Andy's Glasses

David Cameron yesterday announced that he is in a very happy relationship with a man and has been for 6 months.

Oh, that was Tom Daley. Same difference.

David Cameron actually announced that despite the constant atrocities perpetrated by the People’s Republic of China, the genocide in Tibet, the persecutions, the human rights abuses, the child labour issues and other niceties you get from a brutal totalitarian regime, Britain and China are to enjoy a ‘special relationship’ and engage in lots more business together.
This has nothing to do with money.

Ok, this has everything to do with money. We’re broke, China’s rich, that’s a perfect fit. Everything else is mere contingencies.

The problem with the Chinese paying for HS2 and building the new proposed high speed rail network is that you’d take a journey and an hour later you’d want another.

But the Chinese know about rail travel, having installed their own 6000 miles of super new mega-trains in a 5 year period. Ok, they had a terrible crash but that’s just teething troubles. 40 Chinese have died; how many are left then?

The press weren’t allowed in any of the meetings DC had with the Chinese premiere yesterday. The press aren’t allowed anywhere in China. ‘Free speech’ is something you make at a wedding in that part of the Far East.
But they have untold riches and we want them. For this latest ‘special relationship’. We already have those with America, with France, with Germany but this is different. 5.6 billion quid’s worth of different. It wreaks of being China’s whore.

At least Tom Daley is loyal in his ‘special relationship’.

Whereas Miranda Kerr, Victoria’s Secret uber-babe and former wifey of Orlando Bloom, has unsurprisingly been inundated with offers of special relationships herself. And she has brushed aside advances from Leonardo di Caprio to do a Cameron and ‘follow the money’, choosing to date Jamie Packer. Son of Kerry, the (dead) Aussie media billionaire. He’s a big fat ugly thing, like his father, and also like dad, he’s a billionaire. Though I’m sure that didn’t enter into the equation for sweet Miranda at all. But if the romance fails, she can always date China.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

Paul Walker, star of the Fast and the Furious franchise of movies, died yesterday. In a car crash. A very fast car crash. A Porsche. Being driven (not by Paul; he was the passenger) in a very fast and furious manner. As the police said, in that non-committal, policey way they have, ‘speed was involved’. Quel surprise.

And what a tragedy. Not necessarily for the world of good movies, but for his family and that of the driver.

I loved the original movie. I always love original movies, then get bored really quickly once the 4th one comes out to accompany the latest version of the eponymous video game and back up the 2nd tv spinoff series.

The original movie starred Paul with Vin Diesel. All shaven head and smoulering stares. Beauty and the Beast. Paul smiled, Vin grimaced and flexed his muscles threateningly.

If I’m honest I only loved the film because it featured a Dodge Charger with a 1000 horse power engine and a supercharger so big that the car couldn’t drive under low bridges. And it roared. Seriously, loudly, throatily, wickedly did it roar. And I love that roar. That’s why G-d invented V8 engines, so they could roar. And burble.

Someone who loves drag racers and street cars must have found that car and built a film around it. I would have if I was in the movie biz and found a car like that. But you need some people. Otherwise its not really a movie, just a car. Ok, we’ll have a dangerous bald one with muslces, taking the ‘muscle car’ theme to a living metaphor, and we need a pretty one. Ok, let’s use Paul Walker, he’s pretty. Get a whole bunch of other cars, slicker, Japanese shit, all high tuning and computerised turbo chargers, and a few women. Gorgeous women. You gotta have women with cars, they go together like… like… well, like women and cars. Take off as many of their clothes that still allow a PG rating and make a 2 hour car chase.

Rinse and repeat.

Other films have starred cars.

Bullitt, with Steve McQueen driving a fantastic Mustang; Vanishing Point, starring an amazing Dodge Challenger and a few actors (very few in fact), even such total shit as Starsky and Hutch, the dire Dukes of Hazzard. All about American Muscle. Proper cars. That pollute the atmosphere, deplete the ozone layer, chew up natural resources and are pretty much anti-social in every way. Which is why I love them.
That and the noise. The roar.

Rip up the tarmac.

Or, for Paul Walker, R.I.P. the tarmac.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Spurs can win the league this year. That’s a fact. Statistically distinct probability. You can work it out yourself. All you need is a calculator, an iphone, three pieces of green paper, an empty Fairy Liquid bottle and a lifetime’s unyielding devotion to Tottenham and some drugs which increase optimism beyond any logical limits.

That and the priviledge to witness Spurs match today against the very overrated Manchester Bleedin’ United. Who cheated their way to a draw with a penalty awarded by the ref, a Mr Ferguson, and a goal gifted to them by the otherwise superb Kyle Walker.

But my word it was early.
I had to play tennis at the crack of 9.30 so as to have time to shower and change before heading off to the Lane with the Legend.

The Man United fans make a big fuss about ‘coming all’t way t’t Luunduun’ for the 12 o’clock kick off but they’re not big on things like showers up there so that’s time saved. I heard some whingeing Manc saying how he’d been up since 5.30am, blah, blah, whinge whine. Well no-one asked him to come. No-one wanted him down here. So no point moaning now. Whereas me and the Legend had to sit in a warm car for almost 35 minutes to arrive at the game fresh as daisies. And smelling lovely and clean and southern.

Anyway, enough personal hygeine.

Spurs were great today. Outplayed the Mancs considerably and worked hard. Ok, we gave them two silly goals and should have been 3-0 up by half time but the world is not a perfect place. If it was Arsenal would be in the Scottish second division, Real Madrid wouldn’t exist at all and Gareth Bale would still be at Spurs and English as well.

Dembele was fab, Paulinho great, Sandro scored a wonderful goal and little Aaron Lennon was back to his pesky self. Which apparently gives defensive thugs carte blanche to hack him to the ground at every opportunity. The same ref who gave the Mancs their penalty with neither thought nor delay, was certainly mean with yellow cards which may have protected our ‘stars’ from physical abuse from the cynical ‘champions’.
Sadly the result is a gift for Arsenal who now have 10 points on Spurs. Just where we want them. Complacent and arrogant. And we’ve jumped from 9th in the table to er… 9th. A brilliant days’ work.

Chelsea currently losing to Southampton. More good news for Arsenal. Particularly with Liverpool losing at Hull.

Well, it was lovely to be down the Lane today with the faithful. A religious experience. True devotion.

God help us.

Happy sunday

A xxxx

I’ve just ‘read’ the Time magazine. And its all about ‘how to be a man’.

I know how to be a man. I may not act like one but I know what’s required. I’ve been aware since I first saw the original True Grit movie with John Wayne. Fill her hands ya sunnovabitch. That’s how to be a man. Swear a lot and take no shit from not nobody never, and don’t use a double negative when a triple or quadruple is available.

And did you know that there’s all different types of men? Who’d’a thought such a thing possible? I’d imagined that we were all exactly the same. All of us. Me, Wayne Rooney, the Pope, Jimmy Savile, Prince Harry, Elton John. Seperated at birth.

Apparently I’m a ‘J-Crew Man’. Sadly though, I have no fucking idea what J-Crew might be. I’m assuming its a line of clothing. Which I shall rush out immediately and bankcrupt myself acquiring because I’d hate to disprove a stereotype.

“Wears a serious watch or no watch”. That’s me. No point wearing a watch that doesn’t work. It’ll only be right twice a day, the rest of the time (good pun, huh?) you have to guess.

“Fussy about jeans”, yep, only Levis. But in the same way I only listen to music from the 60s to 80s. Because I lack the imagination to change my ways, not as some mission statement towards a shmutter company I’ve never heard of.

“Knows who Cara Delevigne is”; you’d actually have to be a dead man not to know as that anorexic waif is on every page of every paper/magazine every day poking her sodding tongue out.

“Wants a sports car”. Done that. But I did that as part of a general mid-life crisis, not out of deference to the George Clooney ideal. And he rides motorbikes anyway.

They only have rules for men ‘under 40’ and ‘over 40’. So either the latter includes everything up to 103 or those of us over 50 just don’t count. Agist bastards.

On consideration of all the information given, I’ve now decided, conclusively and unambiguously, that I am the ‘perfect man’.

I’m butch, but in a delicate way. I’m gorgeous, in a manly way. I’m a metrosexual, in a muscly way and I’m a proper, post-feminist, in a knuckle-dragging way. If told to buy ‘feminine products’ I know to ask ‘with or without wings’. That’s how fucking in touch with my feminine side I am.

All Spurs fans are the same. They don’t allow rabble into White Hart Lane. Only trendy (but effortlessly so) over/under 40s with style, class, manliness and good, groomed facial hair. The men have different rules.

Lunchtime

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I love a bit of urban redevelopment, just like the next man. And its all the better if the planners use what’s available and add to it rather than the Berlin Method of bombing the place to dust and building a modernesque nightmare.

SoHo in New York is a prime example of how ya do it right.

Farringdon is another. The whole area east of Farringdon Road by the wonderful, old (and still used; certainly smells like its still used) Smithfields Meat Market and south of the Clerkenwell Road just sort’a crept up and became trendy. Filled with fabulous old buildings, all left wonderfully intact, most of which are now bars and restaurants. And slick and trendy offices. Used to be a dump, now its fabulous and buzzing. And obviously unaffordable to live or rent office space now, but you can’t have it all.

Only my pension people can afford their new offices there. Which is why I’ll be working til I’m 93. Bastards.

So we went to see them last night for a meeting of depression and disappointment, as always, and took the younger daughter with to sort out stuff for her ‘planning’ now she’s a working babe.

And afterwards we thought we might as well eat there, in the Meat Market. Because we love meat and you’re kind of eating it ‘at source’.
Ironic then that the place next door to the market offers ’40-day beef’ and ‘3-month-old’ steaks, when they could so easily provide really fresh stuff. Go figure.

I was more concerned with Kobe and Wagyu.

These almost mythical, mystical breeds of cattle roam the plains round Tokyo. (Do they actually have any plains around Tokyo? Maybe they roam the streets round Tokyo). They are fed beer and massaged with Sake when young. I didn’t make that up, honest. Its how they’re reared. You soak their feed in beer and whilst they’re drunk as (very big) skunks, you massage their little 2-ton bodies to ‘tenderise’ them for… er… later. And on a scale of things from ‘free-range’ to ‘foix gras’ this is a pretty acceptable life for animals who’s lives are destined to end on a plate in EC1.

I must confess, I’m not a steak fan. I really don’t dig on raw meat. Never have. Rachie loves it. She sat there eating with blood dripping down her chin like some beautiful Tyrannasaurus with orthodontistry.
I like my meat cooked. I know, that’s not how its supposed to be, its philistine, its not being in touch with my inner cave man, its an abuse of good beef. And I don’t fucking care.

But I do love a burger. So I had a Wagyu burger. Felt it was the least I could do after all that animal had been throught to get there. And I’d love to say ‘it changed my life’, or ‘I saw God’ or ‘I’ll never eat in KFC again’, but it wasn’t that brilliant. It was lovely, but just tasted a bit odd. I’d definitely try it again. Maybe next time I go to find out what happened to the pension I once had.

I’m hungry now.

Happy Friday,

A xxxx

Today is the first ‘day’ of Chanukah, the Festival of Lights. Yippee. It actually started last night while I was out, kind’a caught me by surprise. So we lit our candle (singular; only one on the first night, increasing by approximately one more every day for 8 days… or 8 ‘nights-before-the-days’ really). And chanukah is unusual for a Jewish festival in that its happy. Most aren’t. They’re commemorating the history of a people who, basically, haven’t been treated too well by history. But on chanukah we’re happy, we light candles and we actually sing songs which, unlike on all other festivals, don’t sound like funeral marches. Kids get presents. Candles get lit. Food gets eaten. But all Jewish festivals are marked by food (or an absence thereof, I s’pose) because that’s what keeps the doctors happy.

Chanukah the food of choice is oil. Fat. Fried everything. Its like friday night in Glasgow. Because the oil is symbolic.
What happened was…

many years ago there was a war and a bunch of middle eastern horrible people, kind of proto-Assads. They sacked the Temple in Jerusalam, killed loads of Israelites, raped, pillaged and plundered and generally acted just like those Glaswegians on a Friday night. The Maccabees fought back and saved the Temple. For a while. It got sacked and wrecked so many times by so many persecutors that all that’s left is one wall; the Wailing/Western Wall.
But on that occasion all was well. Phew. Except… except…

Oh No, there’s only sufficient oil to keep the eternal lamp burning for one day, and it’ll take 7 days to get more because Amazon are out of stock. Because oil doesn’t just pour out of the ground. Because Tescos had a rush. Whatever. Seven days to go, one day’s worth of oil for the lamp. Which is in serious breach of the ‘eternal’ bit of its job description if it goes out for 6 days. So the rabbis, being pragmatic kind of dudes, did what they had to do.

Make oil? Buy oil? Steal oil?

No, they prayed. And a miracle happened and the oil lasted 7 more days and all was well until the Babylonians, Mesopotamians, Assyrians, Egyptians or whomsoever came to cause more bother a few years later.
Rinse and repeat.

That is the history of the Jews.

The oil is thus symbolic.

So we could bathe in it for the duration of chanukah, or we could increase the wholesale price set by OPEC, or we could eat things cooked in it. Hmmm…

Doughnuts become the order of the day. Fried potatoes. Fried fish, meat, vegetables, chocolate, mars bars, herring, bananas and fried chicken fat.
The Torah now has a health warning inserted on the sabbath before Chanukah starts. And the word: ‘statins’ appears in the ancient texts.
Its true; too much chanukah could kill ya. But a little of what you fancy…

Happy Chanukah

A xxxx

In days of old, b4 txts & emls ruined the entire language, before the ‘digital age’, I was a well-analogue kind of guy and I actually used to write letters. There’s a surprise eh? Opinionated bastard voices opinions. Plus ca change…

I was angry of NW11. Before that I was disgruntled of E18. Pissed off from Ilford; devastated of Gants Hill. Even for a while Upset of West Hollywood.
But letters I always wrote. With a pen. Remember pens? With my hundred year old typewriter acquired from an Oxfam shop which weighs the same as my car, with anything. Things upset me, inspired me, animated me, I had to let people know of the good/bad/ indifferent/useless/pathetic they were up to.
And I wrote to Nigella Lawson. As she was then known. Pre-domestic goddess. Ancient times. 25 years ago. Before she’d achieved that rare fame (and good fortune to have an almost unique, if a bit stupid, name) in which you are known as just one name. Nigella.

Beyonce does it. Eminem. But that’s cheating. Nigella is a one-name babe. An act of stupid vanity by her father, Nigel, and the name that was probably a source of teasing and upset at school (would’a been in my school) became her making.

That and the fact that she is quite gorgeous. Despite living most of her adult life slightly north of her perfect fighting weight.
And I wrote to her at the Evening Standard, for whom she wrote a weekly column. Next to which was a picture, her byline. Like the one above. A pouting princess. A divine entity. Natural beauty. And not just that, she was clever. Wrote proper, joined-up type words, all plummy, a bit Oxbridge, more than a touch pretentious, but strikingly intelligent. Which is almost as important in a woman as bust size. Almost.

I wrote because of some slur she’d made upon new fathers. And Natalie was at the time about 6 months old, so she was ‘attacking’ me. Personally. Not that I was so bothered about this mere ‘slight’ on the character of proud new dads, which was pretty accurate really. I just liked the idea of a discourse with this gorgeous woman. As that was the only -course I was ever going to be eligible for.

I wrote, she replied, in ink (as opposed to a cave drawing, perhaps?) and that was that. She married John Diamond who died of cancer, married Charles Saatchi who strangled her outside a restaurant, and she has graced our screens, licking chocolate off her fingers, for many years.
And now the ex-hubby has revealed that she’s a serious drug user. Another serious drug user to come to light. Everyone’s doing drugs these days; drugs are the new Lattes. Bank chairmen, mayors of Toronto, now Nigella. Coke, cannabis, anything, ALLEGEDLY. Charles called her ‘Higella’. Not very nice. But I don’t think he’s a very nice man.

The Saachi/Nigella personal assistants, two Italian sisters are up for fraudulent use of the couple’s credit cards. The PAs defense is that they were allowed to spend what they liked ‘in return for their silence about Nigella’s drug use’. Which is kind of ‘blackmail’ writ backwards. So not the best defense really.

So I’d just like to say: NIGELLA IS INNOCENT ON VIRTUALLY ALL CHARGES. FREE NIGELLA (if only).

Justice must be obscene to be done.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Doctor Who is 50 years old this week. Not the Doctor himself; he’s as ancient or young as the producers of the time decide, but the series. When it came out I was 7. And really excited about its arrival. Mainly because ‘back then’ there were only 2 tv stations and they only transmitted from about 3 in the afternoon til 11 at night and 98% of what they showed was of abolutely no interest to a 7 year old kid.
Strictly come Rationing; There’s no such thing as a celebrity yet, but get me out of here anyway; Top of the Assassinations. Kennedy won that year.

Anyway; big fuss made about this ‘new sci-fi’ series, time travel, exotic locations (Hull), futuristic monsters, and all in a blue phone box. Wow. Stuff didn’t get any more exciting than that in 1963.
The show started, the original Doc, the phone box and a light being turned on and off rapidly were ‘special effects’ which were stunning. Instead of CGI (because the ‘C’ hadn’t yet been invented) they had men in dustbins with collendars on their heads. Really amazing.

I’d love to say I remember that first episode. But I can’t. It was as memorable as Preston North End drawing 0-0 with Burnley. It was as fantastic as the weather forecast. As gripping as a wet bar of soap.
Even to the 7 year old me it was just shit and disappointment.

Yet it became a cult. And part of that cult was to keep its ‘original values’, if not, never, the original Doctor. Those values being never to spend more than the tea and biscuit budget on the costumes, sets and effects.

People still rave about the show, obviously, and its still crap, but that’s life. Or that’s ‘sad bastards’ whichever way you choose to look at it.

One tv show that was much better, if a little later, was Citizen Smith. In 1977. Fantastic comedy about a group of ‘urban guerillas’ living in Tooting. The Tooting Popular Front, as they were, a little bit of communism in South London. Funny situation, inspired comedy, Comrade.

Then we learn last week that two women were kept as ‘slaves’ for 30 years in South London. But not just by a wierd and abusive couple, but by the leaders of the: ‘Workers Institute of Marxist-Leninist-Mao Tse Tung Thought’. In. Brixton. I’d love to be able to claim that I made that up but sadly, its real. A Marxist ‘collective’ (in that they collected slaves, it would appear) right there in SW2. Whoever would’a thought? Life imitating art.

Not like Doctor Who, which was more art imitating kitchin equipent and household utensils.

Live long and prosper (oops, mixing me sci-fis)

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

No one died
the world survived
the trees are still there
the weather’s even quite fair.
Its only football.

Children still happy
politicians still crappy
same sights as old
jolly tales being told
Its only football.

Goods are still being trucked
the economy’s still fucked
In Iran we may trust
(as it all turns to dust)
Its only football.

Dentists still fillin’
Syrians still killin’
the trains are still working
Mylie’s still twerking
Its only football.

Clooney and I still full of style
Aussie cricketers still bloody vile
British troops still full of valour
Blue is still the warmest colour
ITS ONLY BLOODY FOOTBALL.

But six goals to nil
its not close to being a thrill
its desperate and dire as I try
my utmost not to just cry

Its over its done its finished and dead
the thing we feared with anxiety and dread
the living proof, the fact of life
as I said to my long-suffering (and not that interested) wife

We are just shite, pure and simple, that’s what we are
in fact in levels of shite we’ve raised the sodding bar
the season is over, aspirations denied
we looked like we never even tried

I’m not a big fan of Manchester City
preferred it when upon them we used to take pity
they’re northern and ugly and richer than God
mercenary scum with sexuality quite odd

Yet they played in a completely different class
and a right royal pain in the bloody ass
the humiliation, the horror, the sadness, the woe
We couldn’t even get near to that foe

But when you align your mood to the team you support
you get what you’re given, which can be quite fraught
Yet you cannot change, the emotion’s not there
So you try to convince yourself you ‘really don’t care’

You have family and friends, good health, a nice house
does it matter your team play like mickey mouse?
‘Its only football’, a game, a sport, it really doesn’t matter
(that fucking result! my hearth doth shatter)

Yet the season’s still young, time to get it together
if we just beat whoever, never mind the weather
Spurs can come good, just a matter of time
I only wish ‘FUCK! SHIT! PISS! WANK!’ was a better little rhyme.

Happy monday… if only

Depressed of NW11
xxxx

I love a bit of atheism, God knows, I really do.

And yet, it can go too far. Like Richard Dawkins, who holds every ‘believer’ in total contempt and basically accuses them of being completely moronic, stupid, blind and dim if they adhere to some formulaic set of rituals known as ‘religion’. There again he’s so smug, arrogant and obnoxious he holds most of humanity in contempt just for not being him. Tosser.

Yet the point has been made that atheism is in fact a logical impossibility anyway, because you can’t ever prove a negative totally.
So it all becomes a matter of whether you believe God exists, for which, let’s face it, there is no proof whatsoever, or whether you believe he doesn’t. Atheism becomes in itself a matter of belief. Just a different belief.

Furthermore its a matter of what you need to make sense of the world. Theists believe in God because they need something to explain shit. Not ‘shit’ in itself, I’m sure the Pope’s shit stinks the same as Dawkins’. However much incense you use. But to understand the universe you need help. You can explain it by science, like Dawkins, or you invoke the Hand of God. Not like Maradonna’s goal, the real Hand of the real God. Divine intervention type stuff.

So you pays yer money, you takes yer choice. Generally quite a bit of money if you belong to my synagogue.

Most religions have issues with homosexuality. Very few condone or accept it, unless in very watered down or ‘liberal’ versions of mainstream godliness. It goes agains the whole ‘go forth and multiply’ ethos. ‘Go forth and adopt’ is a great sentiment but not biblical. There are other quotes from the holy books relating Sodom and Gamorrah to Hampstead Heath and other pretty negative commentaries on same sex relationships. In Islamic countries being gay is punishable by death. Gay marriage here in wonderful, liberal, tolerant Britain caused a mass of discontent and obfuscation by even David Cameron who feared the displeasure of the very conservative Conservatives and shelved the plans for its legalisation. The Catholics just struggle to differentiate between ‘celibate’ and ‘gay’.

One conservative less anti on gay marriage is Crispin Blunt. He ‘came out’ at 50 years old, having known his sexuality since he was 12. Coming from an army family he knew they wouldn’t’ be too pleased by any such revelation so kept it to himself, married, fathered 2 kids, then came out after 20 years of wedlock. Wife must have been pleased with that. Yet surely his parents are to blame.

The old chicken and egg debate once again. Did he become gay because he was called Crispin or did he become gay because he was called Crispin? Either way he really had little choice in the matter.

Blue is the Warmest Colour is on general release this weekend. Its atheistic, pornographic, sapphic, French and a truly wonderful film. 3 hours of only slightly uncomfortable viewing.

Happy sunday

A xxxx