Andy's Glasses

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

The headline ran: “200,000” children watch hardcore porn”.
What I want to know is what’s wrong with the rest of the bloody children, the ones who don’t? The porn’s there, its free, be stupid not to use it. How else you gonna learn about nipple clamps? They should have a GCSE in porn, validate it properly. Or maybe call it a BDSM.

Today’s picture is the most beautifully tragic baby-pic ever. The fabulously happy, chubby, gorgeous little baby, called Wang, died on Flight 370. For some reason I found this very upsetting. Maybe because I love babies (though normally fried in batter) or maybe because of the Tai Chi connection. Or perhaps because its hard to relate to ‘a bunch’a people wot all died’ but not to such a wonderful image as this. Rest in peace, little Wang, you touched the world.

Paul Scholes reckons Arsenal are ‘a million miles from winning the championship’. Arsene Wenger says that its only six points. I make that 166,666.6667 miles, (to four decimal places; you have to study a bit of your maths as well as the porn) per point. So Arsenal can travel about 500,000 miles if they beat Manchester City today. Though as this is a six pointer really, they can go for the full mil. Either way, I don’t think they’ll be going anywhere. Man City are unfortunately in rather impressive form and I can’t see the Arse stopping them. Not on current displays by our red foes who seem to have lost the ability to scare teams in attack, and lost the plot completely in defense. Getting yourself sent off is NOT a good plan.

And tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. The Big Game. Massive. 22 points. 4 light years to Paul Scholes. Not that he knows what a light year is. Spurs at Liverpool. At one (tragic) time in my life, we had gone 72 years without winning at Anfield. That’s fortunately passed. And looking at the statistics you would have to give Spurs absolutely no chance whatsoever in the match. None. More chance of Putin giving Crimea back to Ukraine.

When the awesome Sturridge and Suarez are together, Liverpool have scored 200 goals, won 93 games and seen a 27% increase in their personal pension plans.

When Adebayor and Soldado have played together Spurs have won 1 game. By 1 goal. Once. And tomorrow they won’t even be together due to Adebaoyor’s injured foot.

Gerrard holds the key to Liverpool, as he always has. Its his drive, his passion, his motivating force that makes it all happen. Coutinho too is awesome, having about 194 assists this year. But that strike partnership is awesome. If Spurs had a decent defense that would be the way to keep the Reds at bay. If we had proper strikers we could outscore them. In the absence of all of the above, we should just get hammered. Again. Even though we outnumber them in the ‘mediocre midfielder’ department, hands down.

But this is football. Its not like that. Its not predictable in ways that the weather (sometimes) is. The odd can happen. Accidents happen, meteors collide, worm holes appear in space and Spurs can win at Anfield.

And I’m afraid that’s all we have: no logic, no statistics, just hope. Every Spurs fans worst enemy.

Happy sunny, summery Saturday

A xxxx

It was Mel’s birthday last week. Or the week before. As if I’d forget. And I booked a ‘surprise’. Ahhhhh, how sweet. Yes, I am that kind, considerate, caring, loving, romantic and totally fucking wonderful. I am New Man. Soft enough to moisturise and be in touch with other’s feelings yet hard enough to spit. When called for.

Mel has always wanted to go to Vienna. Because I went years ago and she didn’t and thus the status quo needs to be maintained. So how perfect, a weekend in Vienna for her birthday. Brilliant. A ‘surprise’.

Which it would have been if the world was as it was when I went to Hitler’s birthland about 30 years ago. But its not. Its a changed place. Changed generally for the better. Except for ‘leaving a trail’. Hmmmmmm.

I booked the flights on Air Miles; long story, expensive flights, refusal to go to Gatwick for a 7am flight (I’m ‘hard’, just not totally fucking stupid), and I had a spare companion voucher that was going to be wasted. And for once, and not just once in my lifetime but once in the entire history of everyone’s lifetime who’s ever collected as many as 1 single Air Mile, the flights I wanted had seat availability. I’ll repeat that: the flights I wanted had seat availability. Was that ‘my day’, or WHAT????? The usual Air Mile experience is that you want a flight to Madrid on Tuesday the 4th at about 11am and you end up going to Calcutta on the 26th at midnight. Cos you ‘have to be flexible’.

Anyway, flights booked, job done. And BA operate a paperless, ticketless system, which is great. So four seconds after my booking my email confirmation came through, my ‘e-tickets’ and I immediately forwarded the email to my work address and deleted the original from my home address. In case it be seen. Brilliant.

2 days later Mel (who, to her constant annoyance and my total oblivion, always opens the post) called out: “there’s a letter here from British Airways for you… let’s see…”

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! running to intercept, “DON’T YOU KNOW ITS A FEDERAL OFFENSE TO TAMPER WITH SOMEONE ELSE’S POST????? GIMME THAT QUICKLY”.

Phew, don’t think she tumbled to any anxiety on my part there. The old poker face (at that time dripping with sweat) worked once more as I opened the “e-ticket confirmation letter”. The single most futile and contradictory waste of postage ever considered. A letter, full of paper, to confirm how wonderfully paperless BA are. Tossers. They sent it twice too. Duplicated. In case Mel missed the first one.

Close call but the mystery was maintained. The surprise in tact. We ducked the bullet.

I booked the hotel. On Bookers.com. Great. Lovely hotel. Right near where Hitler once pissed in a doorway when he was a student. The site told me: “we will never take your payment for hotel bookings; they will take it directly from you”. Ahhh, brilliant, I thought, so I’ll pay when I check in/out or never if I can run fast enough.

Yesterday Mel’s looking at the Amex bill. “Oh, what’s this fror the Schveinenschturblersheissen Hotel in Vienna?”

OH. FUCK. ME.

So she knows where we’re going, who we’re flying with, where we’re staying.

But she doesn’t know when, and she doesn’t know what colour underwear I’m taking, so its still a big surprise. Though not as big as it would have been years ago when I’d have paid in cash, torn up the receipts and gone by boat.

They are watching you, monitoring your every movement AND TELLING YOUR BLEEDING WIFE.

Happy surprise Friday

A xxxx

When the movie Emma came out I fell in love with the exsquisite young vision that was Gwyneth Paltrow. Call me fickle but I generally fall in love about 3 times in every movie. That’s why we see films. Well, that’s why I see films. To be absorbed in the plot, to actually become, temporarily, inside the story. Something I struggle to do in live Theatre. But heh, that’s just me.

A little later Gwynnie was in Shakespeare in Love and I found she still loved me, as well as young Will, and she was still the most perfectly gorgeous ‘thing’ on the planet. Even dressed as a boy (about as convincingly as Mike Tyson in drag) she was simply divine.

Sadly, when she learned to speak outside of scripts, it all went to shit. Then she left me, ran off and married Chris Martin and turned into a fucking headcase. Which is the nice way of describing people who overthink things to the point of tragedy, who hug trees, spend months on yoga retreats lying on the floor looking at stars and refuse all solid foods on spiritual grounds. She became the mouthpiece for drinkers of horrible green slime, the face of Estee Lauder, the blubber at award shows, she became Churchill for the Pilates classes. And she named her children Apple and Moses.

Alas and alack, as all stories, however lovely and loving and loved up go, they have a beginning, a middle and an end. And for Gwynnie and Chris, we’re in the end game. Well, we’re in the start of the end game. We’re in extra time.

This ‘supercouple’ have parted ways. Or, intend to part ways. Possibly some time soon. They’re not separating, in fact they’re on holiday together right now. They’re not devor-, sorry, mustn’t use that word in this context, its inflammatory and negative and can really dissociate one’s yin from one’s yang. So no, they’re not doing none of that shit, no way. Think of the children!!! They have enough trouble having stupid names, more stigma would not be fair.

They are: ‘consciously uncoupling’.

Sick bags are available near you right now.

This wonderful, airy fairy, prune-juice and alphalpha sprout phrase was coined by one of Gwynnie’s health gurus. And that’s mental health too. Which is why she’s pretty mental.

Its a wonderful sentiment. They still love each other. (Don’t ask.) In fact they love each other more than when they were happily married. Honest. Almost as if ‘consciously uncoupling’ can actually enhance a relationship. Wow. Powerful stuff. And I’m really happy for them that they have reached this divided path in their lives and will travel them separately but together, walking apart but still metaphorically hand in hand. Which is fine until your shoulders get wrenched out of their sockets.

We’ll see how ‘consciously uncoupled’ they are when they’re screaming over the cd collection. When their lawyers are dividing up their immense and entangled vast wealth. When he wants the kids in the UK and she won’t let them get on the plane because the pilot ate meat last Wednesday so the karma’s all wrong; ‘remember flight 307!!!!!!’

Its a shame. Gwynnie and Chris have become the A-list version of Arsenal football club. Pretty to watch but totally dysfunctional.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

My first ever Saturday job was helping my dad’s mate out in his bespoke tailoring shop in Soho. 1970. I was 14. And ran lots of errands and stuff, as my tailoring skills weren’t quite honed yet. In fact they never were, I can’t sew on a button. But I wasn’t there to stand with a tape measure round my neck and a piece of tailor’s chalk in my hand, I was there to gather, collect, deliver and buy coffees for those whose skills with a piece of cloth were legendary. If you were into that sort of thing.

And Soho, to a naive but overly-hormonal, post-pubescent teenager, was something of an eye opener. And tongue-dropper.

Originally London’s French Quarter, we fortunately managed to get rid of that population centuries ago and in their place came Italians, Jews and hookers. With the latter being the dominant influence. Thus Soho’s image in the 60s and 70s was ‘sleaze central’. Where better for a young boy to go exploring?

Because of the Italian influence, Soho was about the only place where you could buy a ‘coffee’ that was as we know it now. Everywhere else in England it would be a styrofoam cup filled with Nescafe and cold milk. In Soho they made proper, frothy, hubble-bubble, steamy Cappuccinos in monster machines shipped over from Italy.

And there was sex. But so much sex that Berwick Street made Amsterdam look like the Vatican. Every other store was a sex shop. Windows full of books, whips, inflatables (no, not fucking dinghies, but fuckable blow-up dolls), costumes, fetishwear and all sorts of bizarre and rather beautiful stuff. It was all on open display. So groups of teenagers could stand there in shock.

As well as the sex shops there were the sleazy strip joints, the more ‘upmarket’ sex clubs (all terms relative) and on the upper floors of virtually every shop was a brothel. Other than our ‘cutting room’ which shared its stairway with about 653 hookers. All of whom were lovely, friendly, cor-blimey, wanna-good-time-darling?, get’cher’ands’offer-me, proper English tarts. No slaves from Albania, no crack whores from Bradford, just super girls who enjoyed their work. (I did say I was naive, didn’t I?).

Raymond’s Review Bar was the first place in Britain to allow naked women to move on stage. Before that, ‘impersonating a statue of a nude’ was, for some puritanical reason, acceptable, but as soon as anything jiggled, you’d get your collar felt by the law. Difficult when you’re not wearing a collar. Good fun for the police though.

Soho always attracted artists of every type. Its where London’s music scene started, hence all the record companies started there, it was and is a focus for jazz, for painters, for the movie business, but above all this, for sex. So even though they now have the ‘evils of modern society’ (Starbucks, Boots, Sainsburys Local, etc, etc) plus a zillion upmarket restaurants, Soho has still retained its wonderful feeling of edginess.

And now Paul Raymond’s granddaughter wants to modernise the dirty little alleyway that houses her grandpa’s palace. Do away with the few remaining brothels there, tidy up, get rid of the vibrators, sweep up the syringes. And that’s awful. Paul Raymond managed to buy most of Soho with the proceeds of his sex shows and this ungrateful spoiled little bitch wants to accelerate the ruination of one of London’s true remaining treasures. Probably turn the Review Bar into a Zara or Next. Just what we (faaaarkin) need.

You can get 100-1 on Arsenal winning the league. That must be worth a fiver of anyone’s money. Or you could burn that fiver and scatter those ashes at White Hart Lane. Same difference.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Its all a problem of perspective. Bit like a one-eyed man at a 3-d movie. But what’s happening in Egypt is a bit too gory for even Hollywood, at the moment.

A court in Cairo yesterday sentenced 529 people to death. All in one go. A 45 minute ‘hearing’ but don’t ask me what was actually ‘heard’ because neither defense lawyers nor witnesses for the defence were allowed in the room. Fair enough, I’m da judge, its my fucking court, I’ll do as I please. Also you really can’t knock this process from a viewpoint of efficiency and ergonomics. To reach that endpoint in Britain would take 15 years of costly, agonising, protracted trials and tribulations. And that’s before all the appeals and ignoring the fact that we don’t do ‘death penalty’ here, even when it is warranted, for people driving at 28mph in the fast lane.

But this is not Britain, nor the USA, nor even Russia (where those 529 would have all just simply ‘vanished’ while in custody anyway and their bodies laying the foundation of the next Putin monument). Its Egypt. Where they overthrew their old president in favour of Mr Morsi, the ‘people’s choice’. Then decided they hated him more than his predecessor and ousted him, leaving a militarised vacuum and 529 of his loyal supporters on death row.

And all this is only odd, bizarre, disgraceful and evil when judged through the eyes of Western democratic and judicious process. And its not our choice. Nor our place to make judgments. Expecially as Egypt’s judges are apparently brilliantly efficient at making their own, without all that messy, drawn-out and human rightsy bollocks getting in the way.

Egypt, like Syria, Lybia, Bahrain, is stuck in the quagmire resulting from the Arab Spring. They all wanted to depose old tyrannical, hereditary leaders and embrace the democratic ideal, but they lack the understanding of it and the committment to it. In the west these concepts are fundamental to our lives, ingrained in the collective conscience. In America kids in school recite the constitution every morning, whilst eating their doughnuts. But in many countries they never adopted this type of society. Instead of democratic debate they have screaming whilst firing rifles in the air. They’d rather maintain their feudalistic regimes, hoping that the new dictators they implement will be kinder to them than the last. It all becomes a matter of who is the loudest screamer with the most bullets.

But that’s their way. And its their countries. And who are we in the West to go round forcing our ‘way’ upon peoples just because we think they’re better? We’ve done that before in the Crusades and rammed Christianity down half the world’s throats, quite literally on pain of death. And that wen’t well.

There are no absolutes, only differences. We generally don’t sentence hundreds of people to death without what we perceive as a trial, they don’t have to put up with Nick Clegg.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There’s a new ‘outcry’ about MP’s expenses. Not the last outcry, nor the seven before that, nor the previous 73, but a new one. And its all about glasses. Overspending on ‘designer’ models then claiming them as expenses for us to buy for them.

Eyewear. Spectacles. Something about which I claim something of an understanding.

The most successful optical retailers in the world are Specsavers. They are everywhere, they are cheap, fairly nasty, treat people as if on a production line and flog them two pairs of glasses for the price of one. Both pairs are shitty but the price is so cheap that it doesn’t matter. And this model is so successful, with people who want to look like they’ve been to Specsavers, that their advertising campaigns have entered the general language as a metaphor. Which is about as successful as you can ever get.

“Should have gone to Specsavers” rings the phrase. And it was used just yesterday in the Times following Andre Marriner’s sending off the wrong Arsenal player after ‘an incident’. And in that context its rather funny. And its used in lots of instances when people miss their target in some way.

Specsavers’ model is built on the ‘pile ’em high, sell ’em cheap’ ethos. And it works. But results in a particular Specsavers look which is not the most flattering, but is very cheap. And, I mean, they’re glasses, they only sit on your face, not like its anywhere important really.

Then Specsavers decided, many years ago, that some people prefer to pay more for their glasses, want better quality, a better look, something perhaps befitting a Government Minister who faces the cameras 25 times a week. So they introduced their ‘designer range’. Wow; ‘designer’!!!! Fab. Presumably because the other ranges aren’t actually designed, they just grow naturally on industrial estates in China and are plucked by 9-year-old Orientals to be shipped west. But these others: ‘Designer’. Which for Specsavers involved making the same cheap, mass-produced, low-cost rubbish but embellishing the sides with an unlikely ‘designer’ name, in really big letters. Specsavers never did ‘subtle’.

Alphonso Mollinari, these specs proclaim. Spaghetti Carbonara. Leonardo di Piscardelli. Allessandro Del Pieiro. Francesco Capuccino.

Hey, pretty ‘designerish’, eh?? Italian = Designer, surely.

And this, for the general populus, particularly Specsavers’ fans, created the ridiculous expression ‘designer glasses’, implying something better, something more desirable, certainly something more expensive. Hence the outcry that MPs have spent “£174 on a pair of glasses!!!!!!!!!” That money would buy 16 pairs in Specsavers or one really good quality lens in my practice. A lens that would eliminate computer fatigue, cut out reflections, be perfectly focussed at all distances, be scratch resistant, light as a feather, increase the size of your penis, remove wrinkles, eliminate halitosis and make women drop at your feet. Particularly after you’d spent the other £174 for the other eye and a few hundred on a seriously gorgeous frame guaranteed to have absolutely no wankers named on the sides. Italian or otherwise.

Ya pays yer money ya takes your choice.

Should have gone to Westminster.

Happy monday (for Spurs and Barcelona fans, or both, it certainly is)

A xxxx