Andy's Glasses

what a great headline that is. Apropos of nothing, but I’ll save it for use in the not too distant future.

And although Crimea specifically, Ukraine generally and Russia horribly is on our minds and in our thoughts, there is simply too much amazing sport this weekend to expend too much mental energy on mere geopolitics.

There’s a whole bunch of football matches on today at 3, but they’re not of much consequence. Because at 5.30 Spurs are at Chelsea. Good versus evil. The Righteous against The Damned. The powers of light against the purveyors of darkness. And the game is so important, not just on a moral level, not just for the good of all mankind and the future of civilised humanity, but even on footballing grounds. So important that every Arsenal fan is willing Spurs to win. All fans of Liverpool, of Manchester City will temporarily be putting on their Spurs shirts and rooting for my team. Even though we actually hate the lot of them and don’t want or need their fickle, insincere and self-serving support.

To win at Chelsea is ‘a big ask’. Its like a Ukranian Grandma in a wheelchair invading Russia. Because here’s few horrible statistics about Spurs and Chelsea.

We haven’t won at Stamford Bridge since 1990 when Gary Linneker scored the winner. And that’s 26 games ago. Even more scary: Chelsea have never lost in the league at home under Jose Morinho. Never. Though I was at Stamford Bridge one night to see Chelsea lose to Charlton on penalties in a League Cup match, and very nice it was too. But heh; statistics have no predictive value, they only analyse the past. And I’m holding on to that thought as if my life depended on it.

All we have to do is prevent the most lethal attacking force in the country (apologies to Liverpool fans with delusions of grandeur, but they are) from scoring, whilst trying to break through the most impenetrable defence there is. Unless David Luiz is playing at centre back which makes them more vulnerable, then the bastard scores a couple from 45 yards out.

But our away form is great. Well, it was until Norwich. Though Chelsea are no Norwich. No. Chelsea are a really good team.

Tomorrow England play rugby against Wales to decide the 6 Nations trophy. Winner takes all, loser takes comfort from his loved ones, if he still has any after losing. Massive game. Played by massive blokes.

Great weekend. Even the weather’s great.

Great.

Have a good one

A xxxx

In the 60s there was a tv show called ‘Dixon of Dock Green’. Arguably the first ever ‘cop show’ on’t telly. This was no Starsky and Hutch, this fell way short of CSI, lacked the legal intrigues of Homicide and the fly-on-the-wall gritty feel of Hill Street Blues. In fact, I think it safe to say that Dixon of Dock Green was the dullest, most mundane, drab, boring, tedious and unexciting show ever to reach the sreens. Until Big Brother came along, of course, and redefined ‘fucking mindless NOTHING!!!!!’ for the post millenial generation. Dixon never did flashy wheel-spins; his bike wasn’t up to it, nor his legs. No gun was ever fired, other than at an errant fox (presumably one that the dogs missed as this was rural Britain in pre-hunt-ban days) and there were no drugs, pimps, ‘hos’ or even any dark-skinned people of any type. Which wasn’t the racism we now know to be epidemic both in the police force and in the representation of stereotypes during later tv years, but merely a reflection of English Country demographics in the 60s.

I hated ‘Dixon’, the show, because it was soooooooo boring. But I loved ‘Dixon’ the man because he was like a PR film for the English Bobby. He rode round on said bike, pulling cats out of trees, helping people get back into houses after locking themselvs out, smiling, helping old ladies across busy roads (busy roads; rural England… busy-ish roads) and once in a while apprehending not just petty criminals but really really petty criminals. ‘Feeling their collars’. ‘You’re nicked, son’. At which point they’d give up and say ‘oh, its a fair cop’ and await handcuffing like true gentlemen. And Dixon, about 80 years old and incapable of any physical action more demanding than lifting a cuppa tea, woud oblige.

He was the definitive gentleman at all times. He never swore, spit, lost his temper, shagged someone else’s wife, wore an earring, got drunk, took drugs, voted Labour or supported Arsenal. He supped his occasional pint of bitter warm, in his ‘local’ and went home to his loving Mrs Dixon of Dock Green every evening for his ‘tea’.

Tosser.

Though really that was how the police wanted to be viewed and how the public really wanted them to be. Decent, honest, trustworthy, dependable. No-one called them plebs, no-one thought they would ever become what they seem to have become today. Institutionally racist, riddled with corruption, spying where they shouldn’t be spying and in many cases acting way above the law. According to the Ellison report.

Interestingly, on BBC’s Question Time last night, from Barking, an exceptionally multi-cultural area, the audience, when asked if the police were trustworthy, were divided in two. White folk thought they were whereas anyone of physically different colour or culture said they definitely weren’t and virtually all had tales to explain why on a personal level.

Ahhhhh, for the perfect world of the 60s…

Yeah, right.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We beat the Danes last night. At football. Anglos 1, Vikings 0. It was brilliant. We were magnificent. It was truly outstanding…

Ok, it was dull, drab, and we just about beat a team that has Nicklas Bendtner as their star player. So let’s not get too excited about our World Cup prospects, assuming Brazil is finished in time for the games, which is looking more doubtful every week.

Because according to the bookies, England don’t rate a bet. Only if you back rank outsiders and are feeling very lucky.

Germany, Spain, Italy, even frikkin Uruguay (the Suarez effect) are in the favourites, but not England. Brazil, unsurprisingly, are much favoured, and will get stronger as the lack of progress in the stadia progresses. Because all the Brazillians grew up in abject poverty kicking coke cans around building sites. Unfinished grounds will suit them perfectly. The wealthy Europeans generally play better on grass rather than rubble. Even France, the most famous 1,2,3, outers in the modern international game, even they rank in the top dozen. But not us. We’re down with Azerbaijan, Ethiopia and Canada. We are the Faroe Islands of international football. Other than the Faroe Islands themselves, of course. We are like Scotland.

And I so used to love international football. And now I really really don’t. Can hardly get excited about it, until the Spurs players come on, then I love my country like Churchill. He was a politician. Not a footballer. Just in case…
And its not a matter of not winning anything since 1966, its a matter of club football being far more important to most football fans than national games. My main worry for England matches (particularly ‘friendlies’) is a hope that no Spurs players get injured. Watching (Limping-)Jack Wilshere hobble off last night just made it all so real once more. So painful. Though not quite as painful as watching Gareth Bale score for Wales, when I cried real tears.

The answer is simple.

Though to which question?

Ahh, the ‘why are England shit at football when we INVENTED THE BLOODY GAME?????’ question.

Because we allow foreigners to come in and contaminate our league, that’s why. And because all the English kids are sitting at home on their fat little arses, eating doughnuts and watching shit on tv instead of kicking coke cans round building sites. And also because English kids are not Brazilian. Like they should be.

The Spaniards manage to keep a wonderful flow of super new stars coming out of their youth programmes, as do the Germans and even the (loathsome) French. The Belgians have suddenly come forward as a world force, and no-one had even heard of ‘Belgium’ until 6 years ago; wouldn’t have been able to find it on a map of Belgium. So why can’t we produce ‘the future’? We have the best league in the world and yet it contains 87% foreign players.

Ban them all. Other than those playing for Tottenham because they’re lovely and have ’embraced the culture’ (spitting, rape, livin’-it-large, earrings, tattoos…) and therefore are worthy even by UKIP criteria.

Come on England

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

More testing. Always testing. Testing, testing, testing…

This time its in Southern California (thus on geographical grounds is probably doubly worthless) and its about proteins. Ahhh, proteins, the ‘good stuff’. Yeah, well, it used to be. But no longer. It’ll kill ya fucking dead!

“Too much cheese and meat in middle age is recipe for early death” rang the headline. Well I’m fine then. Because I’m not middle-aged. Though I play bridge so I suppose on some level I must be a little bit middle-aged. And that term is a euphemism for ‘old’ anyway.

A cheese and ham sandwich (as well as breaking almost every law of ‘kosher’) is now the Russian Roulette of foods.

Yep, animal proteins, meat and cheese, in vast quantities (is there ever any other way to eat them? particularly in Southern California??) increases your likelihood of death by whatever percent over the norm of however many years that will be. Its all very conclusive and not vague at all.
And fancy publishing that article the week after I return from a trip to France? How dare they?? Not normally a massive cheese eater, my four day ski trip saw me put away about 18 kilos of the stuff. Its everywhere. Cheese fondue, cheese omlettes, pizza, cheese after every meal, in vast quantities. The French even eat it for breakfast. But they would. They’re French. If you smoke 50 untipped Goulouises a day, a bit of dairy fat’s the least of your worries.

So we can’t eat meat and cheese. Obviously carbs are out the question, sugars are the devil’s own food and is in half the fruit and vegetables we used to eat too. So that leaves water, obviously, and… and… errrr…

And chocolate. You can eat as much chocolate as you like because God wouldn’t have invented it if it wasn’t good for you.

Its all crap (eventually I suppose that is very true) and its all just excessive reductionism used to keep an entire industry’s worth of researchers in work. Otherwise they’d be on unemployment (where they should be) eating Cornish Pasties from Gregs and ham and cheese sandwiches and dying young and impoverished.

Reductionism is the paradigm of breaking everything down into smaller and smaller units to try and better understand it. Its a throw-back to the early days of atomic physics where everything was broken down into molecules, then atoms, then electrons and protons, then quarks and all manner of ensuing bollockage which, instead of producing ‘The Answer’ merely provided shitloads more questions that they can’t even answer at CERN, a hundred years and a hundred billion dollars later.

Because when you break things down you remove context and you remove the whole ‘sum is greater than the parts’ concept which is essential to real understanding. The physiological process involved, at a muscular or molecular level in writing your name on a birthday card is absolutely identical to writing it on a check for all the money you have. The same can be said for speaking the words ‘I love you for all eternity’ as opposed to ‘just fuck off and die!’. Identical at an atomic or biological level, slightly different in meaning.

So all reductionism is therefore total garbage. And thus, you have my blessing to eat what the hell you want. And loads of it. Make mine a double.

Happy Wednesday

Kill a scientist today,

A xxxx

The Oscar for the most clinical shooting of a girlfriend is… Pistorius!!!! (Hooray, applause, cheering, whoop, whoop, whooooo).

Poor Blade Runner. An enigma. Either wide eyed and legless victim of his own paranoia who inadvertently shot his dearly beloved to death after an evening of romance and lurve. Or a cold and brutal dictatorial killer with a vicious temper in need of serious anger management counselling. And, er, prison.

There’s two ways to go about this. You can have a long and protracted court case costing zillions of Rands, enriching the lawyers, creating an associated media whirl as its all on tv. Ironically, ‘live’ on tv. As opposed to poor Reeva, who is neither. You can call witnesses, listen to fabricated fictional accounts, cross-examine so confusingly that no-one can work out which way is up, call in ‘expert witnesses’ who speak in useless probabilities, and listen to an account by the perpetrator that has had a year and a bit to be polished, honed and distorted to fit his own needs.

Alternatively you can use my approach. He’s guilty as fuck. Because he looks it and speaks with a horrible South African accent which is like fingernails on a chalkboard in my (sensitive) ears. I actually think all South Africans are guilty of something, its just a matter of finding out precisely what.

How many times have I ‘heard noises in the night’ only to find its my wife’s bladder responsible for the ruckus. But as I roll over, semi-conscious, in bed, I’m kind of aware that she’s not there. Which, if I owned a gun, would probably give me pause before opening fire randomly at imagined ‘intruders’. I’ve managed never to shoot my wife in all our years of marriage. Quite an achievement really. Or would be if I was South African, legs or no legs.

And just as an aside: there’s ‘intruders’ and there’s ‘intruders’. If confronted with a gang of machete-wielding, drunk, Afrikaaner inbred farm-hands I’d grab my AK47 as quick as the next man. But when confronted with a (presumably not completely dressed) gorgeous blond super-model, I might just hold fire. In the literal if not metaphorical sense. Unless there’s some kind of pest problem in that part of the world where there are fucking blonds everywhere; they get stuck in your bloody teeth. Like a plague of supermodels. (I can dream).

At least Russia is more democratic, no ‘law of the gun’ out there. Well, not when everyone’s toeing the line. Soon as someone in the Ukraine says they want to loosen Putin’s vice-like grip on them, up comes the navy, the infantry, the artillery and 125,000 Russian troops are suddenly all on ‘training exercises’ within 200 yards of the Ukraine border. No threat. Nothing to fear. No implication of anything. Just Putin’s boys out for a walk in the snow with 58lbs of gunfire strapped to their backs. No big deal. No need to get all defensive and start changing sides, running away or making a protest. They’re so touchy those Ukrainians. Lucky they’re not armed like the South Africans. Oh, they are, are they. Hmmm…

Happy gun-free Tuesday

A xxxx

you know that funny thing footballers do, when they aren’t very good with one of their feet (you wouldn’t expect two-footedness for just £4million a year, would you?), and they are stuck out on the wrong foot and need to pass? So instead of just kicking it left footedly, they plant their left foot and swing their right foot behind the left and kick in a way which generally results in falling over and the ball going anywhere but where it was intended, and the managers get really pissed off? Well that’s got a name. And its called a ‘rabona’. Which, as everyone knows, means: ‘stupid, vain. Portuguese, show-boating tosser’. Even if you happen to be a Belgian, like Eden Hazard, who performed just such a move on Saturday for Chelsea at Fulham. And odd that the speedy midfield dwarf is normally quite ambi-footstrous, or bi-pedal, or whatever its called. But he chose the ‘rabona’ to impress his manager. Who is generally more impressed with parked buses than flashy and unnecessary footwork.
Hazard wins the Oscar for the best showoff who managed not to fall over.

Whereas his teammate, Oscar, wins the Oscar for best Oscar on the park.

It must have been Belgium’s National Showboat Weekend. Because Jan Vertongen, superstar Spurs defender, performed the Zidane Double Drag-Back move with aplomb against Cardiff. Choosing to do it in a fairly deep, defensive position might have been deemed risky, stupid or downright fucking daft. But only if it failed. Which would have perhaps shown the virtues of defenders ‘sticking their boot through the ball’. But it didn’t fail, it succeeded in spectacular fashion and gave the long-suffering Spurs fans, bored shitless and freezing cold in a dire win at the Lane, something to be happy about. At least for a little while.

Jan wins the Oscar for best supporting leg in a fancy move.

And in the real Oscars, nothing really… well, nothing anything really. All so totally predictable and nice and clean and sanitized and inoffensive and totally Dior and dressy and nice. And nice. As always.
Best foreign film: Schalke 1, Real Madrid 6 (worth watching on youtube just to see how unhappy Ronaldo is when his teammates score)

Best bad language in a foreign land: Wayne Rooney, any Manchester United away match in Europe.

And the Best Movie Oscar went to 12 Years a Spurs Fan. Because Steve McQueen, the director, is one. A big one. Well, he’s quite a big everything. And he walked up the diamond encrusted staircase in his Tottenham 4-Ever scarf. Ok, not in any ‘real’ sense, but he would have if he could. I definitely would have. But again failed to make the invite list. Even though I spend so much going to the cinema.

Best make-up Oscar goes to Ramirez for his Zorro special mask.

Best performance in a swimming cap, as usual, Petr Cech.

Best act of mindless violence: Alan Pardew in The Hopeless Headbutt.
And that concludes this year’s Academy Awards and football results.

Happy monday

A xxxx

What is going on in our Mad Mad Mad World of Football??? Its cccccrrrrrr-azy!!!!

And my use of the flippant and childish tone along with loads of inappropriate punctuation is to accentuate the childishness of the whole thing. Honest, Dad, cross me heart…

Alan Pardew is a 50 year old man. He manages (on some level) Newcastle United. Thus, his job, as an elder statesman and respect figure (along with Mike Ashley… hmmm…) is to do far more than merely train and coach his bunch of children/players. His job is to give them a sense of responsibility, to show them appropriate behaviour, both on and off the pitch, and to provide some kind of moral leadership. To a bunch of ridiculously overpaid semi-moronic (the ‘semi’ there giving loads of benefit of the doubt) super-egos who believe the hype they read, who are under the impression that their shit don’t stink, who can’t spell ‘Maserati’ but happily drive them and who consider that money compensates for acting like a total asshole at every possible opportunity.

So how does Alan do this? He headbutts an opposing player on the sidelines during a match. To further add to the stupidity, he had to stretch on tippy-toes to reach the face of a man about 6 inches taller, 25 years younger and 85 times fitter and stronger.

Although this is the second issue of this nature for Pardew this season and the third in 2 years. He needs anger management. Though he does win my ‘tosser of the week’ award, if not ‘tosser of the season’. A high accolade with so much competition for the title.

Like Sol Campbell.

The latest in a long line of ‘footballers who make stupid, ridiculous, possibly defamatory claims in their autobiographies’. Roy Keane’s was the best where he described in detail over an entire chapter how he planned and perpetrated an act of actual bodily harm on Alfie Haarland.

But Sol’s gripe is that he was racially discriminated against by not being made England captain for 10 years. Not short of over-valuing his worth then. Yet Sol was indeed discriminated against. Not because he was black. But because he was gay. And I don’t think the world was ready at that time for such a revelation. Rio Ferdinand managed to captain his nation… before the minor drug problem reared its ugly head. Whereas Sol’s ugly head was clean in that respect. Though perhaps his aspirations were hindered by moving to Arsenal, which rendered him a little mercenary, as those old enough can remember that time when the Arse actually won a few things.

Arsene Wenger hates Stoke City. And they hate him. They really hate him. Surely the best ‘revenge’ Arsenal could take would be to beat the Potters in a way the imagined ‘gulf’ between the two teams’ style and quality would perhaps demand. Yet they don’t. And they didn’t. Arsene has never believed in a ‘plan B’ and yet stumbles against very physical and inhibiting teams. Even when, like Stoke, they aren’t particularly ‘good’ in any conventional sense. As my Stoke mate texted me yesterday: ‘they don’t like it up ’em’. And its true. They don’t.

Happy Sunday. But only if we beat Cardiff.

A xxxx

Its Oscars time again. Tomorrow night, in Hollywood, the finest talent Tinseltown can find will parade along to collectively pat themselves on the back for looking so fucking gorgeous, for wearing the most unaffordable clothes the ridiculous world of ‘haute couture’ has begged to give them for nothing and to congratulate themselves on how much jewellery, accessories and toot has been thrust into their stylists’ hands on the offchance that it might be seen in their golden presence. On ‘the night’. The irony being that these are some of the highest paid, ultra-wealthy people in the world. The only ones who could actually afford to pay $127,000 for a ‘frock’ and yet they get them free. In the hope that other people looking on, poor people, McDonalds staff, mechanics apprentices, bus drivers, art students, will look at this finery and immediately go and buy their own. Even if that Tiffany necklace costs more than the house in which they currently rent a room. The Oscars has become an obscene and vulgar showcase for the purveyors of overpriced and generally vile and pretentious clothing and accompanying shit. The whole evening is an advert for all that is excessive, tasteless and horrible. You might as well go the Croisette in Courchevel if that’s what you want. They do rich and tasteless so well they can even spell it in Russian.

Which is why I never go.
Its a statement. A stand. Someone’s gotta do it, to make the point. I was offered a modelling contract for Marks & Spencer ‘Pringle lookalike’ golfing sweaters and a free pair of Tesco Turn-Ups jeans with matching Anorak. I turned it down as being a prostitution of my values, an abrogation of my responsibility to the Common Man. Tatooed and semi-literate scumbag that he normally is.

Ok, and they’ve never invited me to go. My family don’t even invite me to watch the hi-lights programme with them on Monday night.

Though I don’t want hi-lights, I want the entire 17 hours. I want the pre-show telling us which dresses may possibly be worn, and by whom… probably. I want analysis, I want gossip, I want to know who won the special award for 3rd Grip, who won the best supporting role by a man with a crane, the most smug grimace by a producer knowing his $15 million loss in a movie just saved him $27 million in tax this year.

And I want to see Jennifer Lawrence. Standing, sitting, falling up the stairs, whatever. She does it all so well, so beautifully, so ‘naturally’ and with such star quality. They should just give her all the Oscars and don’t bother for the next decade.

So here’s my vote: (not that anyone asked me)

Best use of the whip: 12 Years a Redneck
Best cleavage: Jennifer Lawrence (American Hustle; not that its even relevant)
Best movie that does virtually nothing: Inside Llewyn Davies
Best weight loss: Matthew McConnaughey in Dallas Buyers Club
Biggest disappoitment: Blue Jasmine
Best 20-minute lesbian love scene: Blue is the Warmest Colour

I’m off to the bookies; I’m going to put an accumulator on: Best Film: Philomena and Spurs to win 4-0 against Cardiff. 325 to 1.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The delightful-(ly stupid and frankly ridiculous) Kim Kardashian has insured her arse. For $21 million. Wow. That’s some arse. Which was never in doubt, but 21 mil??? As the rather lovely Ms K. does nothing, works at nothing, plays no significant part in society other than being herself all over the fucking tv, this insurance renders her simply as ‘a life support system for her backside’. Which in some circles is definitely a ‘career’.

But is it insured for loss? Against theft?? How could you lose something that big? Particularly when its kind of attached in that way that body parts have. Maybe its insured against damage. If it has a crash. Can you insure against cellulite? Drooping? Sagging?? What about third party coverage, for damage her bum does to others?

Kylie famously insured her pert little bum after it was displayed in hotpants on her album (no pun) cover. For £3million. So do they insure bottoms by weight? And do people who’s names don’t begin with ‘K’ insure theirs too? Otherwise that could be deemed alphabetist. Which is illegal under the European Court of Human Rights. If it was done on a weight basis, how would really obese people afford the premiums?

Spurs won last night. Massive game. Immense result. The biggest of the year. 3 goals to 1, (3-2 on aggregate), one fall, two submissions and a knockout. I missed it. Was out at Tai Chi. Which in fact is all about harnessing energy. One of the words, errrr, Tai, or, errr Chi, means ‘energy’, the other doesn’t. That would be needless repetition. And we harness the energy to hurt people very badly. Not Kim Kardashian and certainly not her bottom; I couldn’t afford the excess, but bad people, nasty people, those who wish us harm, those who mean to hurt and those we really don’t like very much, especially if they’re small and frail. So evil people beware! Arsenal fans take note! Look over your shoulder, George Osbourne! Because I’m learning my martial art and will be an officially dangerous person by about 2022, maybe 2024. In time for the Quatar World Cup debacle for sure. I’m turning into a lethal cross between Bruce Lee and Woody Allen.

So football, yes, football. We won, we go marching on. Emmanuel Adebayor is our saviour, our hero, our god. In the next round of the European Whatever It is Cup we play Benfica. A team some people have actually heard of. Which is the holy grail in that competition. All the Latvian part-timers and Bosnian bakers have been eliminated and its just the ‘cream’ of European Royalty that remains.

And thus comes the next dabate. Do we effectively ‘sacrifice’ the quest for a 4th place finish in the league and go all out to win this (poxy) cup? Or do we send out the kids to face Portugal’s finest and concentrate on our Premiership fixtures?? The radio debate was heated last night over that very subject.

The problem is, or perhaps the fact is, we won’t finish 4th. Its already virtually impossible. So I say, go for the silverware. Go for the glory or winning a cup that so many pretentious fucking teams deem so far beneath them. I don’t care what anyone thinks of it, its a major European trophy (well, there’s only two, so its a minor major) and I want to add it to my trophy cabinet. Well, mine’s a metaphorical trophy cabinet, like they have at the Emirates, but to me its real.

Happy dreaming-of-glory Friday

A xxxx

Harriet Harman, the deputy leader of the Labour Party, or Ed Milliband’s oily rag, as the role may be deemed, is a paedophile!!!! How outrageous, how dire, dasterdly, desperate and disastrous. Diabolical. Disgusting.

Well, I suppose she’s not really a child-abuser herself (though you’d think she was if you read the Daily Mail) but she was involved in an organisation in the 70s called the National Council for Civil Liberties, which is now known as just plain old ‘Liberty’.

But back in the day it was your standard left-wing ‘fumin rights’ type organisation, seeking out injustices wherever it reared their ugly, and generally grey and Tory, head, and putting them right. As in ‘correct’. And doing it in a very 70s, beardy, tree-huggy, loon-panty, afghan coaty type of way. Probably in a wine bar near a rain forest smoking a few joints. Though not necessarily inhaling, of course.

So the NCCL defended anti-war propagandists, they promoted women’s rights, gay rights, they defended most of the pretty well indefensible, they spouted the good cause for freedom and liberty. Hence their name. In case you missed that bit. Try to keep up.

And somehow, along with protecting one-legged dwarf teenage mothers and pro-actively promoting civil liberties in the age of ‘free love’ (cheap sex) and human rights for all groups (cheap sex) and other noble causes, the NCCL became somehow affiliated with a group called PIE. The Paedophile Information Exchange. And they wanted their freedom too.

Unfortunately PIE’s definition of ‘freedom’ involved the abuse of children by really creepy men with really creepy beards and dirty raincoats. Because they too wanted their piece of this ‘freedom’ cake. And eat it too. They considered themselves ‘a group’, even though most normal people considered them a disease, an abomination, devils incarnate, vile, abusive bottom-feeding scum who should be castrated publicly and left to burn in the fires of hell for all eternity, starting long before the Devil is even aware of them. I’ve got the matches, what are we waiting for?

But somehow, in the quest for ‘liberty’ for all types, creeds, religions, professions, self-help-groups, minority causes and all the other totally wasters, users, free-loaders and freaks, the damned paedos got in there and found a temporary ally. Which was a little bit like the Serial Killers Association demanding the freedom to murder, but it all got swept along in a love-in of perceived repression and ‘what-about-us’-es.

I think Harriet Harman should be taken out and publicly flogged, like some extra from 12 Years a Slave, then made to perform group sex acts with the Transport and General Workers Union, like some extra from ‘Nymphomaniac’, then sold long, like some extra from ‘The Wolf of Wall Street’. We must make the punishment fit the crime and the crime fit the zeitgeist, and its Oscars week.

Happy thursday. No snow in London, couldn’t ski to work, had to take the frikkin tube. Bummer.

A xxxx