Andy's Glasses

So I ‘get’ Donald Trump. I really do. He just doesn’t do details to any extent. Only money details, then its to the nearest hundredth of a cent. Everything else is just ‘big; really big’ or ‘doing great things’ or lovely broad brush stroke sentences which are meaningless in any analytical way.

I just don’t see how world peace is served, as he claimed yesterday, by a $142billion deal with Saudi Arabia to provide arms. Guns. Rockets. Missiles. Ammunition. Ordinance. Fighter planes. Nuclear fucking warheads for all I know. Does that sound ‘peaceful’?? 142 bil gets you some serious fire-power. I’m even a bit pleased because a few bucks’ worth of the sharp ends will probably find their way into a few Houthis in Yemen, and we all hate the fucking Houthis. The deal will also scare the shit out of Iran, so that’s also a big positive. And the Saudis are our allies. They pally with Israel. They’re anti-terrorist, even though al-quaeda was started there. That’s not Mohammed bin Salman’s fault. He wasn’t even there at the time. He was over in Turkey having dissenting journalists murdered.

But now Donald is moving further afield in the Middle East. Syria, to be precise. Now that the horrible, tortuous, murdering Assad regime has been deposed, Trump is pallying up to the new, de facto leader, Ahmad al-Sharaa, the former al-quaeda terrorist, American held prisoner and now the guv’nor of the new ‘free’ Syria. Unless you’re an Alawite, then you stand a good chance of dying or disappearing, rather than enjoying ‘freedom’. Trump feels that this ‘attractive young man’ (WTF???) has a chance of ‘greatness’. Furthermore, Syria is appealing to America because of its oil and gas reserves for which it will need help in accessing. Trump’s really good at digging holes in other people’s countries.

I think that if the nation of Qatar offered to give me a 300 million pound plane to fly on, I’d take it. Especially as its fitted out for Royalty. And though possibly a bit more ‘Prince Andrew’ than ‘Queen Victoria’, we’re talking majorly ‘flash’ here. The Qataris have fitted it out with all the luxury and gadgetry you could ever wish for; champagne fridges, cocaine tables, pussy-grabbing recliners and secret compartments for Hamas leaders to cross borders undetected.

You can’t expect moral judgments from Donald Trump. Just not gonna happen.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I got a ‘lectric bike. You know that.
I love it like the 3rd cousin I never had.
I only use it when the temperature is over 15 Celsius-es and the weather GUARANTEED to be dry. By God. Or the BBC weather app. Same difference. That’s the rule.
I hate all rules.
Even sensible ones.

And so to yesterday. When the weather app told me there was ‘a chance of rain’, like 15%, maybe 20% in the late afternoon. Yet as I prepared to go to work it was the definitive summer day. Warm, bit balmy, sunny, clear, cloudless. The temptation was just too great. So I broke the rule. And had a wonderful trip in. Fun, fast and furious. The latter being most of the drivers I encountered. My only defence being ‘fuck em’.

As I was about to leave work, the sky had indeed darkened. Ah, so ‘20%’ means it can happen. And there was a tiny little ‘shower’, which I waited out, then left to come home just as the sun came out again. Great timing. I survived the 20%, now I’m good to go.

And I was fine and good and lovin’ it, as always, as I came up into Hampstead village. When a few droplets landed on me. Ok, no problem. Nearly home and, being ‘sensible’ I had my little, almost waterproof Uniqlo scrunched up in the back box. I retrieved it, brought it back to jacket size (they’re amazing those things) and carried on, my wayward son.

I blame the BBC. And God. Because the rain that followed was not 20% in any fucking language. I know, that was the ‘chance of rain’ but have some sympathy, FFS, I’m pedalling up the hill, as fast my electric motor can carry me, getting rather wet. I reckon we were up to 80%, if not more!!!

And then, ‘more’ happened. As I rode around the Heath Extension, rain levels rose to 264% and as I felt my testicles getting soaked through my jeans, my shoes saturated, the Uniqlo’s ‘water-resistance’ laughing at me in the quite unbelievable torrent, I thought, oh well, I’m wet now, its strangely warm, like a tropical storm, this is as bad as it can get, I can put up with it for the 4 minutes to home.

But, ‘bad as it can get’ needed a rethink as the rain turned to hailstones. Big ones. Yet still small enough to go through the ventilation slats on my helmet. And they fucking hurt.

Mel wouldn’t let me in the house. I was dripping. I stripped off completely at the front door and was put in the tumble dryer. Ok, my jacket was. All I got was a towel. I must be losing my physical appeal.

I’ve written to the head of the BBC. And to God. And next time it says ‘small chance of rain’, probably best to ask the question: yeah, but how much rain?

Happy dry, sunny Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve decided that because no sponsors have thus far pitched up with sufficient dosh to make our stunning new stadium call itself “THE ALDI”, or possibly “THE GAZA STADIUM, INSHALLAH”, or even “THE UBER EATS, N17”, I’ve given it a ‘holding name’, one to tide us over until we can show Nike and Adidas and Bentley and Clarks Shoes that we ARE staying in the Premiere League so pay up NOW!! The Stadium of God. I think it suits, it fits and it gives the right message. Not sure, exactly, what that message is, but it’s right anyway. And whilst there this afternoon, it was definitely His name that was called more than anyone else’s. His son’s was second most popular.

As the frustration mounted among the home fans. Because we all get that there is quite literally nothing more for us in the league this season, win, lose or draw, absolutely nothing to play for. Furthermore, we want our stars kept fit and fresh for the Europa final at the end of the month. But MAKE SOME FUCKING EFFORT, FFS!!!!!

It was abysmal. Dire. Horrible. I said jokingly that Mel, who accompanied me, and who is no fan of football, had no worries because she won’t be seeing much at Spurs. Unfortunately I was wrong, because Crystal Palace played lots. And even… fought for the ball!!! What’s the point of that. It’s, quite frankly, beneath Spurs players to do such a thing.

Poor Emily Damari. Chose this game to celebrate her ‘return’ to Spurs after her horrendous 471 days as a hostage in Gaza. I’m not saying that we were so bad she’d have been looking on her phone for a flight back to Khan Younis but there’s torture and then there’s torture. And this match had em both.

The funny thing is (unless you were there, of course, then it wasn’t very funny at all) that Manchester United, our opponents in Bilbao, also lost 2-nil at home to a shitty team today. Also fielded a team so weakened it was an insult to the fans. Who, like Spurs fans, have had more than their share of abuse this season.

On a positive note; Mel loved the stadium. We really enjoyed the drive there, with the top down, in the glorious sunshine, breathing the lovely smog which only Wood Green can provide. And then the delightful walk through Bruce Castle Park to the ground. I’m not saying exacltly that ‘the football match spoiled a super afternoon, I’m just saying it was 99% of the problem. Even though I shouted all the correct instructions all afternoon. But did they listen?

Another fab day down the Lane. At the Stadium of God.

Who really needs to help us.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

As Spurs led the way to VE Day celebrations, with their own little ‘victory in Europe’, it’s reassuring to look and see how the world is a different place from its 1945 version. It has learned from its mistakes, and those of its forefathers, and has almost eliminated stupid and unnecessary wars from modern day life. The First World War was known as ‘the war to end all wars’, and that remained true for at least 21 years before the next war began in 1939. And ended in 1945, which should have given it the inherited claim as ‘the new war to end all wars’. But trouble was already brewing. As Germany was divided between the victors, a rift began between ‘east’ and ‘west’. Based on complete distrust and opposing political philosophies, the ‘cold war’ started almost as the old war ended. And although it never came to actual blows, it almost reached ‘push the atomic button’ time on several occasions.

Anyway, I’m glad wars are over now, officially consigned to history. No more will legions of our best young men be marched off to be slaughtered for someone else’s unreasonable and intransigent beliefs. The world is at peace.

Well, except for Ukraine.
Gaza.
Sudan.
Myanmar.
Congo.
Yemen.

In fact, the whole fucking world is at war. Especially now that India and Pakistan are exchanging missiles across the Kashmir. It’s a typical playground push-fight, when each push gets harder until someone actually lands a punch. But immediately after each ‘push’, the pushing nation immediately declares its push to be ‘proportionate’ and ‘non-excalatory’. Whilst the one being pushed makes immediate accusations of ‘disproportionality’ and ‘escalation!’ And remember, ‘both these nations have nuclear capabilities!!!!’ You can’t actually forget because the press remind us every single time the problem is mentioned. Because it’s more sensational that way? Or because it makes us all very jittery? Makes the fight a bit more personal as we imagine ‘easterly winds’ bringing something much more sinister than cold weather? Who knows why they do it; they’re the press.

But thank God for Donald Trump!!! Who stepped in last night and caused an immediate ceasefire. Aided by a whole team of other fuckwits, like David Lammy, Trump convinced these two nations to adopt peace. At least temporarily. But peace between India and Pakistan is only ever temporary anyway, as it has been since 1948.

Trump was inspired by ‘chicken kashmiri’ in his local take-away. Because it’s the same colour he is. And stains clothes and work surfaces bright orange just like his ‘tan’ does.

Well done ‘Don the peacemaker’.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So let’s take 133 smelly old men. Perverts, deviants, celibates and kiddy-fiddlers, lock ’em in a big room and hide the key until you see smoke. Does that really sound like a good idea? Is that any way to choose the leader of the world’s 1.4 billion Catholics? But its what they do. Its as old as… a very old thing. The ‘Vatican’ in some form or other dates back to 400 AD (obviously ‘AD’, cos before Christ there really weren’t many Christians knocking around) and the current ‘building'(? its way too grand for that description) dates to 1600 or thereabouts. Built by slaves, half of whom died in the construction, like the workers who built the World Cup stadia in Qatar, and enhanced by shit-loads of cash, ‘raised’ by the Inquisition and such types, who make ‘bailiffs’ look subtle. The room in which the current ‘conclave’ is taking place was painted by Michaelangelo. Whereas Ray the decorator would have done the lot for £750 in cash. But the Catholic church was always a little ‘flashy’ in its practices. Which was why Martin Luther PROTESTed and led his group of ‘PROTESTants’ away to form something more austere in 1500-or so. The German monk complained that the ‘indulgences’ of the church were, a bit of a cop-out. His words. In that they were ‘get out of jail’ cards for sinners. Bit like ‘confession’ on steroids. So he formed a church that was really unforgiving. Except for Henry VIII. Who it forgave everything.

Anyway. New Pope. New broom. This one’s a Catholic too. And, because he’s been a cardinal for a while, has the inevitable history of some kind of peripheral involvement in sexual abuse scandals. Not ‘doing it’, more on the cover up side. Standard practice for cardinals. PROTECT THE CHURCH!!!, and its reputation. Rather than protecting the innocent, the abused, the children. But there ya go. I would say ‘there’s no smoke without fire’, but in this case, there actually is. Good luck to Pope Leon.

More importantly, Spurs have reached the final of the Europa League. And there we get to play against… Manchester United!!! How odd that two teams who have underperformed so tragically all season in league matches, managed to beat all opponents in Europe. Does this actually mean that most European leagues are a fucking joke? Dominated by one or two massive, rich teams, who always make it to the Champions league with the rest unworthy of the name? Like in Scotland? But with even stranger accents? Or are they just two teams who rise to the big occasion? Who knows. At this point; who cares? WE’RE GOING TO BILBAO FOR THE FINAL!!!!!’

Very Happy Friday

A xxxx

When did the Indians become Cowboys?

I was very young when I heard about ‘an Indian restaurant’ opening up in nearby Gants Hill. The world was different then. Hamburgers were ‘exotic’ in 1969; pizza’s only made by Italians and Chinese food for the first time was the culinary version of a trip to Disneyland.

And now ‘Indian’. Wow. I was a kid. I expected to be served buffalo cooked on an open fire by red-skinned geezers with feathers in their hair and was worried that if I didn’t like the food they’d ‘scalp’ me with their tomahawks. Because to me ‘Indians’ were who Cowboys fought. And always won. They only travelled in thousands, on horseback, coming from the top of a hill. And this was in… Gants Hill!!!! (I lived there for 25 years and never actually found any raise in local topography of more than 0.6 of an inch).

But ‘those Indians’, the ones in the countless ‘western’ movies I loved, ceased to be Indians in 1987 (guessing) when they were promoted to ‘native Americans’. The ones left over after the ‘cowboys’ (or ‘non-native Americans’) had slaughtered the vast majority. ‘Genocide’ actually meant genocide in those days. A few years ago the American football team, the Washington Redskins, in a fit of woke capitulation, became the Washington Commanders. Washington Tossers, more like, but that’s ‘cultural progress’ in which we suppress all the things we’re really ashamed of in case future generations sue for ‘reparations’.

Now, Indians are Indians. From India. Where curry comes from. For which we are eternally, absolutely and emotionally grateful. Except Mel who hates curry.

And so, to cement our relationship with the Indian nation, and in appreciation for changing the dining experience of our entire country, we’ve made a ‘trade deal’. To compensate for tragic trade losses brought about by Brexit and the fact that America has become a joke. This deal is worth ‘billions’. How many, and to whom, depends who’s holding the calculator. But its big money. We’ll import all the… curry, at no tariff and they’ll reduce tariffs on the whisky and cars we sell to them. (If you’ve been to India you’ll realise that drink-driving is not only acceptable over there but actually improves the overall standard of motoring). Also, we get to import as many Indians as we like who will pay no National Insurance whilst working here. Which immediately upsets the Unions who see a vast influx of ‘cheap labour’ arriving here with their shovels ready.

This seems a bit ‘one-sided’ to me. Typical Starmer. Negotiation by capitulation. Just give them whatever they want. He did it with the Railwaymen and now with India.

They’ll be many mud-hut villages in the Punjab congested with so many Range Rovers that they can’t get to the shops to buy their Single Malts.

Whilst we enjoy all the saris we can eat.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I read a ‘terrible thing’ in the paper the other day, relatively ‘terrible’ anyway. That for David Beckham’s 50th birthday party at some swanky, fine-dining eatery attended by as many A-listers as you could force a rocket leaf upon, and filled with a myriad of tattoos, there was one noted absentee.

No, not me, I couldn’t go because we were playing bridge that night. Brooklyn Beckham, the son and heir, refused to go. There is bad blood. Very bad blood between the Beckham-Spices and number one offspring. Because of… The Wife!!!

Apparently Victoria B does not get along with daughter-in-law, Nicola Pelz, at all. Hates the spoiled rotten, nasty, venomous little princess something awful. And by all accounts the general consensus is that VB is, for once in her life, correct. There’s been a falling out, loyalties tested, doubtless threats made: “if you go to your dad’s party, I’m on my dad’s jet before you can say ‘privileged bitch’ and in one of our 15 homes by tomorrow morning!!!”

I may be wrong. Maybe Nicola is sweet and agreeable and… and… and pigs DO fly.

But it resonated with Prince Harry. I mean there’s a lot of similarities between Harry and Becks. For a start they’re both quite tall. Secondly… errrr… they’re quite tall…

But the ‘Harry Bizniss’ all started with Meghan. Everyone hates Meghan. William hates Meghan, Catherine hates Meghan, Charles and Camilla hate Meghan, even her own dad hates Meghan. Everyone hate Meg, except me. I’ve never got over that photo of her in ‘Suits LA’ (today’s pic, coincidentally) and with just one hip, I’d forgive her anything.

You know I hate to indulge in gossip and tattle and all that Daily Mail shit that is, quite frankly, totally beneath my intellect, but sometimes I rise to the occasion. In the interest of a ‘bigger picture’. Possibly a ‘bigger question’. Something like ‘why are men so fucking stupid as to follow the dictates (pun almost not intended) of an inappropriate woman who their family loathe and despise’. Alternatively, do the family loathe and despise these women first, for other reasons?

We are talking about two of the most important families in the entire country here; the Royals and Posh’n’Becks, but why can’t everybody love each other and be happy? There are drugs which will help. Meanwhile, avoid nasty, conniving, divisive, stroppy, bitchy, entitled, demanding wom– people. (Nearly)

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We’re entering the most exiting time of the most exiting football season ever! Its brilliant. I sit riveted as Liverpool can’t be bothered to play at Chelsea in any meaningful way because they’re already on the open-topped bus, drinking champagne as they cruise past those Liver birds, being adored by the swarming masses who are trying to steal the wheels.

And Arsenal hosted Bournemouth but had that over-riding ‘whass the fuckin point?’ attitude because they’re 2nd, they’re always going to be 2nd and the rest is just irrelevant numbers. So if they lose 2-1, it’s not a great deal away from winning 2-1. Not to take any credit from Bournemouth who actually turned up. Mentally.

The most exiting of all!!!!, came at the London Stadium (named for the people who pay for the fucking thing) where Spurs and West Ham fought valiantly to see who would occupy 16th place and who would be left languishing in 17th. There was everything to fight for!!! Actually, there wasn’t. Spurs didn’t want to get any more injuries before our trip to Norway this week and West Ham are just hopeless, whoever wears their horrible shirt.

It’s almost tempting to watch Women’s Football. Which has massive coverage and immense popularity, so surely must be just as good as ‘the real thing’, isn’t it? And it is!!! Until you start watching it. Once you get over all the muscular calves and swinging pony-tails, you concentrate on the football. And that’s when the problem starts. Ok, that’s when my problem starts. So I just have to wait for the Europa League semi-final, second leg, on Thursday. Our Great Hope.

You can get tickets for Spurs easily now. No-one can be bothered to go to league matches. Ticket holders have suffered enough for one season. But not me!!! I’ve never suffered enough. I’m like the Opus Dei of football, flagellating every game and increasing my suffering to get closer to Jesus.

Or, in my case, closer to Emily Damari. Who is coming to Spurs on Sunday. Her first match since her release from being a hostage in Gaza. She’s an Anglo-Israeli who was kidnapped on October 7th, shot in the leg and the hand, lost two fingers and held hostage for 471 days. And she’s a big Spurs fan. Spurs have refused to give an ‘official’ welcome because a. They’re fuckwits, and b. ‘It’s political’. But we shall welcome her as the hero she really is. Mel’s coming with me. She hates football, so I’ve told her not to worry, there won’t be much of that on display.

Happy freezing cold Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

The Reform party are going to be the next government. Well, a bit of local government anyway. And their first move in power will be to get rid of ALL the DEI people. Those really important folk who enforce the laws of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. I’m speaking as a black, Zoroastrian, double-trans (I changed twice and I’m considering going for the hat-trick!!!), cross-dressing (in my case ‘double-cross’), non-trinary, sub-ethnic, one-legged (I actually have two but IDENTIFY as a monoped), gluten intolerant with multiple mental health issues and I’m congenitally illiterate. And I’ve been in constant employment since the DEI became law. Well, by ‘employment’, I obviously mean ‘sick leave’. If they don’t employ me, I sue. Then I get ‘signed off’ by some poor GP who loses the will to live when I turn up at the surgery.

It’s a travesty that DEI dudes are becoming a persecuted minority. If only there was still DEI departments to protect them.

However, it’s not all about DEI. It’s about phones. And the use/abuse of those little computers we all choose to carry around. Because the conversation is all about ‘children and phones’. At school. At home. Obsessing about being ‘liked’, or vilified, maybe ‘ghosted’ or ‘trolled’. And small kids, too young for their own phones but having their parents ones used as pacifiers. Videos, games, here; play with this for a minute and LEAVE ME ALONE!!!.

It all starts with the parents. If parents are always attached to and staring at their phones, this is the wonderful example they’re setting. They’re validating and recommending this as perfectly acceptable behaviour. Being ‘social’ does not include ‘social media’, which is totally personal and thus anti-social.

In the Times today is a great article about people in a restaurant, all on their phones. A very expensive and elite restaurant. And a young couple on a date were ignoring each other to spend some quality time on their phones. Awful.

There are many who can’t be separated from their ‘devices’. They bring them to the dinner table. As if, without phone evidence, what they might be saying won’t be believed. Needs ‘validation’ which only phones can provide.

But best of all are those walking, phone in hand, down the street. The ones who have single-handedly (you only use one hand to hold your phone) created an industry in phone stealing, making it so easy for some little shit on an e-bike (not me, I don’t nick phones and I’m a big shit on an e-bike) to just grab it and flee.

Next week we’ll discuss phone use by car drivers, but I need strong medication before I get on to that.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx