Andy's Glasses

We are the resig-nation. Nowhere does it better. So in the last few days we, as that nation, have suffered not one but TWO resignations of immense importance and consequence.

Daniel Levy resigned as the Chairman of Tottenham Hotspur football club, which he has run since 2001. As fans we don’t really have much to do with our chairman. He never phones us, invites us onto WhatsApp groups or comes over for Friday night dinners. And thus the relationship becomes somewhat strained in times of… anything less than perfection. Let’s face it; most of us have no idea what the chairman even does. Yet, like almost everyone else in the structure of the team, he gets grudging praise if everything goes well and heaps of abuse the rest of the time. Most of the time. And if 24 hours is the famous ‘long time in politics’, that reduces to just 90 minutes in the world of football. (Plus stoppage time). There have been calls for Daniel Levy’s head since about 2002. You never go to White Hart Lane without some dickhead waving a “Levy Out!!” banner. Yet during his tenure we’ve evolved massively, if not entirely consistently. We’ve built a magnificent training facility and what is the World’s best stadium. We’re regulars in the Champions League. Ok, one or two managers may have passed along with rather alarming speed, but generally, to achieve such massive investment in players and club infrastructure without plunging the club into immense debt is in itself testament to his brilliant stewardship and acumen. You simply know that the ultimate decisions come from our owner, Joe Lewis, who holds the purse strings all the way from the Bahamas. Yet Levy gets the blame every time we don’t sign Lionel Messi or Pele because he is the face of the club’s ownership structure. But no more. This ‘resignation’ is grossly unfair and unappreciative of this exceptionally modest ‘Mr Behind the Scenes’.

The other resignation is less important.

Angela Raynor, the ultimate sex symbol for brainless trade union drunkards and tattooed Corbynite fuckwits, is no longer our deputy prime minister. Stripped of her ministerial salary and the benefits package which comes with such a role, she’ll be reduced to offering cheap blow jobs on the back benches when the cameras are off. I have a lot of sympathy for Ange, the ‘working class hero’, even though I’m not sure where the £160k salary package fits with such a title. She raised herself up through the ranks after becoming a mother at 12, maybe 13, and succeeded completely in her chosen career of being a really annoyingly gobby lefty northerner. Except for the lying, cheating, tax evasion and the greatest crime of all in politics; hypocrisy.

If you’re the number 2 in a government constantly banging on about ‘financial black holes’ of 20billion quid!!!!, possibly 30billion quid!!!!, depending on the day, and creating novel ways to tax anyone who owns everything from a house to a hosepipe, oblivious to how that may fuck up the economy, you would be best advised to pay your own taxes. Particularly if you own 3 houses. And several hose pipes, no doubt.

I shall miss Daniel Levy.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This was posed at 2.15am because I can’t sleep. I’m still in Canada.

Let me start by saying: ‘I don’t expect sympathy’. Everything that follows is true. Except for the bits I choose to fabricate. But really, there’s very little fiction in this tale of ‘the worst travel experience, EVERRRRR!!!’

So BA cancelled our flight. Didn’t delay it, move it, displace it and certainly didn’t replace it. They just cancelled it. ‘Fly tomorrow’, they said. You know this.

What you don’t know is the sacrifice we had to make to get home yesterday morning rather than today, as BA suggested. Because when we fly ‘long haul’ we do it with our air miles and we go ‘business class’. Why? Because I feel like a princess and can click my fingers for anything I need from check-in right up to the sedan chair they use to carry business class travellers through the airport. Ok, what I like is that you don’t queue anything like as much. For that I would pay money in any circumstance (read: world’s most impatient fucker), but with BA, we don’t need to pay money, just send ‘em a few air miles and a voucher. The lounge is great, the food is fab, you sit in a little ‘pod’ thing, which fully reclines if that’s what you desire. And they bring you whisky and snacks, strippers, a shower, whatever you want. Yes, it’s all very poncey and precious, but you really look forward to the flights.

We came home on Air Canada, in… economy!!! But, like, all the way home! Oh no, the total deprivation!!! I know, right? We fly pleb class a lot, just normally not for too long and not generally on Air Canada. It wasn’t pleasant. The only reason no-one died of food poisoning was that the food was so inedible it didn’t pass your lips.

But heh; we coped. Heroically. Staggered off the flight, stooped over, aching, you know, and made it out. Jumped in the car we’d booked and…

It broke down. On the M4 motorway as we’d just passed the service station before London. WTF? When do cars ever break down?? But we managed to find one that did. The driver looked under the bonnet, did what I’d have done, which is think “yeah, I think we need someone who understands this shit” and called for another cab. But there were none available. And you can’t call an Uber from the hard shoulder of a motorway. So we walked back to the service station. Lugging our bagS (there were many) and trudging up the hard shoulder. In the (fucking) rain. Called an uber, and all was well again.

HOW MANY WAYS COULD THEY TRY TO STOP US GETTING HOME???

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So I’m in Toronto. And I’m watching the US Open quarter final. Why? Because there’s a Canadian involved. Auger-Alissime is young, gifted and Canuck. Therefore we have to be ‘involved’ in support of the entire nation for one of its own. I wouldn’t normally be watching the US Open, on the grounds that it is NOT Wimbledon. But me mate Dave is so engaged with ‘his boy’, that we’re watching. It’s his ‘Emma Raducanu’ moment. I hope he has greater longevity that our Emma seems to be perpetually struggling with.

But we’re leaving tonight. Catching the late night out of Pearson Airport, landing by 10am tomorrow in London. Fantastic. British Airways. Booked it last October. Great. What could possibly go wrong?

Got an email at 4.30: “your flight has been cancelled; we’ve booked you onto an Air Canada flight tomorrow, Thursday, night. You’ll be fine…”

Oh well, that’s fine. It’s ‘only a day’. So Lila and Joey can pick themselves up from school on Thursday, go swimming and walk home afterwards, that’s no problem, it’s about time they were a bit more independent. The Ocado delivery guy will just have to stand on our doorstep for 24 hours to drop the food; he won’t mind. And work on Friday is only work; if we’re a few hours late for our respective days; ok, 5 or 6 hours late, that won’t matter too much. We can just hang out with our friends for another day. We’re good at outstaying welcomes, freeloading, sofa-surfing (as if), we’ll just ‘hang’. Except they’re off to the wilds of ‘the countryside’, where the lakes are tomorrow. Oh. We’ll camp on the front garden until 10 o’clock tomorrow, no bother.

I spoke to BA. Ok, I spoke to a guy in Delhi who works for BA. And I think works for various electric supply companies too, he sounded really familiar. And after several arguments, a lot of shouting and an equal amount of begging and crying, we’re flying tonight, Air Canada.

Holy shit, that was just soooo stressful. Just when we were in the most relaxed of Toronto cool modes after the fabulous wedding and spending some quality time (for them) with our friends.

Who knew Toronto had a beach? And not just a beach, a massive, yellow, soft-sand, humungous beach. Because we’re on the banks of Lake Ontario, and although that’s not a proper ‘sea’, it’s as big as one. In fact, Toronto is, obviously massive, but massively wonderful. And we had the best time ever.

Happy Wednesday (we hope, haven’t taken off yet)

A xxxx

I’m in Toronto. Its fabulous. Hot, sunny, clean, lovely and… obviously, big. It’s Canada, ergo, it’s big. But it seems much bigger than it really is because when you walk (as we did this morning) 20-odd ‘blocks’, you go through 20-odd intersections, and therefore you wait for the little white walking man 20-odd times. And you have to wait! No-one dares cross on the red man. It’s fucking fatal! Even though every nerve in my London born-and-bred body is not urging but DEMANDING that ‘there’s nothing coming, just GO!!’, you resist. Because you have to. So the journey takes 10 minutes longer than it should if you were running between cars, round buses, under big trucks, like you do at home.

We walked ‘downtown’ for a walking tour of ‘old Toronto’. Which my mate Dave, who moved here 45 years ago from Montreal, laughed at. There is no ‘old town’ he said. Yet there is! Dave!!! There are buildings here that go back as far as 1962. Which are older than all the newer ones. So there. And it’s interesting, as all walking tours are, even if they have to make shit up. Who would ever know? And there’s industrialists, and beaver pelt dealers who made good and alcohol producers who almost went out of business during Canada’s own ‘prohibition’ but were saved by Al Capone, who came to buy their booze to sell in the USA. Which, even if he tried now, and paid the tax on it, would be subject to tariffs. Obviously he never paid taxes, which was how they ‘got him’ in the end. So blame the Canadians. Why not?

Anyway, we walked to the ‘old town’, did a 3 hour walking tour and then walked the 3k back to the hotel. If I was ‘that sort of person’, who we all hate, always counting fucking steps as if it makes you somehow morally superior if you can’t afford to take Ubers, I would tell that we walked 23,000 steps today. But I simply wouldn’t be so gloatful as to even mention it. #fuckinghero.

We’re having the best time here. We arrived from Newfoundland, leaving all the retarded ones behind for the slimmed down beauty of the Toronto chic. We went to our pals for a ‘little dinner’ for about 50 people who’d all flown into town. But 48 of them weren’t as delayed as we were. Last night there was a party for about 100 people, which was fabulous. Tonight is the wedding. There goes the diet. But who cares? Calories don’t count in Canada. And speaking to a few ‘locals’, as I have been, I may have to change my mind about Canadians. They’re really not as bad as you’d imagine.

Happy Wedding Day

A xxxx

We’re leaving Newfoundland. Its over. Living with the whales (didn’t see one), the moose (yeah, right), the Caribou (are there?), beavers (no, really) and the trucks. They all drive trucks here. Big ones. Massive. But I get it, there’s lots of unpaved roads, ‘we’ all have boats and caravans jet-skis and stuff what needs trailing. So you need at least a 6-litre V8 to pull that. And with ‘gas’ less than half what it costs at home, why not? I would. A convertible one. Which you need when it’s -40 for half the year. I just saw a truck with a 6.4litre ‘Hemi’. For non petrolheads that won’t mean much, but to me, it’s like finding Jesus.

But what a place this is. It’s just fabulous. All of it. Absolutely loved it here, despite the lack of the promised mythical creatures. I did see a squirrel. Red one. All by himself. And the days perfectly alternate between grey and really rainy, and bright, sunny and gorgeous.

Like all places which are ‘islands’ in the metaphorical as well as geographical sense, you get the feeling that life kind’a stood still since 1957. What was good enough for ‘American Graffiti’ is good enough for Newfoundland. Also, there’s insufficient population to create the image of city sophistication, which they wouldn’t want here anyway.

I’ve often said: ‘I could live on hamburgers’. And I virtually have. Ok, there’s quite a bit of cod round here and it is the best cod you’ve ever had. So I sampled that too. And they have reached a level of understanding of foodiness that everything doesn’t need to be deep fried in beer batter to be a meal. Many places offer ‘pan fried cod’ as the ‘healthy’ option. Not saying it’s not good, but for a Londoner, would a ‘drizzle’ of balsamic kill them? If the batter was laced with pomegranate molasses would it be a crime? A dash of z’atar? A blob of tahini?? Just so I can ‘rave’ about the sheer cosmopolitan-ness of it all. But just as Newfoundland seems about a million miles from anywhere else, it’s also about a million miles from cosmopolitan. And that is a massive part of its charm.

Get on a plane. Or two. Or just get up to Nova Scotia, take a 7 hour ferry and drive right here. You will not be disappointed.

As I sit here in the airport on the sunny day option (yesterday it pissed down), I’m gonna miss it

Happy but sad Friday

A xxxx

Do you have any idea how many Moose there are in Canada? Answers to the nearest 10,000 please. Do you know how many we’ve seen in the last 5 days? None. They’re hiding. The nearest you can get to a moose is to eat one. Not a whole one, they’re big, but moose-burgers are on sale everywhere. Moose steaks. Antler pie. (I made that one up). Have those fucking Canadians made them extinct by over-eating?? Like they did with the Auk???? Or are moose just, like, really shy and timid, even though they’re fucking humungous, or are they banned by their agents from having photos taken without contracts being signed?

We’re in Gros Morne national park. It’s nothing like Marble Arch here. No moose is likely to get hit by a bus or a taxi because they have neither around here. And if an e-bike hit a moose, it would bend. Instead, they have forests. Mountains. Trees. Grazing land. Lakes. Everything your average moose would choose as his perfect ‘happy place’. And over about a million acres, so the moose won’t be cramped or crowded, like fighting over a little patch of grass. But not one has been seen. Only the pictures of them on every road with the sign reading “CAREFUL: MOOSE!!!”, at which I shout “WHERE?????”. Show me the moose I might run over and I’ll stop and take a selfie. Me, Mel and Moose. I have it all planned. I’ve even shouted at the forests that “I’ll eat a moose burger if you don’t come out!!!”, but I think they have a problem with my accent.

Therefore I no longer believe in mooses. I think they’re a product of someone’s imagination. Which is why they look a bit weird. They’re made up.

So we consoled ourselves with ‘second prize’ here. We took a boat ride down a fjord. Ok, it’s not big and furry with massive antlers but it was quite pretty. Ok, it was fucking spectacular. The fjord is an inland, fresh-water one. I would explain, like the lady on the boat did, but I think it’s too geological for you, to be honest. It was called Western Brook Pond. Obviously a ‘pond’ because it’s not big enough to be a ‘lake’. It’s only 16km long. Tiny. Pathetic.

Everyone talks to you here. Everyone. It’s so friendly as to be mildly unsettling. Though I actually like talking to strangers. It’s the people I know I have issues with. Or possibly that have issues with me.

Happy last day in Newfoundland

A xxxx

For the last part of our Newfoundland ‘adventure’ we’re in Gros Morne national park. It’s on the northwest coast of Newfoundland and is so big that anywhere else it would be a ‘continent’, here it’s just a ‘park’.

We left Fogo Island. We jumped on the bargain-of-the-year ferry. Ok, we were the fourth from last car they let on. You can’t book it. They cram about 70 cars on and then it’s full. First come first served. Phew. Fucking massive ‘phew!!!’ Then a quick 5 hour drive (it’s soooooo big here) to the West Coast. And if the rest of Newfoundland is beautiful, which it is, round here is absolutely spectacular. Mountains, inlets, forests, all together. Just ‘wow’, wherever you look.

And so you don’t think we’re on some princessy, tarty ‘excursion’ type, cruise-linery, 5 star trip, I’ve shown you where real people had lunch yesterday. We stopped mid-way to gas up, get a coffee and enjoy our pre-prepared (by us) lunch, in the car, in a rainy gas station car park by a junkyard. Well ‘ard. Newfoundland is sparse in such facilities so when you see one, you stop and use it. It may be 100 miles before the next.

In that gas station, the old hypothesis about island inhabitants reared its ugly head once more. ‘Ipswich syndrome’ is when a fairly isolated population suffers a reduced gene pool, thus enabling recessive traits to become dominant. The two guys in the gas station had that ‘inbred’ feel about them. In that ‘high six!!!’, kind’a way. They were friendly (ish) and helpful, but one or two lightbulbs short of a chandelier. Possibly 3 or 4. I asked how to use the coffee machine, having never previously, in my wide and varied life, bought a self-serve coffee in a Newfoundland gas station. I know; inadequately educated. He looked at me and said: “ ‘ain’t ‘ard”. And he showed me. For which I am grateful. I like coffee. But lovely and friendly though the Newfoundlanders are, and they are, there are many whom you view through a lens of gritted teeth and think: ‘really?’

Having said that, this place is so worth visiting. Even though it’s fucking impossible to get here and the weather’s in the most part, shit.

Am I over-selling it?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I wish to complain to the corporation of Newfoundland, possibly the kingdom of Newfoundland, principality, whatever, whoever runs this place. We took the ferry over from the big bit of NL to Fogo Island. 2 of us, obvs, and the guy never even asked if we might possibly be ‘seniors’; he just fucking assumed it. And I want to check that over here, ‘seniors’ start at, like 45, maybe 50. Otherwise, I want to go back and punch the guy. Also, that crossing cost us $22.25. Which is a lot of money. Though it did include the car, but still. So I said we wanted a round trip, to which we were told that it was for the return journey too. Twelve quid. Four journeys. That is a lot of money for old people to find. Why, it’s just over £3 per journey!!! Oh, then there’s the car, I s’pose. A tube journey costs (I think), £3.40. I’ve never asked if I can take my car to Kennington on the Northern Line, but I’m going to.

We did a hike on Fogo. It’s called ‘the Auk trail’. The ‘auk’ in question was a flightless bird which, like all big, fat, slow-moving, slow-cookable, flightless birds in world history, become history. Extinct. Eaten by Victorian age travellers to complete annihilation of the species. There’s only two left in the entire world. Both made of metal. One over here (just above Mel’s shoulder) the other facing it in Iceland.

This was a really wonderfully laid out ‘trail’. All you have to do is find the ‘trail head’. Which, making no excuses, is not easy to find. None of them are. They’re all in places too insignificant to come up on either Google or Waze. But we found it!!! All by ourselves!!! And hiked for about an hour over rocks and cliffs and paths, to find the (fucking) auk. Which was blue and possibly a bit cuddly. But metal ones aren’t cookable. However, the place where the statue was put is a true wonder of geography and geology. Possibly gynaecology and genealogy too. A little cove of beautiful rock formations. The sun was shining, the sea crashing in (it only ‘crashes’ in Newfoundland, there is no plan B) and we sat there for about an hour. It was outstandingly beautiful. And then the birds (you know, those big, white ones) were diving for fish from about 100 feet up. It was simply awe-inspiring. You start to ask ‘the big questions’, about life, your place in it, your meaning, purpose, God, and whether Spurs will sign an attacking midfielder before the window closes next week.

Now we’re off to catch the very expensive ferry.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We’re on Fogo Island. Off the north coast of Newfoundland. Look on a map. Newfoundland is a tiny ‘bit’ on the east of Canada. It’s bigger than England. Fogo won’t be on any map until you zoom in. So I thought we’d be on one of those little cartoon islands with a palm tree stuck in the middle (I know, palm trees are pretty rare up here) and maybe an old man with a really long beard who was marooned here 25 years ago. But in fact, this ‘tiny’ island is ‘massive’, as tiny islands go. It’s ‘tiny’ Canada-style.

And there’s the problem. Everything here is massive. Including most of the people. Newfoundland is just full of overweight people. And we’re not talking ‘carrying a few extra pounds’, even a few extra kilos, cos it’s very ‘metric’ up here, obviously. No, we’re talking about Florida levels of waddling. Ok, it gets cold (serious understatement) so maybe their laying on a bit for the winter to come. Or maybe it’s a lifestyle thing where eating becomes the sole activity. Or the cod activity really cos the seas round here are full of it and it’s fab. But when you go into a supermarket (and yes, they do have them, even on tiny little Fogo, population 2,500), everything they sell is BIG! They had chocolate almonds, a particular favourite of mine. But they only come in 900gm bags. That’s 2lbs to you and me. Who the fuck needs to eat 2 lbs of chocolate almonds?

The people of Newfoundland, that’s who. Along with supersized bags of crisps, fucking buckets of peanut butter and moose meat. Seen the size of a moose??? Ok, they don’t eat that, but it’s the principle. Of bigness. Though they are a very friendly people. They just talk to you. They love Mel’s hair. Obviously they’ve never seen Harpo Marx. They love the accent. “Oh, you’re Scotlandish/South African/Australian…”, and they talk funny. Canadians all talk funny. Even our mates from Toronto talk pretty funny, but up here it’s a different level of ‘funny’. And when you’re on Fogo you encounter levels of ‘funny’ fast approaching ‘downright wierd’. They sound more Irish than Canadian but drop all their ‘h’s and use odd words. Basically, they needs subtitles. But are very charming. And they all drive massive ‘fuck-off’ trucks. They couldn’t fit in anything smaller.

This morning the sun has actually come out. Turning the merely beautiful into the downright spectacular. Windy as hell, but sunny!!! I’ll take it. We shall hike and trek. And inevitably get lost. As we did yesterday after our easy hike, finding the car. There ya go. Sometimes you have to ‘go the extra mile’ to prove your incompetence.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So what do we know about Newfoundland? It was built in 1863 by Billy Newfoundland who came here for the fishes…

We know nothing. Let’s face it. It’s just here. And is quite magnificent. Ok, a little sunshine wouldn’t hurt but for whatever reason, that ain’t happenin’ this week.

We’re currently in a place called Twillingate. Known as ‘iceberg alley’ because virtually all the year you can see icebergs a’floatin’ by. Virtually all the year, just not this bit. But Twillingate is wonderful. Population (I’m guessing) of about 74 (now that poor ole Kenny finally gave up in the spring…) and it’s a tiny peninsula on the north coast, poking out in to the ocean. And on about three sides are fabulous views of rocks being bashed up by the sea. The fourth side is the forest which covers all of Newfoundland. And into which, this morning, Mel & I ventured forth. In heroic manner.

Why heroic? Because we can get lost walking to our local corner shop at home. Stick us in a forest and we have, quite literally, no chance of getting out on our own. We’ve been lost on more ‘well marked hiking trails’ than there are moose in Canada. There’s barely a country in the world we haven’t got lost in.

This morning was no different really. We followed the trail until we weren’t. That’s fine. Coastal trails are sort of ‘self defining’ as long as you avoid the water. So we eventually found the lighthouse, which is gorgeous. And as you stand there, at the edge of this part of the world, that fucking wind hits you. It’s actually like someone took out the ‘north pole’ and slapped you round the face with it. And yet in sort of masochistic way, it’s pleasurable. As all forms of exercise are essentially masochistic anyway. To anyone, like me, who’d rather be in front of Netflix with a bag of crisps and a dip. Maybe a beer.

We came back along the road. There’s only one here. Route 340. No heroics required.

Then we popped back to our B&B (in which the central heating is on) and I learned that once again Spurs had beaten Manchester City at the Etihad. My morning is complete. My life is complete. So I’m going ‘back out there’. Which is the easy bit. It returning which causes the difficulty.

Happy trekking,

A xxxx