Andy's Glasses

Without wishing to sound in any way pretentious or hi-brow (read: what follows will be exceptionallly pretentious and hi-brow) one simply loves an art gallery. This one does anyway.

The works of the great masters; the magical skills of the artists; wonderful landscapes; fabulous potraits; naked fat birds romping round with cherubs; rooms full of Jesus and Marys with suitable haloes… ahhhhh. You can keep it all. Its bollocks, the lot of it. Constable painted the countryside with startling accuracy but my phone can provide a perfect image down to the millionth mega-pixel, so who needs him? Reubens thinks he invented porn and the entire Renaissance was a waste of time unless you’re a Catholic.

Yet I love a gallery. But the galleries themselves, the buildings. I’ve been to loads, all over the world. The Louvre is fabulous, I adore that pyramid, the Prado in Madrid, couple in Barcelona, the Getty in California, the Guggenheim in New York, I simply love them all. From the outside. I love the buildings, the grounds, the structures, the everything. The Musee d’Orsay is a recycled tram shed, the Tate Modern a depot of some sort and they are amazing buildings. Generally filled with stuff I really don’t want to see.

So I generally do galleries from the outside, only venturing in if there’s a particular exhibition that appeals; pop art or extreme expressionism verging on surreal, or if there’s a really good restaurant run by a burger chain.

I love art galleries; its the art that spoils them.

I went once to the Tate Britain; fabulous old ex-prison sitting on the Thames by Vauxhall Bridge. Rachie was doing a project on Toulouse La Trec and we ‘needed’ to go. We spent more time in the cafe than the gallery, coffee was sensational, fab cakes. And now they’ve redone the place. Internally. 45 million quids worth of ‘make-over’ and the interior now (looking at the pictures) looks so fantastic that I actually want to go.

I wonder if they’d take down all the paintings so I can have a proper, undistracted look.

England play Germany tonight in the World Cup qualifier of massive importance. Both in terms of football and in terms of national pride. Because whatever happens in the world of politics, in Europe, however nice anyone tries to be, whatever measures of friendliness between our two fine nations occur, I think it safe to say: WE FUCKING HATE THE GERMANS. Its irrational, its illogical, its not very nice and (apparently) they are our friends, neighbours and allies. Apparently.
But in football; WE HATE THEM. Maybe we always hate them and are only allowed to give vent to this in the footballing arena.
So even though international football generally depresses me and leaves me totally cold, tonight its a big COME ON ENGLAND.

glücklich Dienstag

A xxxx

I love a hypocrite. Simply love them. They’re what satire was invented for. Yet everyone has the right to at times act in a mildly hypocritical manner. Paul Flowers just abused that right.
Who?
The man who lives his life in reverse. A bit like the Brad Pitt movie about Benjamin Button who was born ancient at got younger with time (true story… ish) and died as a little baby aged ninety-whatever.
Paul Flowers worked in a bank. So far so good. For years. Well, four years, after leaving school. So can’t imagine he had some hi-powered executive role, more probably spent his days counting out the coppers and filling in mortgage applications. In those days when mortgages were still available. And banks still had money to lend.
He left that job to become a Methodist minister. Ohhhh, that’s devotion. And a Right Reverend didst he become. As it is written. (in the Times it is anyway). A man of G-d. An upholder of the spiritual and eithical side of life. Which he used (one can hope) in his role as a councillor in Bradford.
Then he went back to banking, this time to head up the Co-operative bank. Which is royally (as well as spiritually, ethically and anything-else-ally) fucked. So just last week he was up before a parliamentary committee answering quetions as to ‘what happened’ at Co-op central.
His answers showed he didn’t really have much clue what was happening at his bank, other than ruination of a once fine institution. Though he did stress how on his watch he did always ensure that the fundamental ethical principles of the Co-op ideals were upheld. Yeah, right.
So now, at age 63, when he should be putting on his slippers and curling up in front of a fire to read Dickens, the Bible or the Methodist Handbook (I’m sure they have one), instead he goes out buying class A drugs and partying the night away at ‘gay orgies’. Which really he should have been doing in his teens and 20s instead of wasting all that time in churches.
Apparently its unbecoming for the head of a bank, for a ‘Reverend’ who once headed up a drugs charity, to be seen on film buying crystal meth, crack and ketamine from some dodgy geezer in the back of a car. Though he had little choice; they don’t sell it in Selfridges.
The time for drugs, orgies and shit is when you’re 23, not 63. Its part of the university syllabus.
At least he had the grace to apologise for doing ‘bad things’.
His punishment will come in heaven.
Though that may be preceded by another dose down here.

Happy monday

A xxxx

I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand Americans. I’ve visited them, numerous times, watched all their tv shows, even lived there for a year, amoungst them, like Tarzan when he was raised by the wolves. I learned their strange and mystical ways (eating fat, mainly), loved their women (errrr…), accepted their culture (went to loads of night clubs) and worked there as one of their own. I even understand American Football. But the whole gun thing is just fucking weird.  – Read More –

So I’m talking to my (useless) mate Dom the other day and we get onto ‘best music EEEVVVVEEERRRRR’. Top ten stuff. Of ALL TIME. Wow.

Dom’s mired in the pre-90s because he’s so old and stuck in his ‘good old days’ on Hampstead Heath. I’m much more open and embracing and thus have 1 track from the 90s and 1 even from a few years ago. Just one.  – Read More –

It has come to my notice that there’s nowhere upon which to leave a ‘comment’ on my blogs.

Which is as it bloody should be. My word is sacred, you’re just nothing, nobody, unworthy, just rabble.

– Read More –

What work do you do, mummy?

Oh, I stand around in my underwear.

Is that ‘work’? Like being a fireman or a consultant anaesthesiologist or an aid worker in the Philippines??

Not quite like that, darling, not exactly. I earn more money than they do. Much, much more.

Oh. Can I get lots of money for standing round in my underpants too?

No my darling, that wouldn’t be appropriate.

And the objectification of women being drooled over in a state of near-total undress; that IS appropriate, is it mummy??

(precocious fucker)

So Victoria’s Secret, the upmarket lingerie and pornography store (depending on whether you’re a man or a woman), are having their annual ‘fashion show’. It will cost them $12 million. That’s a lorra knickers. Victoria’s Secret turns over billions each year in sales and so once a year they break out the ‘angels’ as their ‘models’ are called, and put on a ‘show’. The angels have to be 5 foot 10 minimum. So I could just make it. But the beard was a problem. They wanted to wax it; that’s what they do with hair at VS. And they don’t do grey hair at all. Nor cellulite, flab, spots, moles, warts, creases, wrinkles, ugly, plain, plain ugly, grotesque or constipated. Nothing even vaguely ‘real’.

I’m not here to debate the insanity of a world where lingerie models are paid as much as Wayne Rooney and they don’t even wear football boots. I’m here to complain that I don’t have a ticket for that show.

There’s no justice.

David Dimbleby, the world’s most clever, brilliant, lovely, cuddly, grand-daddy type political debate host ever, Mr Question Time, the poshest individual, all dignity and white hair and knowing smile and 75 years old, has had a tatoo. On his shoulder. Of a scorpion. A six-legged scorpion. Meaning either the tattooist couldn’t count proper or that scorpion in question stood on a land-mine before being pictured.

Either way this is the latest in a line of de-classifying the humble tattoo. It used to be the exclusive domain of the working classes, particularly scummy ones, and even more particularly, drunk scummy ones. Then up-market people started getting them and now a Dimbleby. Fucking aristocracy.

If I was any self-respecting builder or gangster, I’d be knocking on the door at the hospital to have all my ‘ink’ removed. My statement been hi-jacked by the posh.

Though why this ‘posh’ one did it so glaringly publicly remains a mystery.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

What does ‘the future’ hold for you?

What does ‘the future’ even mean?

Tomorrow?

Next week??

Next year???

Or 2275?

The problem is that the future is very big. I’m not talking about my personal future, that’s linked to my pension and my children’s willingness to change my nappies when the time comes. AS I DID FOR THEM (in case they need reminding). Not even the future for mankind because we may not be here to see it. We came close in the 60s to nuclear armageddon and we’ll doubtless be close again.

Visions of the future, which are all obviously fictional, cos we haven’t been there yet, take their models from the prevailing zeitgeist. So George Orwell’s ‘1984’ was written in 1949 and thus depicted a rather bleak and brutal ‘future’ based on the nazi rise in Germany and the totalitarian regime in Russia. And this ‘absolute model of state control’ carried on to the 70s with movies like Soylent Green in which you eventually realised, as did Edward G Robinson, that the ‘disappearing people’ were being recycled as food. Eeeeuuuww. I mean, I’d taste pretty damned good, but YOU????

Then, during the Cold War, the ‘future’ became accordingly a post-apocalyptic wasteland in which humanity had returned to its feral and savage origins. Deathrace 2000, all the Mad Maxes and loads more. Depressing tales of a world no-one would ever want to live in. Terminator too, same message. Someone pushed ‘the button’ and look what’s happened now. Oh dear. If only…

Stephen King wrote a story called The Running Man. And although just a short story in his ‘Richard Bachman’ pen-name period, it was a game changer. Or a game introducer.

The ‘hero’ is a convicted felon, released from his life/death (whatever) sentence to run away. Whilst chased by the full might of the state army, soldiers, tanks, helicopters, all on live tv for the enjoyment of the inevitably bloodthirsty and sadistic population. If he survives for 5 days he is ‘free’. And ‘no-one has ever done it!!!!!’ Until Schvartzenegger came along in the movie and showed how its done.

And that story was inspirational not in the format, which was fairly old and predictable, one man against a nation, but because it showed that sadistic voyeurism is one of our innate natural hobbies and that game shows are the future. All of the future if Saturday night tv is any guide.

And this week Hunger Games part 2 comes out. Another ‘ultimate’ game of life and death as viewed by a salivating general public on their tvs to keep the reality of the world’s grimness at bay. Its like ‘I’m a celebrity…’ without Ant and Dec.

I fucking hate sequels. I don’t like films with numbers in the title. Though the aforementioned ‘1984’ could be an exception. And Death Wish 9 isn’t.

So even though I’m madly in love with the divine Jennifer Lawrence, I shall miss this sad and sorry tale of how the entire future of humanity will become nothing more than a sodding great game show. Surely the game shows we have already are sufficiently dire that we really don’t need to waste time wondering about future ones.

Happy tomorrow. If there is one!!!!

A xxxx

Our mates Aussie Johnno and Billie-Sheila came over for lunch yesterday. We had to let them in because they’d come all the way from Australia. Even though Spurs were playing in a stupidly early, 12 o’clock, match.

Why would you have a match so early on a sunday? Those poor Newcastle fans must have been up at 4 to make the trek down in their horse-drawn carriages. Can’t imagine the weekend train service (or lack of) allows for such occurrences and its not like they’d come down on Saturday and stay over. They’re impoverished northern rabble, they don’t have the funds. Maybe they could have borrowed the money from their major sponsor, Wonga, and had a night at the Hempel. Where the contents of the mini-bar total more than the price of the average house in the far-north-east. Yet the great god of Sky tv must be appeased.

Anyway. Aussie Johnno has an analytical mind. Its his job. And his innate character. He questions things, looking for the ‘obvious’ solutions to any problem, the logical answer to the question. Which makes him a bit like a four year-old kid. ‘Why?’ He asks. Why do they do that? Why can’t they just do it better? Why not do it differently?

So watching football with the man, who has little in the way of footballing knowledge but a lot of questions, is a different experience.

Why can’t Spurs score when they’ve had 18 attempts on goal in the first half? Why can’t they practice scoring goals, what do they do all week??

Ahh, but other teams make it difficult; that’s their job.

Ok, so why can’t you work out how the other teams will defend and decide how to score goals anyway. Why can’t they play better, whey can’t they work out a plan which will enable them to score against this team. Why, why, whyyyyyy…

A six year old kid you can just slap. But not Johnno. Not least because I love him dearly but also because his footballing naivete gives him an objectivity that the more footballing obsessed lack. A new perspective. From a logical, scientific approach rather than one steeped in Motsonesque cliche.

Just ‘do it better’, is the way any normal, analytical mind would approach such a problem. Work out how to score and FUCKING DO ITTTTTTT!!!!! Its obvious. To him, even to me with a mind full of ‘playing a high line’ and ‘diamond midfield vs wingers’ and other dross.

Simple problem. Certainly simple players. The solution: SCORE MORE GOALS. Spurs have currently, at the last count, scored 9 in 10 league matches. Appalling. Abysmal. Pepto-bysmal.

So we frikkin’ lost. On the day when all the stars were aligned. Man City lost, Chelsea almost lost but cheated in that vile way they do, even Arsenal lost, and that never happens. It was all set, it was destiny. It was karma. It was ‘beshert’.

But they fucked up.

And so easy to see why. If you spend your life creating computer software solutions in the financial sector.

Sack Villas Boas, bring in Mark Zuckerberg. He should be a Spurs fan, surely.

Happy fucking Monday

A xxxx

Why do we do things that will bring us pain? Why are we (well, I bloody am) inherently masochistic in that we invite suffering constantly? I’m not referring to being a Spurs fan in this particular instance, though I feel that is yet another manifestation of the same principle.

Every Sunday morning I read the newspapers and I start with the Mail.

Why the fuck do I even buy such a sad and sorry rag, so full of venom, spite, reactionary clap-trap and right wing rubbish? Why?? Because I need to know what ‘they’ are thinking. I need to know what the massed suggestible ranks of middle England subject themselves to in the alleged interest of ‘the news’. When its filtered through the lens of sensationalist ultra-conservatism. As exemplified by Peter Hitchens.

Today he begs the question as to how the courts can remain true and proper to ‘morality’ when they’ve seemingly abandoned Christianity. What a tosser. Being a conservative he bemoans any changes or progression away from ancient practices. But the courts are not religious. Unless he’s talking about sharia courts and I’m going to take a guess that, knowing his views on such matters, that is not the case. He constantly makes the assumption that morality is solely the preserve of Christianity, without which we’d all be raping our own sisters, eating babies and even driving over the speed limit.

Morals change, subtly, to reflect changes. In 1847 (I’m guessing here; don’t quote me) adultery was a sin and a crime and they had fabulous words like ‘cuckold’ to invoke in such instances. 120 years later hippies introduced the ‘just have sex’ principle to the world and there was a fantastic moral shift, just in time for my teenage years. Bless those frikkin hippies.

And if religion is the sole upholder of morality, then why has it shown such flagrant abuse of that responsibility when confronted with the abusing priests (bad enough in itself) and (far worse) the attempted cover-ups of the practices? My blood doth boil.

So I turn over the page and find that rarest of rare things. Someone from Manchester who makes sense. Even rarer to find such a thing in the Mail on Sunday. But I can’t help but like Gary Neville. He’s no beauty, but that’s not what we pay him for. Gary wrote about how the young generation is essentially priced out of going to football matches. That whereas the demographic of football attendees was predominantly young, over 40 years (what we shall call ‘The Sky years’) that has shifted and crowds are, on average, much older. And mainly, much richer. Because going to football is seriously expensive. Tickets for a family of 4; 300 quid. Couple of programmes, two teas and a horse and rabbit pie, add another £40. Parking the Bentley, 20 quid plus an extra tenner for someone to make sure it doesn’t get scratched. Also phrased as ‘if you don’t give me a tenner I will scratch your car’. That comes to 2,486.93 plus vat. If you get arrested for fighting you have to add legal costs too. Possibly hospital bills as well.

In the 70s I used to go to Spurs for 7s and 6d. Don’t ask, I don’t really remember ‘old money either’, nor care really, its not the point. The point was I didn’t have to ask anyone for the money to go to football, it was manageable from my allowance or from some minor supplement from shop-lifting. We’d sometimes get in free as ‘old Reg’, or ‘young Ted’ would tell us just to jump over the turnstiles as he was rolling up his next fag. Bless him. (Sadly he died from lung cancer in 1969).

The upshot of all this is that people can’t afford to go and instead watch football on tv. Fab atmosphere in our lounge on matchdays. Its just like ‘being there’ but with the phone ringing and better tea.

Money has ruined our national game. And if its going to be watched on tv, why not go all the way and just use CGI facsimiles. Instead of showing real football, show people playing FIFA 2013. Its so realistic you can actually see which hair gel Christiano Ronaldo is using on that day. And you could save all those ridiculous salaries because the players would no longer be real. Thus buying a virtual Range Rover would cut costs dramatically.

There’s always a solution to every problem. You’re just not very likely to find it in the Mail on Sunday.

Happy days

A xxxx