Andy's Glasses

So we all hate the Chinese. You simply have to. All 1.4 billion of them. Not that it would be that easy to be a bit more selective. Though in fact we don’t hate every person there, some must be alright? Aren’t’ they? At least half a dozen or so, surely. But we hate President Xi and we hate the government there but as it only sits about once in every 10 years to announce another 20 years under Xi’s stewardship, bit like another coronation, we only have so much dislike of a bunch of old Chinese we couldn’t name.

And we hate that they persecute the Uyghurs and that their population of over a billion humans have not one human right between them. They oppress the population, repress opposition and cries for any form of democracy, they stole Hong Kong and they send their children out to work at 7 years old. Not sure what that last bit says about people buying from Shein or Temu but we’re all guilty of creating a disconnect between principles and a cheap dress. And don’t get me started on Covid.

However, if you have a problem to solve, China is the place where it will get solved. It’s just what they do. Throw another 15 million people at it and the answer will come. If not, there’s plenty more 15 millions waiting in the wings.

Hence the Electric Vehicle situation. Which is not even a situation any longer in China.

Our problem is that charging takes fucking hours and that’s if you’re lucky enough to find a charger which will accommodate you, enable you on their app and produce the necessary output. If you can’t find such a thing, it’ll take you another 20 miles of stress and anxiety before you fail a the next one. Teslas have a better network of rapid chargers but not every EV is a Tesla. Especially as they’re the double-damned now. Parts made in China, get taxed to shit entering America, where they’re built, then taxed again when they arrive here from the US.

In China, their BYD electric cars have a massive network of chargers which will give you 250 miles of ‘lectric in 5 minutes. As a consequence, BYD sales there have now overtaken those of Tesla.

But they also now have the CATL network operating. You drive your battery-depleted car in and they remove the battery, replacing it with a fully charged one. In three minutes!!! Less than the time it takes to fill your motor-scooter with unleaded.

We could have all this here. Where they keep telling everyone to drive electric whilst doing nothing about the almost total lack of charging infrastructure. But we won’t. Because they’re worried about the information from your vehicle ending up in Beijing. So President Xi will KNOW you went to McDonalds when your wife wasn’t looking. It’s not like your Electric Mini is filled with state secrets and military details, FFS.

I truly love our EV. But ask me if we’d buy another? Go on, ask.

Happy Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

The government are now going to reverse the original reversal of the winter heating allowance for miserable old gits, like me. When Labour took power the first thing they did was to condemn pensioners (like me) to DEATH! By hypothermia. As, without the 250 quid they give us, we’d have to turn off the heating, dim the lights, put on 14 cardigans (old people have loads of cardigans) and generally, just lie down and die so we’re less of a demand on resources and NHS time. This was the ‘caring’ government we’d chosen.

Well now Rachel Reeves is in trouble. The heating debacle remains so tragically unpopular that she simply has to revise and reinstate the payment. BUT: not for ‘millionaires’. Oh. Yes, they’re actually going to liaise with HMRC and find out which pensioners spend more than the annual heating allowance on lunch every day, who really really don’t need it, and those without chauffeurs who will really find it of massive importance. Funny that the government couldn’t work out a system like this before they made themselves so terribly unpopular. But no-one said you needed to be clever to run the country. Though it wouldn’t hurt.

HMRC know everything financial about everyone in the country. They know who needs a heating allowance and who really doesn’t. They could have saved themselves so much bother.

But now the football season is finished. Over. Spurs, buoyed by their quite magnificent Europa Cup victory in the week, decided to bow out by letting Brighton beat the shit out of them, even though it’s Joey’s birthday and he was there. We lost 4-1. The perfect end to a totally disastrous league season. But no-one gave a care because they brought the Cup out and paraded it round the pitch and that made everyone very very happy. And we only have to wait til August for it all to start again.

I’m relieved.

And counting the days til the new season.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

When someone posts something contentious on instagram in the UK, they generally get a 5 year prison sentence. And because there’s as much room in our prisons as there was yesterday in Tottenham High Road, to accommodate these ‘evil posters’, we have to free up the space by kicking a few rapists back out into the community. Maybe some child monsters, armed robbers.

If I was going to commit a serious crime, I’d do it in France. The French judicial system simply loves dangerous criminals. Hence the old-age dudes who broke into Kim Kardashian’s hotel suite, tied her up, held her at gunpoint and nicked an obscene amount of jewellery, which has never been recovered, they received sentences of just 2 or 3 years. Which meant, because of their time already served while waiting, that they all walked free. Or rather, due to their age, ‘crierched free’. (It’s how old people move, if yer not familiar).

Which seemed incredibly lenient to me. Kim said ‘it was the most frightening thing ever in her life’. Not including when she first looked into a mirror before any work had been done and saw herself as God made her. That was so scary she’s made the careers of 19 plastic surgeons in California.

But these guys, to the French, they’re just ‘nice old boys’, it is not, ‘ow you say?, nice, to bang them up for the rest of their lives. I’d like to ask the judge if a gun is any less of a gun if its held by a geezer of 75?

Yet there’s the other side of the story. Spoiled stupid rich bitch in possession of more money than the population of 3 Parisienne arrondissements, flaunts a 6 million pound ring in public and thinks she’s safe because, like Barbie, she’s over 80% plastic.

Ok, I’m not a big fan. Of someone who’s become famous by encouraging a generation to obsess about every facet of their appearance. Your tits are too small; make ‘em bigger. Your ass is too skinny; make it MASSIVE. Your husband’s an abusive piece of shit; get single. Nose too short, eyes too… eye-like, lips too… un-lippy; just fill it/cut it/inject it/whatever.

Alright, I’ve had work done. We all have. You simply can’t stay this beautiful without help. But the Kardashians made a career of it. They normalised vanity at the expense of all else. And made fortunes doing it. What does that say about the people who enriched them by watching it?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Look, we won a trophy, I’m not going to get so exited about it, we didn’t invent a cure for cancer, its ‘just’ a football trophy. In the grand scheme of things, when judgement day arrives, it won’t have counted for much. I get all that. Its just a matter of keeping things in perspective.

We won a cup. ‘A’ European trophy. Not, alas, ‘the’ European trophy, but the other one.

Which, in my mind, makes us the second best team in all of Europe. (The first won’t be decided until next weekend). And as we know, the European leagues are by far the best in… well, Europe, yeah, but actually IN THE WORLD!!! Which makes Spurs, the second best team in the entire world. And unless we discover life on other planets in the next 12 months, we’re the second best team in the ENTIRE FUCKING UNIVERSE!!!

We may well have ended the season just one place away from the drop, but you simply can’t argue with the data. Which doesn’t mean we have to ‘rub people’s noses in it’. That would be neither considerate nor friendly. However, its worth just a quick flick back through your various whatsapp messages (they never go away; they stay forever and can and will be used in evidence against you) for any that depict empty trophy cabinets, the word ‘Spursy’ or pretty much anything football related, and send them a photo of our beautiful trophy with the words FUCK YOUOUOUOU!!! superimposed over the top.

Anyway, its just lucky I’m not ‘that sort of person’ who would gloat, demean or belittle.

This morning as I was e-biking to work, I was knocked off my bike. By a van. White one. He’d stopped, facing my direction of travel, to turn right. And he did turn right. Before I’d passed him. Why would you wait? Kill two birds with one stone. Or, kill one cyclist with one van. Either way. But he didn’t kill me. He hit my back wheel and off I came. Though, in the grand scheme of things, quite gently. And over I went. No damage. No bang on head, no breaks, no real wounds beyond the capability of a band-aid. And I have to confess, I swore at the driver!! I’m sorry, and (possibly) ashamed, but profanity left my mouth in a driverly direction. So I knew I wasn’t concussed.

But I was fine, the bike was fine, about 6 people just ‘appeared’ there helping me, offering love and kindness. Not to the fucking driver, they hated him. But other than few (literal) scrapes, all was good.

Until I got on the bike and realised that one pedal was broken. Which is annoying because I didn’t bother taking the name or licence number of the driver. But he can’t be hard to find. Indian geezer driving a white van. If you see him, tell him he owes Andy a pedal.

Be careful out there. And don’t mention to Mel. She’ll never let me out again.

A xxxx

Oh what a night, late-ish May in twenty twenty… five
Oh that night that made me come alive
What a feeling, what a night.

Oh what a night, set in Bilbao with which nothing rhymes,
United and Spurs had such a happy time,
UEFA League final, such a night.

Oh what a night, two hapless teams with little skill or fight,
Falling over, mis-timing, flailing bright
Til Spurs did score in a game so tight.

Oh what a night, now Man United pulled out all the stops
They had to score to avoid being top of the flops,
But the goal was hard to find.

The game moved on, the time passing at snail speed
With Lila and Joey we were nervy indeed
We replaced the beer with snacks to feed
But still United wouldn’t concede.

United pressure, relentless, pressing
Our defence strong, what a blessing
A shot at goal, surely in our net!!!
But Micky Van der Ven flies airwards, the ball to get

Later on a headed attempt surely bound to go in!!!
Vicario saves, I swore a lot, is that really a sin?
The final whistle, the Cup, the glory,
And that, my friend, is part of the story.

“Your trophy cabinet’s empty”, so the tossers cried
For years and years that mantra, an assault on our pride?
I never cared, not one bit, ending high in the league, that was it.
Trophies come or not, that was a secondary bit.

But now we have a trophy, and I’m pleased as Punch
going to go with the Legend to have champagne with our lunch.
But all those who now have no song to sing
Seem to be deprived of silverware themselves, that’s the thing.

By their criteria, they have miserably failed
Whilst by finishing seventeenth, our stock has sailed.
And what to do with Ange?, that’s now what we ask
He promised a trophy, was equal to the task

Champions league awaits us: (God help us all)
I hope this won’t be pride before the fall.
But we have some cash, and we’ve become a desirable team,
Is Ange the man to take us to highs we’ve never seen?

So much to enjoy, so much more pleasure
I’m just going to enjoy these days, take it at my leisure.
Next season’s a mile away, loads of time to go,
Meanwhile, I might just polish ‘my’ trophy, but literally so.

Very, ecstatically, deleriously Happy Thursday

A xxxx

At LAST!!!!, Mel came home from Naples. At last. I’d reached the point where I could barely cram another sock in the laundry basket. Was almost on the verge of having to buy a second basket! Anyway, she’s back from Naples. Having left me, without a carer, the WHOOOOOLE weekend. As she and the twin went romping round Pompei, cruising round Capri and living the dolce vita, but literally. Cos iss Italian, innit.

So a fab weekend. Marred only by… the most horrendous travel travails EVER!!!

There’s a stark warning here for all potential travellers who are unaware of the post-Brexit rules for entering Europe. You need one full year on your passport. BUT, it is NOT from the expiry date on your passport. Huh? No, that’s too ‘simple’, too ‘easy’, too ‘British’. You have to add 10 years to the DATE OF ISSUE of the passport and you need one clear year til that date. And passports are always issued a few months before the 10 years start.

Hence as the twins were actually going through the departure gate to board, ‘the other twin’ was pulled up. Although she had 14 months til the ‘expiry date’, she was 5 days short of the ‘issue plus ten years’ date and they wouldn’t let her on. A red card.

They returned from Gatwick. We (younger daughter is a total ‘ace’ at all things travel, and, it must be said; not much else) booked a flight with BA in the afternoon, using air miles, so just 25 quid for both tickets, and importantly, using a Canadian passport. Which the twins, born many, many, many years ago in Vancouver, both have. Born in the Gold Rush. Or thereabouts. So, back to Heathrow, this time, just f’ra change, and off they flew to Naples.

That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Yesterday they arrived at the airport to return to be told of ‘delays’. Hours. And hours. Again, we tried to get onto a BA flight which was leaving the same time as their original one, but on time, and seats were available, on air miles again, but this time for £1, but… but… but… it kept giving an error message. Which, after hanging on for half an hour to speak to someone, I learned was because you can only book flights until 3 hours before departure. And it was only 2. So they waited. And waited. EasyJet provided their usual, generous ‘compensation package’ of a visit to the airport restaurant for their lovely “all you can eat, for 4 Euros” special. It almost covered a bottle of water.

Mel arrived home at 3.30 this morning. Without a door key. Because none of this was in the ‘original plan’. But as we all know: man plans, airports laugh.

Happy Return

A xxxx

On Friday morning Mel went to Naples. Twinny trip. I’m not a twin so I wasn’t invited. But… a whole weekend! Time off!!! What shall I do??? Leisure time. All to myself! And FA Cup final weekend too! I’m ’livin the dream’.

This is what happened when I stopped dreaming.

7.55 am. Left house to got to Tai Chi. Punched some people. Kicked a few others.
10.05 am. Arrived home, cup of tea, banana and out for…
10.30 am. Tennis with Spurs Paul. Finished promptly because…
11.50 am. Arrived home, shower, dress, out for
12.20 pm. To pick up younger daughter and go to Lila’s end of year ‘RAZ’ show at
1.00 pm. Adorable. Shame about all the other groups of non-Lila kids.
3.00 pm. Return Rachie home, go straight off to Henley. (Henley???)
10.05 pm. Arrived home.

I went to Henley because I could. Ok, I could have gone anywhere, that’s true, England’s full of fabulous little towns. But the BoatMan is currently moored in Henley-upon-Thames and I had some new glasses for him. Because he regularly destroys them or loses them overboard. And though I don’t normally offer a delivery service, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, Mel was wandering around Capri, and the top down was on the car. If the specs were ready in February, he’d have had to get a train into London. But I wanted to go somewhere. I needed to drive. And as this one ended in a curry house, I don’t think I could have chosen a finer spot in the entire land. Henley is surprisingly beautiful. I’m always surprised when I leave London and arrive somewhere that’s not an industrial new-town shit-hole. But I do live a very sheltered life.

I opted to drive home with the top still down. Because: in order: it wasn’t raining; it feels nice; I’m fucking stupid. Because it was quite chilly. But I’M A MAN!! Alright, a fairly stupid one.

So today I took it easy. I played tennis. Cos that’s easy. Then I spent 3 hours power-hosing the patio. I thought it would be easy. It’s not Buckingham Palace with a 100 metre terrace ‘out the back’. But, when you’re washing it, inch by inch, it’s big enough.

Then I collapsed on the couch with a cup of tea, to watch Newcastle play Arsenal, because I’m a big Geordie and fan, and ooh-ayyy the lads and stuff and it was so good I only slept for about 40 minutes of it. And ‘we’ lost anyway.

Happy relaxing Sunday

A xxxx

I was rummaging around for something or other, as some of us of a more ‘slightly disorganised nature’ tend to do whenever we need ANYTHING, and I came across this photo. Haven’t seen it for years. I call it ‘self portrait in black’n’white’. I could have painted one, put a few tits on my head, morphing into a Minotaur from the neck down, few cherubs floating round, maybe some bloodshed in the background, but instead I stood in front of the mirror with my fabulous Canon AE1 and snapped. I was in a ‘photographic phase’ of life. Which no-one born after 1985 will in any way understand. Because photos were not a part of everyday life. They were something that needed to be arranged. You needed to carry a big, lumpy, expensive camera around with you. And because ‘film’ was expensive, you generally took ‘a photo’, rather than ‘take 9 and pick the best’ as is the current ethos. You certainly didn’t get your camera out every time you ate a croissant or had egg & chips in the cafe. It wasn’t done. Sending photos of your penis was… difficult. But could be done.

I had a ‘dark room’ to develop the films, rather than wait 2 weeks for Boots to do it. Ok, I had a kitchen in my flat with a light-switch. Same difference. Dark enough. And it never ceased to amaze as you put a piece of special paper in a chemical bath and watch the picture ‘arrive’. Slowly, ghostly, quite amazing. Though generally, when done at night, as it kind’a has to be, with a mate or two who are ‘into film’, we’d probably have been a bit stoned, whereby virtually everything becomes ‘amazing’.

I reckon this was about 1985. It’s a very ‘Haircut 100’ sweater. Which my daughters and Tory Boy find most amusing. IT WAS COOL BACK THEN!!!! NO REALLY!!!!

I won’t apologise for the sweater. It’s always unfair to make contemporary judgments on historical norms. Bit like apologising for slavery now. Or judging Mel Brookes a ‘racist’ for Blazing Saddles. So the jumper was state of the art. The haircut was what it was. Having spent the first 5 years of my late-teens having it ‘straightened’ every fucking week, suddenly I was ‘on message’. And the cigarette (again, no-one born after 1985 will know what that is), was an essential. Just for effect. All 20 a day, just for the Jean-Paul Belmondo look.

Amazing that I’m even more gorgeous now than I was then. But I work on it. It’s called photoshop and delusion.

Happy Memory Thursday

A xxxx