Andy's Glasses

If you get a donated kidney, because you’ve been bright yellow for 6 months and spend a lot of time in dialysis, it’s ‘life changing’. But if you’re football teams signs Lionel Messi or Jude Bellingham, that can be life changing too. Particularly as it would involve a move to Spain. Or, latterly, America.

But once in a while you go out to eat. And it is truly life-changing. Humans are very sensory creatures and for me, personally, an amazingly good and particularly an amazingly different, original eating experience ranks right up with my nob, for sensory good stuff. For want of a… much better analogy.

In 2009 we were in Israel. Someone said ‘go to a restaurant in Tel Aviv called ‘Abraxis North’. There was no ‘invite’, no ‘suggestion’, this was a command. And we did. And it changed my life. Forever!!! They baked cauliflower like no-one before or since. Yes, a vegetable, and I was excited and amazed. The other food was just wonderful. Different tastes, different flavours and a different experience altogether.

The tables were covered with brown paper. Food arrived in paper bags. Or dumped ceremoniously onto the brown paper. The whole ‘concept’ was explained by the most beautiful woman in the world who knelt next to us and begged me to take her away from all this and run away together. But I resisted and asked her if I could have dinner first. And the meal was different. Lots of different things, every one new, original, totally wonderful.

We returned subsequently, and every time the price hiked a bit more. A lot more. As happens when reputations, deserved or not, get around and bookings become harder. But wait!!! There’s a solution!!! The owner, Eyal Shani, opened a ‘fast food’ version just down the road, and called it ‘Miznon’. Which means a ‘counter’ where they serve the food. It was an open bar type place, sit where you can, few tables on the pavement outside, but no table ‘service’. You order, they shout your name above the really loud music and everything is wrapped to eat. Knives and forks not required. Other than for the cauliflowers, which they bake there too. And cheap. Quite amazing.

So amazing they opened one here a few years back, in Soho. (Also in Paris, New York, Dubai, Melbourne… there are lots). And they just opened the latest, in ‘Holland Park’. Which I put in ‘’quotes. Because when you think ‘Holland Park’, you think billionaires, mansions and the sort of super-rich who are absent because of recent tax rises, and the Park. Well this is ‘the Ladbroke Grove end of Holland Park’, to give it its full title. Touch more ‘Notting Hill borders’, type ‘Holland Park’. Not that I’m a snob. I’ll go anywhere for chicken livers in pitta bread.

Which weren’t on the menu. Oh. Nor the cauliflower. The defining items of Shani’s vast international chain and, ‘we don’t do that in the evenings, only at lunchtime’. Nor the pitta stuff. Evenings (called ‘erev’, the hebrew word meaning the same) is more ‘fine dining’ type experience. “Oh, you mean: ‘expensive’ then?”

It wasn’t that ‘expensive’ and it was all rather nice. But it wasn’t ‘Miznon’. Rather, a poncey brother. It’s a lovely place and the area is dead cool really, despite not being truly Holland Parkish. But I love the chaotic and loud brashness of the originals. And the whole ‘eat with your fingers’ ethos. I’ve always struggled with cutlery.

Happy Eating

A xxxx

Here’s what I find odd. You take 15 rugby players from assorted teams in their premiere league, stick some roses on their shirts, line ’em up, sing ‘sweet caroline at ’em’, and they are fucking outstanding. Cohesive. They get what’s required, they get who they’re with and they get on with it. Most often rather brilliantly.

Then you take 11 footballers. All of outstanding pedigree for their clubs. Players earning trillions a week because they’re so ‘brilliant’, you stick ’em together with other trillionaire superstars, put three lions on their shirts, line ’em up and…

They become Yeovil Town’s 4th team. The women’s one. (No offense to women in general nor women’s football in particular which I always find… errrrr… on the sports channels when nothing else is on). They become your Sunday league pub team where half are still hung over from the night before and the other half are just making up the numbers anyway. They become… Spurs of last season!!!! (League matches only).

So last night. England, the mighty, the superstars of many leagues, playing some bunch of Africans from Senegal. Most of whom play in ‘other countries’ (ie: not England) but some, like Sadio Mane, are superstars, though he didn’t play last night. Didn’t need to. It was only England.

We lost. Badly. (Spurs fans know that you can lose ‘goodly’, we often do.) And we shouldn’t have done. We have great players. We have a new manager. But… he’s German! And foreign. And not English. So where’s it all gone wrong???

I blame the government. They’re reinstating the heating allowance for old people. But not working old people. We’re left in the cold. Literally. But I don’t mind that. They can put my money towards the Health Service. Which currently takes 40% of our total GDP. And currently, doesn’t work very well. Don’t know how much more anyone can throw at it before they realise that it needs a proper rethink, not just hurling endless funds.

At least we’re getting a new nuke facility. For power, not for fighting. The good people of Suffolk are thrilled to be the hosts for the production of 25% of our future energy. But distant future really as it’ll take about 20 years to get there. And the estimated cost, just 20 billion quid, ‘may’ just rise a bit in the meantime. But at least it’ll keep Ed Milliband happy in the interim. Happy as he can be, anyway.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So Sweden. What do we like about it? Blondes? Yeah. Volvos? Great. Ikea? Ish. Lego? Danish, but I get the point; all the same ‘up there’. ABBA? Maybe. And Greta (fucking) Thunberg? Hmmmm…

Greta grew up in Ersturnhurmstaat, (I made that up), near Stockholm, and she lived near a tree. Which gave her amazing empathy with all of nature’s riches. Unfortunately, she never quite ‘got’ humans in the same way. But when she was 14 she decided that going actually INTO school every day was beneath her and her fledgling tendency towards environmental activism. So she turned up there every day, to sit outside with a little banner telling all the other… errrr… normal kids that THEY and THEIR PARENTS were personally responsible for THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!!!!, by their neglect, their insistence on keeping warm and driving round in Volvos.

For some reason people listened to this precocious, uneducated little twerp on a world stage. She addressed international climate change conferences; she spoke at the UN, she talked with the high and mighty, the royal and the rotund. Always the same message: YOU (the adults) are ruining the world for ‘us’ children. We have no future. The world is dying because of your actions and inactions. STOP NOW. Stop what? EVERYTHING!!!!

So again, this amazing empathy for middle class Swedish kids not being able to enjoy a holiday home in the mountains in the future, meant that half of India has to stop using coal, the only fuel they can afford. Two thirds of Chinese will go hungry and die of hypothermia whilst saving up for a ‘heat pump’ for their mud huts. Americans will need to produce cars which can’t reach 100mph in less than 7 seconds. She really has no concept of the sacrifices she is so selfishly demanding.

But now she’s found a new ‘cause’. Palestine. And she found a dozen, like-mindeds, to accompany her. That wasn’t hard. “Come with me on a cruise across the Med. It’ll be free because some dickhead or other will sponsor it for us. And we’ll call it ‘a humanitarian mission’, even though there’s only room on board for 3 packets of Paracetamol, 2 toilet rolls and a 0.5kg bag of ‘boil-in-the-bag’ rice. But you’ll get a great tan and take loads of selfies against the backdrop of crumbled buildings and aggressive, warmongering Israeli sailors.”

In fact the ‘cruise’ was organised by Zaher Birawi who is reputed to be Hamas’s representative in London. He’s a gobby ‘charity leader’ with links to international terrorism and is head of many banned organisations. I think, if Greta was my daughter, I’d rather she hung out with drug dealers. But there again, the mouthy Swede was curiously silent on October 7, 2023. There are apparently limits to the virtues she signals.

The Israelis stopper her. Which came as no surprise to… anyone. Despite imbecile-on-board number 2, some Eurotrash posh-boy with a keffiyeh and an attitude, stating that “we’re in European waters and landing in Palestinian water, which we are legally allowed to do”, with all the defiance you’d expect from an entitled free-loader. Who obviously missed as much school as Greta otherwise he’d know there is no recognised place as ‘Palestine’, in whose waters he’s apparently allowed to sail. Tosser.

I really would have gone a bit more ‘Under Seige’ and blown Greta’s boat clean out of the water. But the Israelis showed uncharacteristic and possibly misguided restraint and in just towing them to Israel from where they’ll be deported.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So here’s a question for you: what happens when two absolutely immense egos clash, head to head? Alternatively: who wins when the most powerful man in the world goes to battle with the richest man in the world? And just as a third possibility: what do you get when you set two spoilt obnoxious tossers who both think they’re the next messiah, fighting over who’s got the biggest dick?

Thus we have reached the end of the power bromance which, as virtually everybody knew, was always severely ‘time limited’ by bragging rights. And as Donald Trump and Elon Musk both spend vast amounts of time on social media bragging about things that in reality aren’t true, there was always going to an ‘uncoupling’. And yet the speed with which it uncoupled was brutal, despite its inevitability.

One day Trump gives Elon ‘the key to the white house’, in a stupid, impromptu ceremony in the Oval Office. And just 5 days later there is bitterness, acrimony and actual threats. “I’ll show you photos of Trump with Jeffrey Epstein, raping little girls together”, “oh yeah!!, well I’ll sell my Tesla, stop the government contracts and grants with them and appoint an alternative bozo to be head of NASA”. “OH YEAEAH!!! Then I’ll buy off half the House and force your stupid BIGGEST BILL IN THE HISTORY OF BILLS” to crash!” “OH YEAEAEAEAHHHHH!!!, then I’ll…”

As usual, the greatest accuser of ‘fake news!!!’, the fat orange one, is resorting to fake news to make his point. Given out by his latest ‘blonde news bimbo’, Karoline Leavitt, (the reincarnation of Kellyanne Conway). Whilst the world’s second greatest tweeter, the ugly South African one, uses his devotion to the ‘freedom of speech’ to freely speaking half truths about the fat guy.

Honestly, America is in a state. They need to take note of how ‘uncoupling’ should be done. Consciously. Like Gwynnie did it with Coldplay. They need to look no further than Tottenham Hotspur, that wonderful, cup-winning, football team. Who yesterday uncoupled from their manager, Ange Postecoglu. The man who broke the team’s horrendous ‘duck’ in terms of actual, silverware-proven, achievements. Who took that ‘monkey on their back’ and ceremonially burned it alive, outside the Emirates stadium.

And his reward? The sack. Right. Bloody cup-winning Aussie. Who needs him.

Of course, in other matters this season, like the league and the team morale and the injuries, his record was not exactly ‘stellar’. So he had to go. Cup or no cup. And gone he is. I’m happy and I’m sad.

Whereas Trump and Musk? I’m truly lovin’ it. Big boys throwing big toys out of their prams. In each other’s faces. Let’s keep that one going.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

First of all, this is not an article about red meat. Eat what you want. As much as you want. My body’s a temple, which is why I adopt the ‘almost vegan’ attitude to life and food. With the ‘almost’ giving me a teensy weensy bit of ‘latitude’ over my diet. So I basically eat completely and totally vegan. But ‘supplement’ it (sounds vaguely medical that way) with small amounts of ‘calcium’ (milk, cheese), proteins (meat, fish, eggs) and ‘nice food’, to take away the taste left by all those vegetables. And if a cow or a fish or even, heaven forfend, a pig!!!!!, should die in the provision of my plate; so much the better. There’s plenty more out there.

This is about statistics. A long-term hobby-horse of mine. Adhering, as I do, to my own maxim: ‘all statistics are total bollocks’. And people accuse ME of cynicism. ‘Oh, but it’s ‘statistically shown’ that 47% of red-headed females are married to men called either James, Hector or Mohammed’. 27% of left-handed men can’t watch more than 6 minutes of women’s football with out screaming, whereas its 7.2 minutes for right-handers. This pill is statistically shown to make you live for at least three years after you’d wished you’d died.

All rubbish. Obviously. Yet we believe. If its in the paper and it has enough PhDs’ names attached to it, the numbers carry sufficient weight to have us rushing to the shops to buy flax seed or courgettes, or rushing to the bin with all the meat from the freezer.

97% of statisticians won’t work for nothing. So when you see ‘a study has shown…’ the first thing to do is look who sponsored the study. Who paid for it. Numbers don’t just ‘appear’ as if by magic when you hold a calculator to a raw steak. You have to ask questions. Or test for certain things. So, logically, there are other questions that you’re not asking; other tests that you’re not doing. There’s always a ‘bias’. And that is driven by what you’re looking to ‘prove’. ‘Beyond mere chance’.

Which accounts for red wine being the best thing you can drink to live longer, one day. And three days later, that same bottle of wine (assuming you didn’t drink it) will KILL YOU STONE DEAD!!!!. One study was funded by the red wine marketing board, the other by the society for those who fucking hate red wine.

Now it’s in The Times. So it must be true. 82% of articles are true.

Happy cynical Thursday

A xxxx

As we were on the tube, Sunday afternoon, on our way to the Victoria & Albert Museum, on a gloriously sunny day, happening about 50 yards above us, to meet ‘the twin’ and together go to visit the Cartier exhibition!!, I was thinking: ‘and why am I going, exactly?’.

Not that I don’t simply love amazing jewellery and watches. Not that I don’t just adore clusters of diamonds and rubies and sapphires. And not that I don’t lust after beautiful necklaces and bangles and even stomachers. Yes, you read that correctly. Was new to me as well. So I took a pic. Above. Me and a ‘stomacher’. Worth about 50 billion quid. That’s just me. No idea what that thing was worth. I’d have to work out where you put it before buying it. Clue: it’s not on your stomach.

But this wasn’t about ‘buying it’. I had noticed that none of the hundreds of items on view had price tags. Unlike the museum shop, which has loads. And if a cheap, cloth shopping bag with a necklace drawn on it (probably by Taiwanese children) costs 20 quid, what’s the chances of getting that great lump of platinum, encrusted with thousands of tiny diamonds surrounding a 35 carat emerald, for less than a ton? For cash?

I don’t question the magnificence of any of the items on display. Some weighed so much that it took two very strong men to place them round the necks of very little women. Like walking round with a car hanging round your neck. Or, hobbling round, maybe. Because these were jewels made for Maharajas and Maharanis. And other people who do a lot of sitting and being carried around by servants.

I had to go because I’m obsessed with culture and history and the pure aesthetic of masterful art-works, which is what Cartier represents. And also, I went because there was no football on tv. And yes, I got a bit ‘jewelled out’ after the 25th amazing necklace… ok, maybe by the 3rd, but I didn’t moan, nag, or keep asking for snacks. Because it was all quite magnificent.

But when we saw the little video showing how they actually made one of their trademark ‘tigers’ that I really marvelled. Because it is simply amazing, the skill and the time involved. It gave me a new respect for what I was seeing. For at least 4 minutes.

Basically, it’s the most ostentatious and flamboyant stuff you’ll ever see not wrapped round a rapper’s neck. It’s marvellously created and wonderfully put together. I have thus had cause to re-assess my view of Messrs Cartier. No longer will I consider them as “a bunch of upmarket bling-peddlers and no ally in the class war, fucking French fascist tossers!!” They now have my total respect. I just wouldn’t wanna wear it. Maybe a tank watch…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve seen the future! And it’s bright! Its wonderful! And its succcc-sesss-fulllll!!!

I am officially, as of 22.37:42s last night, a PSG fan. Yup, got the shirt… metaphorically, arranged season tickets for Paris, bought an old person’s Metro pass and I’m starting a course in ‘being an obnoxious French-person’, so I can fit in with my new ‘brethren’. It would appear I’ll also need to learn how to attack the police, get arrested and possibly speak passable Arabic. My French is actually quite acceptable. I use the ‘one French word in 3’ technique, speaking the English words in between really loudly. Seems to work buying a ski pass.

Because the Champions League Final last night was something beyond spectacular. Even though it was the most one-sided final ever. But that one side was pretty much all you needed. They amazed. They impressed. They were simply magnificent for the entire 90 minutes.

Finals can be dull affairs. ‘There’s so much at stake!’, so they set up to defend first. In the case of Inter, Italian teams default to ‘9 at the back’ anyway. It didn’t matter how many they had at the back, PSG just tore them to pieces. With such amazing skill, speed, stamina (they never stopped), resilience and style that you could only think ‘wow!’

The incredible front 3 joined the defence the entire match. Chasing back to help. That takes incredible fitness. But as their average age is about 16, fitness is not an issue. Though it is something quite frightening for every other team in Europe, particularly those with aging squads.

Best of all; although they have some incredible ‘stars’, PSG play first and foremost as a team. They play for each other. No glory-seeking. No egos. Summed up when Doue, the nearest they have to a superstar, unselfishly crossed to make their first goal. Which was finished beautifully by their right back who was in the centre forward position. Because that’s how they play. The skill runs through the entire team. They reminded me of the very best of Brazil teams in various World Cups.

So that’s it. Done with Spurs, vive le (la? Les??) PSG. A team worthy of me.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

There’s a new ‘n-word’ been brewing for quite some while now. A word guaranteed to produce sharp intakes of breath, possibly palpitations (if you’re chatting with any Victorian women, and let’s face it, we all do that), even a sharp slap, in some situations.

The word is… nazi!!! And I get that, to a degree. Throwing it around as a poor metaphor for any slightly right winginess is patently wrong. Accusing someone of being a nazi just because they support Nigel Farage is sometimes wrong. Ken Livingstone banding it around to a Jewish journalist was patently awful. So the normalisation of the word is wrong and undesirable. It actually downplays the horrors of the Nazis.

And in steps our esteemed Attorney General, Lord Hermer. Into the debate about whether or perhaps, by how much, we should step out of the European rules on Human Rights. Specifically as it applies to refugees and asylum seekers. So far, so fair.

Lord Hermer is a dickhead of the first order. He is that most vile of things (in my house): a ‘Jew-hating Jew’. He’d describe it as being ‘anti-Zionist’, probably, but if you’re basically denying the right of the State of Israel to exist in the current middle-east climate/crisis, and give time to the ‘river-to-the-sea’ genocidalists, then you’re an antisemite, Jewish or otherwise. So he’s no friend of mine.

In the immigrant debate, what Hermer said was, that to remove us from the European Court of Human Rights, in order to allow the state (that’s us) to go above the law and deport or prevent certain types of immigration, is what part of Nazi philosophy included. The Nazis realised that they, the governing party, had to have power OVER the courts in all matters, so that’s what they did. Who was gonna argue with them?

And this was a philosophical debate. It was not a partisan slanging match, it was a discussion of our policy following Brexit and all that ‘control of the borders’ bollocks, which obviously, is still 20,000 miles from happening.

So although everyone gasped at the N-word, I really don’t know why. The nazis were a political party. Not a very nice one, but they weren’t stupid and they certainly were big on political changes. And Hermer’s use of the word was in a perfectly acceptable context. He wasn’t accusing anyone of ‘being a Nazi’. He was just pointing out how the government taking control of laws over the judiciary was part of Nazi tactics.

So no, Hermer shouldn’t be sacked because of this massive reactionary knee-jerk to using the n-word. He should be sacked because he’s horrible and no-one likes him. (Again, that would be in my house).

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

My favourite grandson is obsessed with football. Be it going to Spurs (poor kid; even though he loves it dearly), getting footballer cards for his albums, or, best of all, playing it, football has become 60% of his life. The remaining 40% is ‘snacks’. And I’m not only proud of his skills and his enthusiasm, I’m more proud of ‘the way he plays’. With what he’s learned from the professionals. Basically, he fucking cheats. All he can get away with.

We played a little ‘one on one’ in the garden yesterday evening. Having already played a little in his kitchen in the morning.

Joey points out my goal. It massive. The width of the patio. About 10 yards. And there’s his goal; slightly smaller. And, it must be said, rather more vaguely defined.

He scored first. No surprise, my goal is fucking massive. Then I scored. Or thought I did. But in fact, I’d ‘hit the post’.

‘No, my goal starts at… that bush, over to… another bush, there’. Oh. Ok.

He scored again. I scored again. But alas, VAR (or ‘Joey’, as its called in our house) disallowed the goal because the goal wasn’t in fact where I thought it was, and was much smaller than I was possibly led to believe. Ok. 2 nil then.

Then I scored. Incontrovertible. Right in the 14.3 inch space to the far right of the garden which his ‘goal’ had become. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, I’d committed a foul. So it was Joey’s penalty, from 4 foot in front of my goal. Which he scored. 3- nil. Fair’s fair.

What Joey considers a ‘foul’, there are many who would use the term ‘tackle’. But as his default is to fall on the ground clutching some part of his head/body/legs randomly, as he’s seen the ‘real pros’ do, its just easier to cry ‘foul’.

So its not just every facet of the ‘beautiful game’ little Joey loves, he’s truly embraced the entire culture of ‘professionalism’. Which, as we all know, is a fancy word for ‘cheating’. But only if you get away with it. ‘Shifting the goalposts’ is not just a metaphor, ya know.

Couldn’t be any prouder if he turned up in a Lamborghini with an arm full of tattoos.

Happy Friday.

A xxxx

My favourite author in the whole world is Stephen King. No-one else comes even close. Maybe John Irvin. It’s about the characters and how they’re built. And no-one can compete with the boy from Maine. Not Dostoevsky, not Dickens and, as far as I know, no-one in Jayne Eyre had their throats ripped out by rabid dogs from hell. Ok, he did a lot of ‘horror’, but he’s also done loads of other stuff. Shawshank Redemption. My stock answer to anyone who questions the man on ‘horror grounds’. I loved the horror. It was such a wonderful way to produce pure ‘evil’.

But the horror gave way to a less supernatural version of evil. So although his more recent body of work may contain a little ‘telepathic suggestion’ or two, or some useful precognition, these are now done slightly more moderately than in, say, Carrie, and more subtle than in It. There are sledgehammers more subtle than It.

And in a way, the evil produced by ‘mere mortals’ is much more scary than by a vampire. Or a killer, eternal clown.

About 10 years ago he wrote a book called ‘Mr Mercedes’. About one of King’s favourite character types. The embodiment of pure evil. Evil for evil’s sake. And the eponymous baddie drove his great big Mercedes, at speed into a crowd queuing up for a concert. Multiple deaths, more horrendous injuries, the stuff of nightmares. Stephen King stuff.

Then a bunch of jihadis ran a truck down a promenade in Nice, killing 80 people. This was followed by vehicular attacks in lots of other countries, from Belgium to Spain and even the UK. The weaponisation of motor vehicles suddenly became ‘the thing to do’. And not just jihadis, there were other great causes for which the cretinous fuckwit believers thought the murder of dozens of random people would be a great benefit to those causes.

And then Liverpool. Monday. Tens of thousands of Scousers and Scouser-sympathisers from all over the world had gathered to celebrate Liverpool’s league victory. A joyous occasion. A massive party. Which one man chose to ‘rain upon’. Proclaimed immediately as ‘white, in his 50s’, so as to stave off any more attacks on refugee centres due to lack of correct information being forthcoming. Drove into a bunch of people. Amazingly none died. But about 75 were injured.

I’m not blaming Stephen King for this. I’m sure there have been such incidents before he wrote the car-killer’s handbook. But wow, it’s scary. And an epitome of that ‘pure evil’.

So to defend myself (and to get rid of some really troublesome, dying old bushes in the garden) I finally fulfilled a lifetime’s ambition and bought a chainsaw. It’s cordless, to save me severing cables, and so ‘eco’. And dangerous. But not as dangerous as the one I really want which is twice as long and has a V8 diesel engine. Baby steps. Get this gentle little thing, then ‘upgrade’ later.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx