

With no disrespect to Mel (as if), for her to think of something of a technical, on-line nature is like your cat washing the car. Its like North Korea unilaterally disarming. Its like Arsene Wenger applauding a refereeing decision or holding up a trophy.

So, duly ‘apped up’ we went to the lounge, ate croissants, drank buckets of coffee, loaded up with fruit and saved the £47 it would have cost in Starbucks.

Several hours later and we’re here in Vienna. And we’ve already had strudel. Calories just don’t count when your away, thankfully.

Happy sunday; gooten whatever

A xxxx

Spurs hope to have their new stadium complete by the 2016/17 season. I hope so. I love that area of Tottenham, always have. Its dirty, sleazy, impoverished, crime-ridden, ganged-up, riot-central, policeman-killing wonderful. Ok, I wouldn’t want to live there. Certainly wouldn’t eat a meal there (fish’n’chips kebabs only) and would never get out the car there after dark. But on match days… ahhhh, on match days, its just wonderful. And the day they finally get round to gentrifying it and bringing in the yuppies and they finally open a Starbucks there will be something of a tragedy.

But the stadium is needed and we want it right there. Where its always been. Because we’re Tottenham Hotspur. Not Olympic Park Hotspur, nor Share-of-Wembley Hotspur, nor Milton-fucking-Keynes Hotspur. The sensible thing would be to share a stadium with Arsenal. Like the 2 Milan teams do. But it simply couldn’t happen. Mustn’t happen. What’s a half a billion quid between enemies?

They now reckon that, dispite all the promise of a ‘seamless transfer’ of the old to the new, there’s now talk that the preceding season Spurs may have to turn nomadic for their home games. Something that’s never happened before and that will please the season ticket holders no end.

Some games, big games, Arsenal, Manchester United, Chelsea, may be played at Wembley or in the Olympic Park. Lesser games, LIverpool, Everton, Manchester City, will possibly be at stadiummk. Which is the daft and unpronouncable name of Milton Keynes football ground. And really shit games, Stoke, Sunderland, West Ham (assuming all are in the Premiership then) will be on Hackney Marshes or in the park with sweat shirts for goalposts.

Interesting.

Today is the Grand National. That’s where a bunch of horses run round a track, most of the time without jockeys, and any horse that manages to complete the circuit alive wins a carrot and the punters all take out mortgages on their homes to bet on this ‘great and historical event’. Which is so brutal, barbaric and cruel that they had to cut half the jumps down, make the ditches shallower and ban the riders from using swords. The National is like ‘Gladiator’ for horses.

But its not just about killing horses, there’s a million ways to do that. The Grand National is about getting any fairly fit bird who lives within 50 miles of Liverpool (itself not an easy task), paint them orange, apply half a pound of slap to each face, spray on a skin-tight dress, make them drink champagne whilst wearing ridiculously high heels (counts as ‘multi-taksing’ up there) and get them all screaming at the horses. As if those poor beasts aren’t frightened enough already. The horses, I mean.

My money’s on Kelly McVicar to win the ‘tits out’ competition. Not sure about any horses. Unimportant.

Happy sports day

A xxxx

This weekend, Sunday morning to be precise, we’re off for a few days in Vienna. Mel’s birthday ‘surprise’ is well and truly out of the bag as the combined forces of British Airways, American Express and Mel’s almost obsessive need to ‘prepare her packing’ even for a 3-day, carry-on trip spilled all those beans. Which is fine. Its still a great thing to do and sorts out a birthday present. For someone ‘who has everything’. As most people in the Western World do. Ok, she doesn’t have a Lamborghini, nor a diamond-encrusted solid gold collar for the pet tiger she also doesn’t have, but I mean ‘within limits’. Because buying presents is always difficult. Which is why the expression ‘its the thought that counts’ came about. To excuse the giving of really awful presents, really dull offerings. The full expression is: ‘its the thought that counts and I obviously couldn’t think of anything decent’.

But if Mel ‘has everything’, then what present would you give to the Queen? She has her own Kingdom, so a box of Black Magic seems a bit lame by comparison. But yesterday Her Maj and Prince Phillip were in Rome so they popped round to the Pope’s for a cuppa tea. Fortunately he was in when they called, just hanging out a wash. She couldn’t exactly go round empty-handed so they took him a few groceries. And in return he gave Our Liz a photocopy of some old document and a little cross thing for little Prince George. A silver one to match the spoon in the wee baby’s mouth.

This was a meeting between the two leaders of Christianity. The Pope is head of the Catholics and the Queen is the chief executive of the Church of England. This was a meeting of the Bill Gates and Mark Zukerberg of the spiritual world. Big time. Old timers.
And in the relationship between Queen and Pope; who wears the trousers?

Its hard to give a gift to the Pope. Mainly because he’s pledged poverty and humility and a disociation from worldly materialism. But also because he lives in the complete luxury of a Saudi sheikh in the world’s most opulent palace surrounded by the most treasured artwork in the entire planet and ‘guarded’ (must be some kind of euphemism) by a bunch of pretty Swiss boys in fancy dress. Maybe he’s an American to have so little sense of the irony involved there?

It was a great meeting. They didn’t discuss the Falklands. Nor much else I’d imagine as he doesn’t speak much English and the Queen’s Spanish is a bit rusty. Like me she can probably order a beer in that language, maybe a burrito, but not much else.

They’ve found water in the solar system. No, not in Waitrose next to the wines and spirits, but on one of the moons of Saturn. And water, as we all know, is ‘the stuff of life’. Where there’s H2O there might, just might, be life. Though not necessarily as we know it, Jim.

This water is on a tiny little moon with a surface temperature of -180 degrees. Which is what we call ‘a bit chilly’. And water should be ice. Ahhh, but this water is 24 miles below the moon’s surface. Oh. Would be very interesting to se what ‘life’ could possibly evolve down there. I’m thinking animals with drills. Boring tools, or those capable of designing a very fast elevator. Can you even get a mobile phone signal down there when I struggle in my own kitchen? And what is life without an iphone?

Happy friday

A xxxx

Sunday nights is bath night in our house.

We bring in the zinc bathtub from the outhouse, put it on the kitchen floor and boil pans of water for a while. Being the man I bath first. Then the water gets used by everyone else in strict order of age, favours given, debts owed, promises made, until everyone’s clean. Eeeeuuuuw.

But Sunday night is in fact the night I take a bath. Only on Sundays. The rest of the week I shower. Fast, frequently and often. Because I’m a man and we don’t generally do ‘lying in our own slime’ when a shower is so much more efficient and the acoustics are better for singing. So I shower morning and night, every day, mainly because I’m a bit obsessive, but also because I’m a sweaty, greasy git.

Sunday’s its the luxury. Bath just 3 degrees off boiling temperature, me, a kindle (best not drop that really, Mel did once ‘just to test it’; yep, definitely failed that test), brilliant. Simmer for 30 minutes or until red and wrinkly all over. Drain and place in a soft white towel…

But washing can be a problem.

Whatever happened to soap? Remember soap? Well we don’t got none.

In the shower I have shower gel and even, if I’m feeling decadent, shampoo. But by the bath we have Boots the fucking chemist. Shelves and shelves of part-specific cleansers, scrubs, exfoliators, scourers, rejuvenators and more herbs than we have in the kitchen.

How is a facial cleanser different from a facial scrub? Oh, that one’s got ground up concrete in it, that must be the scrub. Well, apricot stones, concrete, all feels the same when you try to wash your goolies with it. I found another, less brutal, less gritty wash, that seemed to work fine. Then found it was made by ‘Femfresh’, for those intimate parts. Well, just because I’m a man doesn’t preclude intimate parts, does it? Like I don’t have feelings either?? I certainly felt that apricot grit-wash on me bollocks, that’s for sure.

It would appear that I’ve found a gender difference even more profound than the ability to park a car, throw a ball (without looking girly) or growing a beard (that last one doesn’t apply in Southern Europe). The women in my house use a different cleaner for every single part of their anatomy. Arm wash, leg soap, facial cleanser, necky foam, chest, er, stuff, naughty bits ‘intimate Femfresh’, toe wipers, foot scrub, finger mousse, wrist shampoo…

And, of course, a moisturiser for every corresponding bit. Well, you wouldn’t want to use hand cream on your legs, would you??? Perish the thought.

Gimme a break. And a bar of bleedin’ soap, will ya? Or I’ll just jump in the river in my clothes, like a cowboy. Yee hah.

Happy Thursday

A xxx

Freedom of speech is an ulitmate ideal. A cornerstone of true democracy. The benchmark by which nations are judged.
And the only thing standing between me and a prison cell.

England allows free speech, in virutally every circimstance, unless that speech is inflammatory or inciting to violence or other crimes.
America has free speech in its constitution. Most European countries allow such a liberty. North Korea doesn’t. There you don’t even get to choose your own haircut any longer, the President does it for you. Though in exchange for Kim Jung Un telling barbers to restrict the number of different hairstyles allowed, the North Koreans get plenty of other rights.

They get the right to be impoverished. The right to do exactly as their trumped up little shit tells them to do whenever he tells them to do it. They get the right to be run by an insane and ugly little tyrant who controls their atomic weapons and tests his regular missiles and artillery on his neighbours.

Russia does freedom of speech along with the corresponding freedom to die/disappear/end up in Siberian gulag.

So what about limits? There have to be limits. We allow monster raving loonies to stand for Parliament. And long may they waste their deposit money in doing so. We allow football managers to posture, lie, make excuses and wind each other up, but only those very few who can speak a little English. And right at the edge of our tolerance we even allow UKIP to spout their right wing xenophibic rubbish.

Yet now, the MP who chairs the Commons Science and Technology Committee, one Andrew Miller, has said that climate change sceptics should not be given air time to spout their views. Thus the BBC are wrong to interview them without some kind of ‘nutter alert!!!!!!’ before they speak. Just something subtle like: “WARNING; THIS PERSON IS AN ARSEHOLE WHO KNOWS NOT WHAT HE SAYS”. And they shouldn’t be devoting so much time to the dissenting few.
Well, Andrew Miller, I think we also need a ‘tosser alert’ whenever you speak.

The climate is changing, there is no denying that; it is a scientific fact, according to statistics, which never lie. Unless they do. But the question of to what extent adjusting ‘man’s’ evil ways will effect this phenomenon is indeed open to debate. Vast debate. Much like Darwin’s theory of evolution was denied as so much insanity by the church and the then Parliamentarians. Much like Galileo being imprisoned for suggesting that the world was round in the face of populist thought. So now those who disagree with ‘the consensus on climate change’ are to be ridiculed, pilloried, banned from speaking by this new, Labourite Joseph Stalin.

The dinosaurs didn’t hold a debate on their protracted and sustained effect on mammals. They just ate them. That was called ‘evolution’. No-one suggested they change their diet from their 9-a-day bison habit to something more sustainable. No-one told them to drive round in a Toyota fucking Prius. They were dinosaurs. For 400 million years they just did. Who was gonna argue?

Well we’re modern, we’re post-technical, we’re advanced. Phah. But we still exhale carbon dioxide (you should hold your breath you selfish, planet-killing bastard!!!), we fart methane, we fly on planes, we drive cars. We cut down trees so Ikea have something to flat-pack. We live. But putting up 7 thousand wind farms in Trafalgar Square is not going to make one bit of difference to anything.

Flat earth? You bet.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

The world is just so full of contradictions. Replace the word ‘contradictions’ with ‘shit’ and you lose precious little meaning.

I just read that the ‘5-a-day’ mantra, the rule which has dictated my fruit and vegetable intake for most of my adult life, is being upgraded. Or downgraded. Or quantatively eased. And now should be 7-a-day. I’m just not sure I can remember that. Or eat any more fucking cabbage. If it was 7 hamburgers a day that would be a different matter. Mainly because you’d just die of obesity/heart disease by the time you’re like 12.

And yet half the people who write about such things have been telling us recently that fruit is the real killer because it contains… SUGAR!!!! The world’s most evil substance; natural, God-given, sugar. So presumably that has now been relegated to a lesser category of evil than the need to increase fruit and vegetable intake. For this week at least.

And did you know the world has climate problems? They kept that quiet. (If only).

I’ll tell you what the problem is; my car was spotlessly clean on Sunday and by yesterday morning was covered in shit. Well, not actually ‘shit’ in that horrid ‘flock-of-seagulls’ way, but covered in stuff. Which, I learned from my BBC meteorologist is Saharan dust. Amazing. Like we don’t have enough dust in London so now we’re importing it from Africa. This morning the garden’s full of camels. Strong winds, obviously. Very strong. I’m going to start a bedouin camp on the Holloway Road.

So global warming is now an even bigger problem than it was last week. And it was big then. Carbon emissions must come down. So how anti-zietgeist is Barak Obama as he approves plans for a gigantic pipeline to shift oil from Alberta Canada to refineries in New Mexico. Not just any oil though. This is ‘dirty’ (Canadian) oil. From sand tar. I have no idea either but basically if normal oil is like Jennifer Lawrence, then this stuff is the Sid James of fossil fuel. The Mike Tyson of the energy world. Ugly stuff.

But a pipeline is efficient. Which is true. The tankers that usually ship the stuff around the world are massively carbon emitting. Like a double whammy. But pipelines don’t emit nuffink. They just sit there on the countryside looking really pretty.
Which is why half of America is up in arms against it, this KXL as its known. Yet try and get Americans to reduce carbon output and they show the same level of interest as they do in England’s cricket results. Someone else’s problems.

America wants this oil solely for export, its just not beautiful enough for domestic consumption, even after refining. And that is needed so that Putin, the evil one, and those nasty Russians don’t get to control world energy.
Oooooh, its so complicated.

Well, if the word’s a bit warmer I can’t see the problem with that. We’ll need less heating which will reduce carbon emissions, cool the planet and plunge it into the next Ice Age.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

To Anfield we went, the boys in blue
To fell the mighty, to give them what was due

That was the mission, that was the quest,
and now its all over, you know the rest.

It was all great, all dandy, a truly fantastic start
for nearly 100 seconds we really looked the part.

Then we gave them a goal, as so often this season,
without any sense, without any reason.

This time though it was just a bit more quick
Kaboul hits his own net, no need to call him a dick

But that’s not enough, for Liverpool of late,
let’s give them another, hand it on a plate

Poor Michael Dawson, so often our hero,
gave them the ball, right in ground zero

No need to worry, was only to Luis Suarez
the most deadly goalscorer ever, as everybody says

The Uruguayan scored, without any biting
the game itself became very exciting

Liverpool are a team really on top of their game
Whilst ‘Lacklustre’ is appropriate as Spurs middle name.

So often the case in this latest season of frustration
The Spurs team play in away to astound the nation

Not in a good way, not being clinical and ruthless,
but 100 million wasted and all totally fucking useless.

So we’re looking good now for a worthy 7th place finish
to raise the mood, flatter the ego, in no way spirits diminish

We need to spend more money, at least we should try
some clueless Euro-mediocrity, we’ll over-pay to buy

Who wants a new manager, it only brings more sorrow
like David Moyes, poor sod, for whom there’s no tomorrow

Tim Sherwood is our man, a Gooner to the bone
he’s quality and intelligent, all the tests have shown

Another season wasted, aspirations all denied
Oh well, such is life down the Lane, at least no-one died.

Happy sodding Monday

A xxxx

The first Scientology Church marriage took place in London a month ago. Because my City is right-on, up-to-the-minute, well-cool, adaptable, in with the hep-cats, on message and well cool. Oh, and a bit stupid.

This has been seen as an endorsement for the Church of Science-Fictology as a ‘true religion’. That L Ron Hubbard’s tale of intergalactic gods and spirits, sorry ‘Thetans’, that are eternal, live long and prosper despite the inevitable and almost irrelevant death of the temporary ‘bodies’ that house them. Which is a bit Bhuddist, so nothing that new. But scientology is basically full of shit and untestable premesis that certain high profile celebs, obviously lost souls previously searching for that ‘something’ that mere life and wealth and fame don’t provide, embrace and promote.

Thus was its acceptance as a ‘proper church’ and religion seen as a wonderful endorsement of its status.

Or, of course, there’s another way of looking at it.

That Scientology, based on a fictional model of immense ridiculousness, is actually no worse than the other religions in that respect. As in; what is the Bible if not a work of fiction written as an illustration? The ultimate allegorical tale. What’s the difference between Spaceships landing here 50 million years ago and Moses coming down the mountain with words ‘written by G-d’? Alien invasions, Red Sea parting, all the same to me. But if I was one of the apparent many who buy into that stuff in a big-time, literal kind’a way, I’d be royally pissed off that the powers that be give Scientology equal footing. This is an insult to Judeo-Christian stuff and I wish to protest. On heaven and Earth.

More importantly, Jose Morinho: fucked up Portugese tosser tangled up in his own mind-games, or just another shithead dork? I know, its an interesting question that philosophers will ponder forever.
“WE’VE BLOWN IT!!” He moaned after Chelsea lost yesterday. “We’re out of the running now, impossible for us to win the league”

YOU’RE TOP OF THE TABLE, YOU NOB! HOW IS IT IMPOSSIBLE TO WIN THE LEAGUE????? Even if Liverpool are getting as gittery as it appeard on Tuesdsay night (please G-d, please G-d, please G-d) even the Scousers aren’t stupid enough to become extra-nervous by some moronic increase in pressure by Jose’s idiotic words. Even Scousers.

And David Moyes. The prodigal son. The next Big Thing. Son of God. Manchester United were congratulating themselves all last summer after their super stunning signing of the manager everyone wanted. Six months later he’s a leper and they’re passing the blame around.
Thus Manchester United fans win my ‘Tosser of the Week’ trophy, for the 8th week running for their sheer arrogance in expecting to win everything every year and for their chronic short-term impatience. And for printing all those stupid banners.

Now come on Spurs,

Happy Sunday

A xxxx