Andy's Glasses

I love brunch. I hardly ever partook of such a meal as I’d worked out that if you combine breakfast with lunch, you’re effectively losing out on a meal. Why not have brunchinner and just eat once a day? I mean? Really?

Yet as a concept it’s a good one. Because you can eat breakfast much later and thus eat much more. Justifying it on the grounds that you ‘probably’ won’t have lunch. Probably. Possibly. Because is it early lunch? Or late breakfast? One could argue; it’s both. That’s the point. But other than my 6-weekly brunch meetings with The Legend, it’s a meal I rarely have. Work sort of precludes brunch as an option.

But on Thursday I went for brunch. It was a reunion of the Les Buffets team. It had taken us a month to get over that dinner, so we were ready. Colonic irrigation can only get you so far. Then you need food. So we went to the Angel in Highgate. Used to be a pub, now it’s… a brunchy… place/destination/venue. That also does roasts on the weekend. But nothing else, not a normal ‘restaurant’, they’re so 2024. This is a bruncharaunte.

Giles Coren reviewed it months ago and raved. Then I spoke to a few people who’d been, and they raved. And there’s only so much raving I can take. So along we went. All fully intent on getting the fullest of full-English breakfast I could get. Even though some of that is apparently unkosher. Who knew? Yet when I looked at the menu, I found that they offer kippers. And I love kippers. But only if they’re ‘real’. What my mum would call ‘a pair of kippers’. Like a pair of slippers. But fishier. None of those horrible, rock-hard, dark-red, boil-in-the-bag, filleted rubbish from Aldi, no. Real ones. Bones’n’all. Cooked to perfection. Scrambled eggs, mushrooms (which were outstanding), sourdough toast, because its trendy so they can charge you more, a pot of tea and…

It was brilliant. A real ‘brunch’. Oily fish, ffs, that’ll keep you alive f’rever. And not a smashed avocado in sight. Or I’d have walked out.

So there you are. Another week, another meal. This was never meant to be a restaurant review site but Spurs aren’t playing til tomorrow and I don’t care if Liverpool and Chelsea win or lose. And I keep thinking about kippers.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Europe is ‘decaying’, according to Donald Trump. And in some respects he’s right. Europe’s growth is shit compared to America’s. But the main reason for the ‘decay’ is, as he sees it, immigration. And in some respects he’s right there too.

So he’s taken up a ‘pro-Putin’ stance, or maybe, a stance of Putin appeasement, over Ukraine, welcomed the fucking tyrant back into the world of respectability that he really doesn’t deserve, as his rightful place is alongside Hitler, Stalin and Assad. But only by offering Putin precisely what he wants will ‘it end’. Anything less and the mad Russian will fight on. Why not? He’s got millions more young men forced to die for his cause.

And ‘Europe’, (all of it), is on the side of Ukraine. Because Trump lives ‘over there’, and we live near the Russian borders. So we see the re-growth of the Soviet empire as a real and tangible threat, whereas for Trump, it’s just another shot at the Nobel Peace Prize. Well worth throwing Ukraine under the bus for that.

But it puts Trump in direct opposition to Europe who, let’s face it, can’t muster a leader of any substance between the lot of them. And they’re all scared of Trump anyway because he imposes tariffs at will and is possibly the most unstable personality not currently spending his days in straight jacket. So he uses playground tactics and trash talk as his version of ‘diplomacy’. “The mayor of London is a vile, evil motherfucker” (well, that was implied). Oddly, it’s true, but rather disrespectful when coming from the President.

And the fact is, Trump hates immigrants. He’s now not even too keen on tourists either, if they’re politically divergent from his views, so he’s going to check social media of those applying for tourist visas. Which, to be honest, is no bad thing, unless you were any kind of socialist at any time of your life. Whereas in Europe, we are mired in the ways of ‘human rights’ and its associated horn-of-the-devil, political correctness. To the extent that Europe will allow 100 known terrorists in on a boat just in case there’s one person really in danger of war or persecution in their home nation.

But Trump’s defining move, which has been reported but really hasn’t attained the traction it deserves, is the blowing away (literally) of boats, normally from Nicaragua, suspected of bringing narcotics to the USA.

So these are ‘suspects’, not even proven guilty, but probably drug-runners. And America murders them all. No trial. No sentencing. Just blow them up. These are the low-hanging fruit of the drug world. Not the bosses. Not the ones making millions. Just those doing an illegal job to try and get out of poverty. At great risk. And that’s an assumption anyway. See a boat; bit of ‘intelligence’; blow it, and everyone in it, out of the water.

He’s a complicated man. That word here used as a euphemism for ‘insane’. And that who we have to deal with.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

The government’s ‘obesity tsar’ has made a new law. And it reads thus:
“From hereon thereafter and from this day forth, women, trans-women, almost women and a few camp men shall be offered food portions of a lesser volume and weight than those given to people with testicles, people who wish they had testicles or those identifying as ‘butch’.”

Men (of all types) need more calories each day than women, its… proven. Scientifically. Innit. So this should be reflected in portion size. Go to a restaurant, order hamburgers, ‘his’ comes in as a quarter pounder, her’s, a slider. That’s fair. Though there are issues.

I like Mel getting a lot of food because then I get to eat some of it. And what if a small man, 5 foot 6, goes out for dinner with an amazon who’s 6 foot 2? Who gets the bigger meal? Who ‘needs’ more calories? And what about the pressure on food serving staff? Do they have to ‘presume’ gender?? That wouldn’t cause much bother, would it. What about me? I’m a man, but I identify as a pig. I want one-and-a-half portions. And how about ‘sharing plates’? Does someone stand by to make sure it gets shared unevenly in accordance with the fat-tzar’s rules? If I identify as ‘gender neutral’ do I have to go hungry? How about bisexuals; do they get to eat both portions?

Nice idea, Tsar, but no tsigar.

We went to Edinburgh on the weekend. Train Saturday morning for a Xmas party Saturday evening, train back Sunday morning. Long way for a party but it had to be done. We pitched up at our tube station to get down to Kings Cross and… closed. ‘Planned closures’. Really? Whose fucking plans? Not mine. Ok, we Ubered. Got there in time for our train. And for Edinburgh. What a truly fabulous city. So beautiful. Not just the castle (which we didn’t go see), nor Hollyrood (nope), but all of it. And it’s like Berlin in that most of the people speak English there. I want to go back. Maybe in the summertime.

Tonight; 8pm, Spurs vs Sparta Prague. Starring… Joey!!! He’s a ‘mascot’ at tonight’s match at the Lane. Yes, he’ll be all kitted up and walking from the tunnel holding someone’s hand onto the pitch. I’m hoping he doesn’t trip over. Or pick a fight with one of the other mascots. But I’m almost as exited as he is. The game I’m not bothered about, but Joey walking out with the team? The stuff of dreams.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

An amazing thing happened yesterday whilst we were up in Scotland. For just the fourth time this year, for the first time since August, Spurs won a home game. I shall have to go to Scotland more often. Obviously. My fault entirely. I should have realised that the problem was not ‘dodgy manager’, not ‘shitty players with mental health issues’, not ‘a fucking useless team so intent on total capitulation that if they’re not in the pay of far-eastern gambling syndicates they bloody should be’. But it’s me. They can’t win with me in the country. As my mate, The Legend, claimed last week, I’m a bok. But it’s not him, it’s obviously me. I’m the bok. A word to describe a superstition with meaning only in a sporting situation. A ‘curse’. A ‘bad omen’. A bok. So I made the ultimate sacrifice and crossed the border on the 10am train from Kings Cross, to ensure I’d be out of the country by kick-off time. A move which paid obvious dividends.

I’m applying to the Spurs Supporters Club for subsidy so that for the next home game I’ll be in Rio. The following one in Thailand and the rest of the home fixtures to be arranged with Secret Escapes.com.

Richarlison scored. Amazing. And Xavi Simons broke his duck and for the first time showed some of the promise we paid over 50 million quid for in the summer. Apparently played a blinder. But we won, at home, Joey was there (he’s no bok) and best of all…

Arsenal lost. Which should mean absolutely nothing to me, I have no particular allegiance to Aston Villa, other than they’re my future king’s team, but it does. Last kick of the game. That hurts.

And thus all hell breaks loose at Liverpool as their disastrous season plummets to un-previously-plummeted-depths of despair and plummetation. Mo Salah was dropped for the whole game, Leeds get a 96th minute equaliser and Mo comes out ranting against his manager. About being ‘thrown under the bus’ by Slott to explain the Red’s abysmal season. Which, disloyal as it sounds, rude and nasty as it was, horrible accusatory as it appeared; was pretty much true. ‘We’re shit’, Arne says, ‘it’s Mo’s fault. In Holland we never trust an Egyptian’. And thus the hero of all of the good things to have happened in Anfield and environs for the past decade, has been relegated to scapegoat. Will he ever walk again? Not necessarily onto that pitch, to that song one feels.

But watch out for Man City. And… Aston Villa! Could Unai Emery finally realise the potential that he’s really always had lurking under the surface?

(Very) Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’m totally burning with pride over the Eurovision organisation. To the extent where I may be able to force myself to sit through more than half a song before grabbing the remote and screaming “NO MOOOOORRE”, then switching to the qualifying laps of the F1. Which interests me no more than the Eurovision but sounds better.

But they actually stood by Israel when Spain, Ireland, Belgium and a few other worthless nations, like Slovenia, felt that they ‘couldn’t share a platform’ with anything ‘Israel’. Not with their songs, not with their singers, nothing. These are nations for whom taking a stance and making a statement, AND backing up that statement with positive action, ie boycotting the Eurovision!!!, is a moral imperative.

Those proud nations are prepared to polticise a musical event, itself almost a crime, in order to engage in virtue-signalling ignorance-of-the-facts to a degree of self-sacrifice from this wonderful event. And this is such a noble act that to the governments of Spain, Ireland and all those other principled and worthy nations, I’d just like to say: FUCK OFF THEN!! NO-ONE WILL MISS YOU.

So that’s Eurovision sorted, though you feel, ‘this ain’t the end of it’, now we need to concentrate on the World Cup. Next year. Strictly speaking it’s in ‘Canada, Mexico and the USA’. But in reality it’s ‘America. Oh, with Canada and Mexico as well’.

As was shown yesterday when FIFA, the world’s (most hated and institutionally corrupt) football chiefs, presented the world’s first ever ‘Peace Prize’. What the fuck does that even mean? Peace in football? If it’s for ‘world peace’ (slight gag reflex there) then again, that is politicising football. And to give that award to Donald J. Trump is simply sucking-up of the worst possible variety. Sickening sycophancy. And more politics.

But never mind ‘the Trump show’, the 47th ‘proudest moment of my life’ this year when he received the honour. We then have the football. To be played across three nations who span a continent. I don’t know how far it is from Montreal to Mexico City, but it’s a four-figure number. It’s a ‘take a plane’ number. And that, coupled with FIFA’s quite ridiculous system of ‘dynamic pricing’ for the re-selling of tickets, this is not going to be a World Cup for the ‘working man’. It’ll be for corporates, as some re-sold tickets will fetch over $50,000. Of which, FIFA takes a massive slice. The touts are dead; long live the touts!!! It used to be a dodgy guy in a sheepskin coat flogging tickets for rip-off prices, but now that’s gone ‘corporate’ and ‘digital’ and FIFA have become the new Stan Flashman.

I’m not going anyway but seriously…

Happy Saturday, from a train bound for Edinburgh.

A xxxx

Every day my ipad presents me a random photo from the 62 million of mine which Apple keep for me. In the clouds, allegedly. And they send me a ‘bill’ for ‘extra storage’, about 70p a month. That’s the cost of having grandchildren. Ok, part of the cost. But I’m going to get them to pay me back at some point. When Lila’s the Prime Minister and Joey’s just about to go to jail for blowing up a bank with a rocket-launcher. Not to steal the money, just to see what it does.

Anyway, I generally ignore the ‘photo of the day’, often don’t even notice it. Nice when its my dad, or the brother, most often its just ‘the kids’ or Harry Kane, Son Heung Min, Taylor Swift or some pic of a massive, supercharged muscle car which took my fancy at the time.

Then this came up today.

It’s an advert for the banning of ‘baby led weaning’. That’s when, rather than feeding a baby with a spoon, you just put it out there and led them go feral with it. And this was the result with Joey in late 2019. I mean, you wouldn’t want it banned if you’re the grandparent taking photos with tears of hysterical laughter rolling down his face. But then the realisation. That’s MY kitchen!!! I have to clean it up!! I have to clean HIM up!!!! And 6 years later, he still eats like that. Like his grandfather.

An amazing thing happened on Tuesday night. Spurs played a football match, and didn’t lose! Having temporarily suppressed my football gland activity with special drugs, which have to be distilled in the Highlands for at least 10 years, I didn’t watch it. Didn’t even know it was on. Didn’t look. So disgusted with ‘last week’ that I took a ‘hiatus’ of 3 days. For a ‘re-set’. It was either that or take a sub-machine gun over to the Crews Hill training ground and do a Michael Douglas in Falling Down on my team. So I went to Tibet, took my oaths and became a monk for 3 days, sitting on a mountainside, contemplating man’s place in the grand scheme of God’s eternal landscape. I looked great in orange. Like a skinny Buddha wearing glasses. It was ‘a moment’. But sadly, I got bored after 20 minutes, remembered that I haven’t believed in God since we lost to Luton in 1983 and booked the first Avios flight back, returning just in time to see Liverpool fail to beat Sunderland.

But I feel much better. Ish.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

If you want a curry, just go to your local ‘Tandoooori’, or the ‘Light of India’, which you can find on every single high street and most side streets, in the land. But if you do that, what do you really get? You get a wonderful meal (I love curry; if you don’t, best you read something else today), after strolling in, or booking if you like, it arrives quickly, you eat, you drink, you’re full to bursting and the bill comes for 30 quid. Including ‘service’ and drinks, for two. (Note: if your ’plus 1’ happens to be the boatman, make that 60 quid. Pig).

Who fucking needs that?

Because if you go to Dishoom, you are signing up to ‘an experience’ of the curry variety. And as we all know. Experiences don’t come cheap.

The boatman in fact left his boat for an evening, to face the tides and the waves and the… River stuff, alone, whilst he came all the way into town. From Kingston. Or Hampton. Somewhere ‘down there’, probably on the River. And we went to Dishoom in Covent Garden. I’ve been there before, but only for breakfast. Which is quite spectacular.

First thing to note: they don’t do ‘reservations’ and no-one ‘breezes in’. You see the queue from half way up St Martin’s Lane. Oh. I’m really not one of life’s queuey types. My impatience and horribly questioning nature (ask Mel how annoying I can be; she’ll be honest) mean I just can’t stand there. So I went to find ‘how long’. And the ‘queue gel’ came over. And we grilled her. They don’t do reservations because its so difficult… blah, blah, blah… no room for walk-ins… would be booked for months…
I just mentioned that EVERY OTHER FUCKING RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD MANAGES THAT JUST FINE, but subtley, and so she asked if we’d like to wait our allotted 35 minutes at the bar? Oh. Let me think… outside… in the rain… cold… or bar… warm, comfy, beer…

No-one else was at the bar. No idea why they didn’t offer it immediately. So we sat, we drank and enjoyed the atmosphere. Because the place is spectacular. It really is. Massive, on 2 floors, and just ‘buzzin’. Yet I couldn’t help notice that probably 35% of the tables were empty. And when we eventually took our table, about 40 minutes later, we sat at a table which had been empty that entire time. No-one else was sitting at the bar in all that time either. We were ‘special’.

The whole ‘queuing thing’ is to increase desirability. To enhance the myth. No-one wants to eat in an empty restaurant. Unless it’s the Tandoori down the road, obvs. So the queue serves as a statement as to how desperate loads of people are to eat there. But heh, half an hour at the bar, Indian beer, we were happy. I asked the barman if he had any urine-encrusted peanuts or something to accompany the beer, like they do at ‘bars’. He said he’d get the menu for me. I told him to fuck off.

The food is simply wonderful. Not necessarily ‘cheap’ but wonderful. The staff are fab. Everything there is slick and superb. The mutton curry was ‘to die for’. As that sheep obviously did.

We befriended the manager. She was delightful. Or she befriended us. It’s her job. And when the bill arrived, I looked at it, stared in wide-eyed shock, but just before I started crying, Mya (the manager) whizzed past, grabbed the bill and said, ‘oh, let me just take this back a minute…’ Our waiter brought it back with a £25 reduction. It still had the service charge, but the total was reduced. I was so thrilled I chose not to tell the boatman and charged him half the original amount. Well, we were both a bit pissed by then, so who cares?

If you haven’t been, you simply have to. Though after the budget…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Good morning Britain.

As your chancellor, I’d just like to explain to you why I said some things wot may have not been strictly, 100% accurate, at the time of saying. Because the right wing press seem to think that my friend, Kier, and me, have been somewhat ‘economical’ with the truth in our pre-budget panic-rousing. As you know, all kind of ‘economics’ is a bit beyond my sadly limited comprehension, which is why I have teams of people doing da maffs for me. Even truth type ‘economics’.

The Office of Budget Responsibility told me a month before the budget that our much-vaunted, constantly-levelled, incessantly mentioned ‘black hole’ in the nation’s economy, of ***** billion quid (feel free to insert any number in there that sounds impressive and scary; its what I always do. Consistency not required.), was in fact just, kind’a ‘not there!’. What was there instead was a surplus. Money in the bank. 4 billion quid. Oh.

And there’s me been telling everyone that we’re FUCKING DOOMED TO DESTITUTION AND HOMELESSNESS because of hole which ain’t there. And I didn’t want to look any more stupid than I look now.

So, having spent the last 15 months as the ‘chancellor-of-doom!!!’, and ‘fucking gloom!!!!’, Kier and I re-jigged the numbers a bit. Or, rather, we ignored the numbers. Bloody OBR, gettin’ in the way of a good story. So we could appease our noisy back-benchers who all wanted to lift the ‘2-child-benefit’ cap, which costs a few bil a year to do. And we thought that while we’re there and everyone’s gritting their teeth to discover what punishments I was going to impose on them, be a shame to disappoint, when there’s loads more ‘welfare’ we can give away. Not just to the 17 year-old, drug-addicted mothers of 5 kids in Bradford, but to all manner of skiver, work-shy, sick-note types, probably with long-term ‘mental health issues’, who could do with a few bob. And we are Labour, its what we do.

Might as well take all the money from the workers. Both ‘working people’ type workers, who we’ll re-name ‘ordinary people’, and also from… ‘extra-ordinary!!’ types who can pay ‘extra’ taxes for their work, so that the non-workers can all get an bonus, an incentive, if ya like, never to come off benefits.

And if we had to tell a few little ‘porky pies’, if we needed to ‘ignore a few facts’, so we could appease our party members, it was all part of a big plan.

What we don’t want to do is cheer people up. We’re not fucking entertainers, we’re the government. And our job is to increase the perception of misery in the nation. Something I think we’ve been very successful doing, in no small part due to the budget.

Now let that be an end to the idle speculation, and the latest round of calls for my head, if not just my resignation.

Rachel from Accounts
xxxx

If there has ever been a worse week for any football fans anywhere in the (un)civilised world, I’d like to hear about it. I won’t necessarily sympathise, we don’t do that, we laugh and gloat, but I’d like to hear anyway.

It started last Sunday at the Emirates where arch enemies, local rivals, most hated of the hated (except for Chelsea, obviously), Arsenal, demonstrated the massive gulf that exists between our two teams as they thrashed us 4-1. Then we went to European Champions Paris St Germain and fought valiantly, even scoring 3 goals in our champions league match, only to concede 5. And then last night. Last night…

Since when do we have 8 o’clock matches on Saturday night? ‘We’ are out. We’re eating. We’re in the pub. At the theatre. Out on Hampstead Heath looking for stray men. We’re BUSY. But Sky say: we can cram in one more advertisement stream; play at 8, and that’s what they do. So the players cancelled their dinner bookings, gave away their tickets to the opera (as if) and turned up to play Fulham at The Lane. How hard can that be? Fulham. Worst away form in the league. One point only away from Craven Cottage. How can they turn their fortunes around? Well, send them to Spurs, the team with the worst home record of every team in the whole world. Ok, there are worse records. But not many. We’re 3rd from bottom in the ‘shit teams at home, all of 2025’. See, we do feature in the records!

I would say ‘the match started badly’ but that really doesn’t cover conceding 2 goals in the opening 6 minutes. But heh, you can overcome that. We can’t. But YOU can. If you’re Sunderland you did. If you’re Leeds you almost did until Man City did a big ‘cheat’ so they could have (literally) a Pep talk on the sideline. Spurs can’t. Its difficult if you lack a decent attack, struggles with creativity on the pitch and generally, find it more beneficial to ‘roll over and play dead’ than mount any kind of concerted effort.

I said it last Sunday. I repeated it on Wednesday. By yesterday it just needed repeating: THE WORST WEEK OF MY LIFE!!!

I hate football. And I hate Spurs. I’m done with it. Forever!!! As usual.

Sunday

A xxxx

Joey is in his ‘men in uniform’ phase. Not like when his mother was, that was different. Really different. This is the innocent’s obsession with uniforms which he wants to then wear. And, fortunately, Amazon, as in all walks of life, can provide. So some days he can be a soldier, others, a US ‘cop’, or another 6-year-old’s aspiration, a fireman.

If he was on the other side of the Atlantic, he might want to be a ‘firefighter’. But he’s not. He’s here. And over here, we have firemen.

Except one. She’s a firewoman. A firefightress. Anything but a ‘fireman’!!! To such an extent that she took her wing commander, or fire chief, or whatever he’s called, to court for persecution. Abuse. Misogyny. Mental stress brought on by constantly being called a ‘fireman’, just because she was dressed like one.

Ok, strictly speaking she has a point. I can’t bring myself to call it ‘discrimination’ because rather than using discriminatory terminology, they used the word to include her. Similarly, it would be ‘sexism’ if she was treated differently from all the… errrrr… from all the firepeople-with-testicles.

I’m sure there was banter going on. Offering her an iron or a mop, all the usual silly hi-jinks that boys do when there’s pressure on them to act in a civilised manner for which we’re simply not constructed.

I have a very simple rule of thumb for whether an issue should be brought to court. One question. Does it matter?

Obviously, we need to know to whom it might, or might not matter; that’s quite important. So, for consistency and ease-of-use, we’ll go with ‘does it matter to me. To Andy?’ And in the case of this fireperson, I’m; afraid it fails the test. It’s like suing Burger King because you weren’t served by a royal. ‘Fireman’ is just a name. It’s not a literal description.

And talking of names, today we’re naming ‘my party’. The political one. Currently called ‘Your Party’ but we’ve realised that such a name is almost as pathetic as those in it. So me and Jezza (Corbyn) and Zarah (Sultana) and a few other misfits, retards, simpletons and Arsenal fans are having a naming today. We need something that represents our ideology. We’re socialists, anti-imperialists, anti-zionists, anti-rich, anti-poor, anti-white, anti-social, anti-education and anti-freeze. We basically fucking hate everyone. Except Palestinians. Especially Hamas. We love them. As they represent the kind of tolerance, decency and inclusivity every political party should stand for. We like the IRA for similar reasons. In fact, any bunch of ‘freedom fighters’ works for us. However much murder and torture and sexism and discrimination and general death they stand for.

So please vote now. The front runners for the name currently are:

The Moronic Party
The Useless Party that will never win a seat anywhere.
The Supporters of Terrorism Party.
Bunch’a C**ts. Party!

Happy voting

A xxxx