Andy's Glasses

Hi, its me again, Trish, from the Palestine Action march a few weeks
ago. Remember? I was the tall fair-haired woman (not completely
natural in colour but everyone says it really suits me) wearing Laura
Ashley and my keffiah, singing about rivers and seas before I got
arrested. Anyway, my husband pitched up with our solicitor and 2
eminent barristers from his golf club and they arranged my release.
Humphrey was understandably a bit put out that I was in a jail with a
dozen certified jihadis, 3 imams and Marge from my bridge club. Told
me I should be keeping better company, he’s never been keen on Marge.

Well next weekend it’s going to be even better. As I gave my email to
everyone at the rally who asked for it, I’m on the register for action
for Palestine Action, action? Along with the new Palestine Action
Workers Collective, the Group for Action in Palestine and Save the
Whales. Whatever, I’m pretty darned ‘hard core’ if you ask me. My
knitting circle were literally agog when I told them. So I get the
bulletins of upcoming ‘events’. Along with calls for sharia law and
voting for Jeremy Corbyn, the wretched little man. I could never vote
for anyone that grubby. But still, I don’t have to reply to all the
messages. Like the ones asking for money to support the Holy War. But
one did catch my eye.

This weekend we’re going to March again, but all proclaiming our
allegiance to Palestine Action again and, according to Imran, 500 of
us will sit down with our banners of support and consequently get
arrested. BUT… and here’s the good bit, the time and money and
resources required to process 500 people is so ridiculously excessive,
for a bunch of middle-class half-wits who’ll never get to court, means
the Police won’t bother. We’ll have won. I’m just not sure precisely
what that victory will mean, but that’s the whole point of protesting;
it’s sheer pointlessness. Because its safe to say that not one, single
Gazan child will avoid starvation because a bunch of virtue-signalling
imbeciles sat in Parliament Square trying to get a group of
treasonous, destructive terrorists to become un-banned by the
government.

But if I don’t go to the protest I’ll have to start baking for the
cake sale in the village in the Cotswolds where our farm is. And I’ve
run out of flour.

Happy Tuesday

Tricia xxxx

There are numerous eateries in our country which are ‘banning’ Coca Cola. Because of its ‘ties to Isreal’. Which I think means an Israeli once drunk it. Probably Diet Coke. It’s very popular over there. Maybe that’s what causes the insanity in the IDF to commit all the atrocities they’re accused of. I’ve seen what a sip does to Joey and that was pretty bad.

So Starbucks and KFC and McDonalds are basically boycotted in towns and cities with a high Muslim population. Because no link to Israel, no matter how disconnected, fleeting or distant, is too vague to avoid boycott. Whereas much closer and more direct Israeli-influenced items remain un-banned. Like i-phones and i-pads, pacemakers and a vast number of medications.

And here’s the problem. As the nation, in fact probably as ‘the world’, divides into factions over the war in Gaza; as the ‘pro-Palestinians’ gain traction over those caught in their normal, safe, middle-class, waspy lefty-liberalism which makes them ‘protest’ in defence of any cause or minority or (often misplaced) sense of injustice. The ones who go around singing ‘from the river to the sea’ because they don’t understand what it means and think it’s something to do with a summer holiday. And as ‘Israel-phobia’ catches on, extends and becomes all pervasive, we have to ask where it all stops.

We have 5 ‘Gaza’ MPs in parliament now. There’s also lots of MPs with really tiny minorities over ‘independents’ (Gaza), like Wes Streeting, the minister for Health. 500-odd majority where last time it was over 25,000. Corbyn’s new party will dominate the pro-Palestine lobby and will attract, they estimate, 29% of the ‘new’ voters, the 16 to 18 year olds eligible to cast their ballots for the first time.

And much as Corbyn has never made any difference between pro-Palestine and pro-Hams, nor pro-ISIS for that matter, this conflation of convenience, this blurring of lines, works the other way too. Where ‘anti-Zionism’ can almost interchange with ‘anti-semitism’ for contextual reasons. And thus anyone seen as ‘pro-Zionist’ is the enemy. As most (but certainly not all, for some really ridiculous reason) Jews are Zionists, the Corbyn attitude, the coke-banners attitude, the Towns and Cities which elected Mayors and MPs on ‘pro-Palestine’ tickets, will all view Jews as ‘the enemy’ by virtue of their presumed Zionistic leanings.

At the end of my road are few shops, known collectively as ‘the Market Place’. And on the central reservation railings are tied hundreds of yellow ribbons. The sign of support for the hostages still imprisoned by Hamas. The ribbons are cut down, then replaced, then cut down, regularly. Someone bravely confronted a ribbon-cutter and videod it. As a very nice-looking, normal type, presumably Muslim guy was shouting at the woman, telling her how the ribbons are supporting ‘the genocide’!!! And ‘apartheit’!!! And that’s why they had to come down. The irony that the ribbons actually represent the day when a true genocide was attempted on Israel, when rape and the most brutal of murders took place and men, women, children and babies were kidnapped was lost in the re-written history of that awful day.

This ain’t good.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I have private medical insurance. I have had it with the same company for about 30 years. And other than a few instances (new shoulder; what they reckoned was a ‘tma’ but I think otherwise as every test out of about a million came up negative, but there ya go) I’ve been a net loser. I pay my money and I don’t get ill. And although my insurers were taken over by AXA a few years ago, they still act as if they’re a nice, small, non-profit, almost caring(!!) bunch. They answer the phones. Yeah, honest. And the person you speak to will be the only person you need. And they’re charming to deal with. And don’t charge excesses on anything. Because we’re somehow hooked into the plan we had when we started and they keep things the same. God bless ‘em.

But now, it’s payback time for them. I seem to have an appointment a week. I have my own parking space at Highgate Hospital. The receptionist knows how I take my coffee.

I had my mole removed on my belly. I miss it every day. And the biopsy came back; it’s not cancer. Thank the God I don’t believe in. BUTTTT… it’s something unpronounceable which they treat as if it WAS cancer. Oh. So they want to remove another chunk of me, around where the mole was, to be ‘safe’. I’ll be 24gms lighter. Maybe 26. But with a big hole in my belly.

I came back from Croatia with ears so blocked they had virtually ceased to function in any hearing relevant kind of way. They served only to slow me down on my bike with their wind resistance. I saw an ear-doc, it wasn’t infected, nor waxed up, some other, more subtle problem. Sorted with drops. Better than having great chunks cut out of my ears too.

And now, this very morning, I was running round the tennis court like a… like someone who shouldn’t be running round a tennis court, when something deep, painful and seemingly catastrophic occurred in my left hip. Which, if I’m honest (something I try to avoid), has been bothering me for about 3 weeks now, but I ignore. Other than the ibuprofen I’ve been self-administering for the last 2. Lot of fucking use that turned out to be. I was just stretching for a shot and KA-BOOM!!!, an invisible alien put a pick axe through my hip. A horrible, sudden and intensely… horrible event. I think I won the point. Hope so. It may be my last for a while.

So I’m gonna go get a scan. See a doc. Get help. They need to get me back on the tennis court as soon as possible. It’s a terrible loss to the whole game.

And by having private medicine, just think of the benefits to the nation. To the NHS. I’m not seeing their doctors, clogging up waiting lists (I’m not one of life’s natural ‘waiters’) or wasting NHS time. I’m so benevolent. Even in pain.

Happy HEALTHY Saturday

A xxxx

I’d just like to say that, just like you, Mr, Mrs, Ms, They, Whatever, Football Fan, I have about the same degree of interest in ‘pre-season friendly’ matches that I do about Women’s football. And yet, just look how that one turned out after last Sunday!!! Now I’m an honorary Lioness (I’ve no idea what that means, I’m just jumping on any winning bandwagon around) and wear my hair in a ponytail in their honour.

And today the other big ‘why fucking bother’ of football created yet another moment of re-think. The friendlies one.

Friendlies are to warm the players up, get them back to match speed, before the season starts. You can spend 15 hours a day in a gym but it’s not the same as spending 90 minutes on a pitch. Even if that pitch is in Luton. But a few years ago ‘friendlies’ became a good little ‘earner’ for the clubs. You play in Reading, you have to pay for the diesel getting there. But if you play in Saudi Arabia or Buenos Aries or Hong Kong, you get paid a lot of money. And the Saudis probably give you a barrel of diesel to take home. Sort of a ‘party bag’.

Chelsea won some worthless piece of silverware earlier this summer break by beating PSG in Abu Dhabi. No one cares. No one went. Unless they were given jewels and Lamborghinis and diesel for playing there.

But today, everything changed. Today the whole concept of a ‘pre-season friendly’ took on a new dimension. It got unfriendly. It got a bit more real. People actually took notice. Ok, I actually took notice. But only because someone told me it was being played, half way through.

For the first time ever, a North London derby, the most important matches in ANY season, was played in Hong Kong. Ok, that in itself wouldn’t normally cause me any degree of excitement or joy. But the fact is: we won. We thrashed Arsenal. Ok, 1-nil doesn’t sound much of a thrashing, but trust me; even though I didn’t see one kick of it, a thrashing it was. Psychologically. And possibly psychiatrically. Either way, it’s a fantastic result. And they gave us a cup. ANOTHER one. We don’t win one for 30 years and then 2 come along together. Phah! We’ve barely got room in our trophy cabinet for it; maybe we’ll lend it to Arsenal for the season…

Basically, don’t you tell me any match is ‘only a friendly’ from now on. They’re important games. BIG games. You can read into it whatever you choose, for me, it is absolute proof and guarantee that we’re going to win the league. And the cup. Probably champions league too.

Very happy Thursday

A xxxx

I am going to officially recognise the official state, officially known henceforth as Conwayland. I will lay down precise demarcation of this area, as agreed with my wife and both grandchildren (who have been promised princely titles and Lego sets). Furthermore, I will demand that Conwayland will be treated as an overseas territory for tax purposes. Its occupants will be exempt from all taxes including vat and road tax. And parking tickets. White vans are all banned from entry.

And thus to Kier Starmer, ‘recognising a Palestinian State’. Along with Macron the trisexual and a host of other Euro-fuckwits and deviants. What the fuck does that even mean? Other than rewarding Hamas for the October 7th murders and kidnappings. And then, it was so important, that David Lammy (!!!!!- sharp intake of breath!!!!), no less, made a whole speech about it. And demanding!!!! a ceasefire. So that a 2-state solution can be worked out easily and peace will ‘flow’ in the region forevermore, amen.

Israel listens to the UK government like your mother-in-law listens to a fly that lands on her table. It is a complete irrelevance. But they reckon if enough countries spout the same shit, the dung-heap-in-chief; the United Nations, will make the declaration. The same UN who said nothing when over 1000 Druze were murdered in Syria 2 weeks ago. Not a mention. Similarly, Amnesty International didn’t deem this worthy of any comment, let alone condemnation. Nor to the hundreds of thousands starving in Sudan. 26.6 million people on the verge of starvation, yet how many cries for ‘aid’ have you heard?

You can’t recognise a state when it has no recognised government. Other than one which you, the government of the UK, has already declared to be terrorists. What message would that send to terrorists the world over? Go on a murder spree and get a free country!!!

And its irrelevant that Bibi Netenyahu and his horrible cohort of right wing nasties won’t approve a ‘2-state solution’, because Hamas, nor the PLO, nor any other Palestinian faction or body will approve that either. They don’t want it. They want a 1-state solution. The whole lot. From the river to the sea. That’s why they’ve rejected the offer 3 times in recent times.

Kier Starmer has now been elevated. Promoted. Re-designated. He has reached the exalted position of being The Official Dickhead’s Dickhead. All stand.

Starmer is not reacting to the truly horrible scenes from Gaza. He is reacting to the pressure from his own MPs, many of whom are still deciding whether to move over to the party of their spiritual leader, Jeremy Corbyn. A Hamas fan and ‘friend’ to Islamist terrorists. These are the people influencing our weak and pliable ‘leader’. Coupled with political threats from both Corbyn and Farage, Starmer is ‘taking a strong stance’. Which will probably change next week anyway.

By holding Israel responsible for the horrors of Gaza is to miss the plot. Hamas are responsible for the horrors of Gaza. Any ‘normal’ government, faced with the death and starvation of its people would surrender themselves (as they are the problem, not the rest of Palestine). But instead, they keep fighting. Because it feeds their narrative to sacrifice the population for its cause. Every dead Palestinian, every starving child is a ‘win’ for Hamas. Who do NOT play by normal standards. These are people who lovingly send their own children out wearing suicide vests. Who hide munitions under hospitals, missile launchers in school playgrounds, waiting for the inevitable strikes which give them miles of PR, just for the cost of a few dead kids, sick patients. A win-win for them.

And Starmer wants to give them a state. What a totally moronic tosser.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

WTF is going on in Epping? A town made famous by being named on half of all central line tube trains heading east. The end of the line. The end of London. Deepest, darkest Essex. It’s a nice town. Sweet. Got its own forest, innit? A fabulous expanse of ‘wild’, where we used to go on school trips. Collecting frog spawn. Doing bark rubbings. In the days when school trips were by coach, rather than by BA763 to Quito, as they tend to be now.

And suddenly, Epping is ALL the news. Rioting every day. Protests. Counter-protests. Masses of police drawn in from all over the country. And all because of a sexual assault. Ish…

The ‘ish’ being because there was a sexual assault, which is horrible, and the perpetrator was an ‘asylum seeker’ from a local hotel where they store such people. Therefore, the ‘event’, the actual sexual assault, immediately becomes secondary to the immigration status of the perp. The poor victim becomes an anonymous pin-up girl for Nigel Farage.

As happened following last year’s horrendous murders in Southport of the little girls at a dance class, without much in the way of concrete information, the hard right take over, on a national level, and escalate the ‘response to the crime’ to truly riotous proportions. In that any ‘white’ man committing a sexual offense is just a bad person. Whereas any asylum seeker doing the same is just a representative of an entire class of people who collectively must be punished. If one does it, they can all do it.

So the nice people of Epping complain, understandably, that they really don’t want an asylum hotel in their midst, because their daughters are no longer safe. I’d think the same. But then the aggravators and instigators and provocateurs come along from Burnley and Norwich and Taunton, bringing their gangs with them to escalate the cause. Its probably not the residents of Epping throwing fire extinguishers at the police.

And we have a problem, really. That our asylum seekers are predominantly young, fit, able men. And most of them arrive here having been brought up in a different culture altogether. Often a culture where women are viewed as second class citizens, except their mothers, obviously, or otherwise a culture where contact between the sexes is forbidden. Then they bring these mindsets here and are presented with all the freedoms the liberated West can offer. And they don’t know the limits.

So what do you do? The asylum seekers arrive, they have to be kept somewhere, and yet by the very nature of their gender and culture represent a threat.

Not all refugees are rapists. Unfortunately, you don’t know which ones are. And that’s something the hard rightists play on.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I cannot tell you how proud I am of my Lionesses. I’m proud to be English. When we win things. I’m proud of every single waggling pony tail and waxed thigh. I’m proud of EVERYTHING! Because in all the interviews after the match, they were all proud of each other. The word was used 247 times in 5, 2-minute interviews. Then Prince William was proud, and even the King himself!!! And I was proud they were all proud.

I have to confess that yesterday’s final was the very first women’s football match I’ve ever watched in its entirety. And I was suitably impressed. The passing, particularly by the Spaniards, was at times brilliant. England defended superbly. And yet…

There’s an underlying ‘chaos’ to everything that happens. First touches are a bit clumsy, passes a bit weak, positional play not always as it should be. But I’m being picky, and that’s wrong. And I’m comparing it to… that other football, played by people who possess and act like a penis. This is a different game altogether and must be viewed through a different lens.

It was enjoyable. Ok, I’m a bit football-starved as July turns to August, same as every year bar the ‘big finals’. So I watched it as ‘an event’, and it was great and at times, the football was fab.

Then it came to penalties. And I’m now going to say something which will offend you. A terrible, unforgivable thing which could land me in prison. Here we go:

They should NEVER allow women to take penalties. It simply doesn’t work. They have no idea. Or they have what they think is a good idea, but it really isn’t. There’s something hormonal which prevents a basic understanding of the art of penalty taking. That if you hit the ball hard, INTO THE CORNERS, even a diving goalie can’t stop it. “Hannah Hampton heroically wins the final for England”, rang out the worthy praise for our goalkeeper. And she was very good, and quite lovely, but the Spaniards kept hitting the ball right at her. Or near enough that you could have saved it.

If matches go past extra time, perhaps they should have a knit-off? An iron-off??

None of which affects how proud I am of…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

My brother was a guitarist. From when he was about 12 until his mid-30s he was always playing. From school bands to ‘the big time’ which was a really great pub band called, for some reason, but there’s really never a ‘reason’, the T-Boys. They played gigs all around, but mainly they had their ‘residency’ at the 3 Rabbits in Manor Park on Monday nights. I had football training on Monday nights but I never missed them, driving like a madman (as if there’s any other way) to get their second set at 10.15. It was a great pub. And ‘great’ in the East End, means ‘dodgy’. Run by a father and son called ‘Big Ron’ and ‘Little Ron’ respectively. Both loved the T-Boys because they brought in loads of people to drink. And it was like a party every Monday as everyone was a ‘regular’.

And my brother was a quiet man. Not like his younger brother who is FUCKING LOUD AND LAIRY!!! He was quiet and liked to be in the background, in the shadows. And yet, put a guitar round his neck and he was Eric Clapton. Jeff Beck. Tony Iomi. But always wearing black and standing way off-centre. By day he worked as a pharmacist and at night, he did a sort of Clarke Kent and morphed into ‘rock god’. A role which I would have embraced, abused and monetised until the last joint was smoked, the last bottle of Jack emptied, the last groupie turfed out. Unfortunately I lacked only any kind of musical talent. The rest; acting like a strutting tosser superstar, I had that nailed.

This was his guitar. I remember when he bought it. It was a big day. A watershed moment. There was life as a guitarist before the Stratocaster, and life afterwards. He’d wanted one for a while. In fact it’s probably safe to say that any rock guitarist anywhere wants a ‘Strat’. There are Les Pauls and Telecasters and Flying Vs out there in rockland, but this Fender is the defining instrument of the genre. And he bought this one. I’m guessing (cos it’s all a blur) between 40 and 45 years ago.

When he died last year, I decided I wanted it. And now I have it. Just looking at it makes me happy/sad. In a good way. It was so much a part of him in those years.

So now the big question. Do I use it as a shrine, as a beautiful artefact? Or do I try to play it? Were Rich around, he’d doubtless say ‘don’t you fucking dare! Look at it all you like but don’t presume to apply your tone-deaf cackhandedness to that wonderful instrument’. And as I never ever listened to my brother, I’ve had it tuned, borrowed an amp and its ZZTop here I come! (God help the neighbours). (God help Mel).

I’ve booked the O2 for my first gig. Next March. Should be plenty of time.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Oh my, its not since the end of the football season that we’ve had a weekend of such sporting amazement to wallow in.

First there was the Rugby, as the Lions beat the Aussies in the second test ‘down under’, this one at the vaunted Melbourne Cricket Ground, no less. It was an incredible match, with ‘England’ (as I call the Lions) overcoming an 18 point deficit. They were still 2 points behind when Hugo Keenan touched down in the 80th minute. It was incredible. The players went crazy. The crowd went crazy. I went crazy. And that was just this morning, which is a great time for sport because nothing else is on at that time.

Except a big tennis match. Me and Spurs Paul. In the park. 11.00. Not sure what channel it’s on but you’ll find it. Just google ‘old gits falling over on a tennis court’ and you can enjoy all the excitement. It’s hard to hold a tennis racquet when you have a walking stick in the other hand.

Starting around then too was the cricket. As England finished the first innings with some style to put India back in 311 runs ahead. To remind them who actually invented the fucking game. Then we took two early wickets.

And then, sometime… later, possibly Sunday, is the ‘main event’. The final of the Women’s Euro Championship as England’s pony-tail’s take on Spain’s. And that promises to be… to be exiting. England games follow a distinct pattern. 82 minutes of uselessness followed by 8 minutes of the sort of ‘brilliance’ you get at women’s matches. Sometimes extra time (nooooooo) and then penalties (even worse), sometimes just a late winning goal. Ok, I can only get so excited about this event, but if there’s no other sport on, if the re-runs of White Lotus have finished, if the News is delayed, I’ll sit back and watch it… eagerly. Knowing NOT to compare it to… to the football played by other genders. That only leads to frustration and/or laughter.

But if the Lionesses pull this off, what a weekend it would be for English sport. Escpecially if, like me, you don’t count the Irish, Scots and Welsh in the rugby.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Emmanuel Macron’s wife is a man.

There. I’ve said it. Now I wait to hear from his lawyers. Who are rather busy suing other people for making such an assertion. In fact, one person. An American blogger called Candace Owens who has repeatedly made the claim. Not sure why. Not sure what her agenda is, but according to her, Brigitte Macron was born Jean-Michel Trogneux. A… a ‘he’. Of the masculine variety.

Now; I make no judgments. Other than those I make. But this is possibly the most fun since Hugh Edwards read our nightly news. Because we love a scandal. We love when a couple out on an ‘illicit’ date whilst having an ‘affair’, choose to do their private canoodling at a massive concert filled with tv and cctv cameras. We love it when French presidents ride out to visit their mistresses perched on the back of motor scooters.

But this, were it to be in any way true, would be another level of scandal altogether. This would be The Beatles compared to Coldplay. This would be The World Cup final to the Women’s Euros.

There’s a totally fantastic book, called “in one person”, written by a totally fantastic author, John Irving, in which his almost constant theme of ‘the seduction of young boys by older women’ opens up to the seduction of young boys to… to anyone. Older women, older men and, in what might be alluding to autobiographical experience, or just creatively running with a theme, the young protagonist becomes obsessed with a beautiful woman teacher at his (boarding) school, who possesses a penis. Her own. His own. Their own.

And here we are. Macron was 15 when he met Brigitte. Did she have a penis when he met her? And to whom does it really matter? It certainly counts in the ‘NONE OF OUR FUCKING BUSINESS!!!!’, category of things. But they are, quite frankly, some of the best of things. We already know most of our own business. The oddities of others’ business is way more interesting.

So I’ll wait for the photos to emerge. The long-ago witnesses. All the usual ‘say anything for a 10-bob interview with the Sun’ brigade coming out (no pun) of the woodwork to help ascertain the true extent of the French nation’s adopted role as ‘permissive’ and ‘libertine’.

Je regret rien!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx