Andy's Glasses

On April 15th, 1964, the accused, ‘Mr O’, was walking along the street when he saw a woman. He found her to be rather appealing. By objectifying her. Fantasising about her. He then set about stalking her on the street. Following her. Then, brazenly demanding that she fulfil his fantasy and stay with him overnight. He had ‘presumed’ firstly that she in fact identified as a ‘woman’, and then assumed that she was heterosexual. Two appalling facts which we must remember throughout the trial. Upon her rejection to his rather creepy advances, he then pursued her further as she walked away. And continued to stalk her as his fantasies deepened to levels of positive deprivation and pre-meditated sexual assault and possible rape! Which he related to the victim, oblivious to the long-term mental health issues this might induce.

Have you listened to everyone’s favourite old song? Pretty Woman by Roy Orbison? I remember when it came out and was a big hit. Then it was reincarnated when the eponymous movie came out and there was Julia Roberts in that fabulous little dress. We all loved that. Ok, I loved that. But the point is: those lyrics (by today’s somewhat exacting standards) are positively toxic. Evil. So much so that they could have been taken for the Harrods’ anthem. Yet even though I never forget song lyrics, and have sung along with Roy for 60 years, it was only the other night when the tune randomly came on the radio that I listened with a ‘2024 head’ and I thought: fuck me!!! That’s a stalkers manifesto, right there on 45rpm vinyl. Ok, its not quite as bad as ‘Young Girl’, by Gary Puckett, which is basically a paedophile’s personal battle between his conscience and his dick, but Roy would definitely be cancelled if he wrote such a song today.

Yet really, if you listen not just to the words but to the nuance, to the feeling, to the subtleties which create the atmosphere, its the song by a lonely man, desperate for someone to love. The fact that he just finds some superficially gorgeous babe without knowing diddly squat about her and chooses her for his life partner is a bit flimsy, but heh, he’s desperate. We’ve all been there.

And just a quick word of condolence to the family of Hassan Nasrallah, the Hezbollah leader who was ‘eliminated’ by an Israeli missile yesterday. YOU’RE BETTER OFF WITHOUT THE MURDEROUS MUTHAFUCKA. THE WORLD IS BETTER OFF WITHOUT THE MURDEROUS MUTHAFUCKA. Another terror-monger is dead, and we’re all better off for it. I’ll save my sympathies for more worthy causes. This is definitely a celebration.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I had to come home from Greece in time for the Labour Conference, it was important. Not for me, so much, but they couldn’t have had such a meaningful and wonderful time if they thought I was out of the country. And our new government excelled themselves. They’ve put behind them all that horrible, nasty shit which happened for the last 14 weeks… Oh, 14 years, that was the last government, this new one has had a fantastic, condensed, annus horibilis since it was elected. It’s been a disaster. We had the race riots/midnight shopping sprees, followed by seeing if we can overfill the overflowing prisons with a few grannies from Rochdale and schoolteachers from Preston who jumped up and down on a few police cars. Then they signed the death warrant of about three quarters of all the nation’s pensioners by taking away their heating allowance. Of 250 quid each. So they could enrich the overpaid train drivers by about 20 grand a year each in their totally uncontested pay rise. Then they gave the Doctors 22%, no arguments from me there, and to ‘finalise this round of pay negotiations’, they offered the nurses… 5%. I thought that seemed very fair indeed. Nurses just aren’t as valuable as anyone else, we all know that, plus, most are women so simply aren’t entitled to any kind of ‘equal pay’ considerations. Anyway that was rejected, so its not over. Til the fat Matron sings.

Sir Kier made a speech which would have warmed the heart of a vampire. Well, if it was a Labour vampire who bought into that bullshit. Any decent vampire would know better. And Kier said the words which will become immortalised: “we’ll demand an immediate ceasefire for Gaza and release of all sausages”. He actually said that. Oddly, despite the spawning of a million memes, it’s actually the first of those claims which is the most ridiculous, the ‘demanding a ceasefire’, but we won’t go into that today.

And this speech followed Chancellor Rachel Reeves on Monday telling us how fab it felt to be the first ever woman chancellor, oh the honour of it. Yeah. Great. Then she told us, as did Kier later, how they were re-building Britain. Great, I thought, I hope they start with the fucking pot-holes. But no, this was a metaphor. And we all know, government metaphors don’t mean shit, but cost a fortune. At least 2/3rds of a black hole. And it’s a long-term project. And to get to this ‘holy land’ flowing with milk and honey, in time for Lila and Joey’s great-grandchildren to enjoy, we’re all going to die as slaves to the national economy. Because, as they keep telling us: ‘it’s going to hurt’. Yeah, whips always do.

But at least they made the effort to sound a bit up-beat, relative to the funereal words of doom and deprivation they’ve been banging on about ever since they took power. Ok, it wasn’t a great effort but they’re trying. Kier Starmer’s chances of lifting my spirits are about on a par with those of Son Heung Min lifting the Premiership Trophy. But that says more about what Kier does for me, which is so much more than mere ‘nothing’, than it does about my football team.

But it’s over now. Conference is done. The karaoke’s finished, the hangovers in place and Kier’s in New York speaking placatory nonsense at the UN.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I’m not going to talk about the football. Uh-huh, no way. It would be hurtful, nasty, possibly a bit spiteful and possibly even mildly offensive. To… some. I’m not going to gloat that Spurs beat Brentford because we should always beat Brentford. And the manner of the victory had ‘chaos’ stamped all over it. Yet it was a win, it produced all 3 points and we all feel really good about it, two people in particular; Dominic Solanke, breaking his duck, and Lila, for being there and undoubtedly the catalyst in ending our recent run of horrible results.

Arsenal on the other hand, if I were to speak of such things, were ‘robbed’. The ref dunnit, the sending off dunnit, everything and everyone else was responsible, conspiring to deny them of the 3 points ‘they so richly deserved’. I’m not saying that I was mildly amused at the very end of the match, that would be unkind. So I won’t.

Because my mind was already in Liverpool. At the Labour Conference. With Kier. Ange. Rache, and the gang, with all the Palestine Protesters and Hamas appreciators. But I was on a plane. No-one was worrying about US pensioners losing our fucking heating allowance!!!, being concerned about the economy, awarding massive pay rises to all public employees and trade unionists, with no debate, no argument, no negotiation, if your hands are dirty (blood counts as ‘dirt’ in this instance, hence the Doctors rise), just ask for what you like and you can have it.

Instead our concerns lay squarely on ‘clothes-gate’!! In which Kier, and Ange, both received ‘sponsorship’ for personal clothing. And for Kier, 16 grand goes a long way at Primark. Then, he also got a few more thousand for glasses. He should have come to me. It would have only paid for one pair, but they’d have been a truly ‘fuck-off’ pair of specs. Rather than the ‘Mr Invisible’ look he currently sports. And then Ange took a holiday in a freebie from a mate. In New York. So we’ve all become a bit ‘distracted’ by… not ‘sleaze’, that’s a Tory thing, this must be ‘the sleaze of Change’, or ‘New Sleaze’.

I heard a phone-in this morning by LBC’s Labour-in-chief wanker (no names, but it was James O’Brien), speaking of: ‘how do we stop the right wing press telling lies about gifts to our Esteemed new leaders?’ He’s deeply offended that these ‘trivial’ things are stopping us talking about the important stuff. And that’s because he’s a hypocritical, anti-semitic know-all. And if it was the Tories, no slur would be too small for him to dedicate entire shows to building moats on parliamentary expenses, or digging basements in second homes, or taxi fares to John O’Groats. Yet because it’s labour, it’s ‘the right wing press’ wot dunnit. He is emphatically (and always) my ‘Tosser of the Week’.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its over. As I sit here at Athens International Airport, I’ve swam my last swim, walked my last beach, eaten my last fava-bean and drank my last ouzo. Which would have been my first in fact cos I’m not a lover of the stuff cos it tastes so strongly of aniseed and makes me dance the Zorba.

So the last night. we stayed in a fairly randomly chosen resort. I googled ‘Lavriou’, where the ferry lands and ‘hotels’ which we needed and came up with a bunch of contenders. None of them actually near the ferry port as it’s so horrible round there. So we crossed the most southerly peninsula of mainland Greece, just below Athens, and stayed ‘on a beach’ resort. The beach was in fact the other side of that part of Greece’s version of the M25. So, clever resort builders that they are, they built a little tunnel under the road to enable their residents access to the beach without getting killed by speeding motorists. They all speed here. It’s not just legal to exceed the speed limit, it is mandatory. Which, because they invented irony here, makes perfect sense.

The resort had all sorts of fab things. It was massive, involved lots and lots of walking, up hills, along walkways, down stairways. It had 2 fabulous swimming pools. The ‘big one’ where all the fabulous and the obese felt they needed to be, fighting for sun beds and drinking beers, and the ‘lesser one’ which was fabulously quiet and every person had 6 sun beds to themselves. But here’s the odd thing. The pools don’t ‘open’ until 10.00am for one and 11.00am for the other. Oh, we said, you mean that’s when the lifeguards arrive, right? No, they’re gated and locked until those times. Ah, well we like to swim before breakfast… ok, Mel likes to swim before breakfast and I’m the witness. Errrr, how you say ‘tough shit’ in English?

Fortunately, they can’t lock the beach. Even stupid, time-restrictive, no-idea-when-real-people-swim, jobsworth Greeks can’t stop you swimming in the sea, can they? And, due to our recent (ie, since Tuesday) vast experience of ‘open water swimming’ in our little bay in Kea, we were up for it in a tiny little bay on the mainland. It was just as clean, just as calm, just as wonderful. Almost.

So as we fly home, I’m thinking Hampstead Ponds (temperature down to -5 by November), the Serpentine (minus anything is all you really need to know), Southend on Sea (just need to get past the latest oil slick to get to the proper, sewer-enriched, water beyond), or Docklands (The Thames; the conservation area for 97% of the world’s bacteria). And I think instead: Netflix.

Happy return home,

Andy

We’ve moved. No longer on Kea, we took the morning ferry back to… somewhere fairly near Athens, from where we took an Uber to… a resort somewhere fairly near Athens. This picture will tell you exactly where we are now. We’re ‘there’. So we can enjoy our last day and tomorrow morning here before heading for the airport.

And I wanted to spend our last night on proper Greece. Where all the cool old dudes created our world. Where Pythagoras invented the triangle. Where Democritus (no such bloke, but there should be) invented the Liberal Democrat Party and a system of government selection that many countries adhere to, to this day. Not America, obviously, they have a system by which either Trump wins, or its ‘rigged’, regardless of the votes cast.

Plato lived here, probably alone, with lots of ‘friends’, none of whom he shagged. Aristotle was the guv’nor of them all because he was the first man to take some offcuts of chicken, skewer them onto a spike and grill them. When his grandson Donner was born, their restaurant went from strength to strength.

Then there was Socrates. I love him because he invented irony and used it to such a great extent that no-one ever knew what the fuck he was actually trying to say. Though all agreed, he was the ‘cleverest man in Athens’. Well they didn’t know my Uber driver, he was amazingly clever, getting us here in 20 minutes without getting lost more than twice.

So that’s why I’m here. To reconnect with the greatest society ever to exist. Until the Romans invaded, found everyone in Greece contemplating their navels and enslaved them so they could drink all the wine, eat all the animals, shag all the men, women and any animals left over, and take over the world.

I’ve just come out of the sea. It was just like the one in Kea. Almost like they were joined. Warm, clear, clean and fab. But more people here. Predominantly English ones. Not a Greek philosopher in sight. Just a few geezers with tattoos trying to work out how to make Mel a coffee frappe just like she wants it. (Spoiler: she’s FUSSY).

Happy end of holidays

A xxxx

I’m in Greece. In case you missed that. And here on beautiful Kea Island there is a population of 2,500. Mostly Greeks, I’m guessing. The demographic of our hotel is a bit different. As it’s a hotel. Where forriners live. Not many cos its a really small hotel, so its a bit ‘intimate’. I don’t mean shaggin the chambermaid, I mean, small hotel, breakfast tables, sunbeds, proximity, it’s natural to smile at people. Particularly if you sat next to them yesterday and managed to nick a biscuit off their plate. You say ‘hello’, or even, if you’re feeling really, overly friendly, ‘good morning’.

There’s a few Greeks staying here, cos it’s easy to get here from Athens, so they do. There were a couple of Germans but we scared them away. There are quite a few Israelis, as Greece is very close and there are, generally, less missiles than at home. We have quite a few Americans and they’re friendly, in that loud way they have. And then there’s the French.

They have a reputation for haughtiness, even appearing almost ‘arrogant’ at times. Ok, all the time. They seem ‘snooty’, unfriendly and disapproving of virtually everything. Particularly, as in Greece, where they’re forced to speak English. Something which always upsets the French as they go into ‘Napoleon mode’ and regret not taking over the world and making it completely French-speaking, even though you’re a little shnip with a dodgy arm. So the French wake up pre-pissed-off, which manifests as looking like there’s a bad smell all around. And then it gets worse.

It’s so easy to spot the French. They’re the ones who ignore your smiles and ‘good mornings’, even if you’ve worked out their problem and offer a polite ‘bonjour’. Maybe these ones don’t speak French very well?

Well fuck ‘em. Not literally, the ones here are all ugly, not like the ones waiting your table on the Champs Elysee, who all look like Brigitte Bardot and Lea Seydoux. It’s simply not worth getting upset about.

And the answer to the question: what’s the French for ‘nice’, for ‘decent, civil, friendly’, is that they have no words for such things. There’s no need for them.

Fortunately the Greeks are wonderful and bring you all the lovely food you need, as long as you pay them for it. Seems to work well.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We all have our routines. And on hot holidays ours barely varies. Swim before breakfast; Mel’s golden rule. She does it in the Finchley drizzle, she certainly won’t miss it in the glorious sunshine and heat of Kea Island. I’m there. Like a puppy. Following. In her wake. I complete my statutory 3 lengths, she’s already done 15. I get bored, lie in the sun and wait for her to complete 40, or 60 or 80 lengths before I’m set loose on the buffet.

But here in our quite frankly gorgeous little hotel in Kea it’s changed. Two reasons. Firstly the pool is fucking freezing. Which is actually brilliant when you’re hot. But limits how long you can swim. Fine for me, not so good for Mrs Marathon Swimmer. And secondly, emphasis on the ‘little’ hotel. It’s a true boutique. And the pool sits right up to the breakfast tables on the terrace. And would you be happy splashing chlorine into everyone’s lattes? Or being watched as you struggle up and down?

We resolved this issue. There’s a little beach, 5 minutes away. I took a pic of it this morning. We go there in the afternoons because the sea is completely flat, totally clean and clear and warm, and it’s really pretty. So this morning we did our morning swim… in the sea!!! I know, it’s against all the rules but much as I find pool swimming boring as fuck, I find sea swimming totally fab. And the sea, according to Google, is about 24 degrees here. The pool… isn’t. We swam across the bay. With some fishes. Just small ones, no bigger than 18 to 25 Euros each, I reckon. There was no-one else on the beach at about 9.30 because we all know that Greeks are lazy fuckers, it’s a national characteristic. That’s how the Romans took over the world; they just got up before 7 while all the ancient Greeks were sleeping.

I can’t help be amused that since Pager-gate on Tuesday followed by ‘exploding other things Wednesday’, things like electric scooters and bikes, solar panels, all manner of electronic stuff, the world is calling out for ‘negotiations’ and ‘diplomatic solutions’. And I think, what part of the word ‘terrorists’ don’t the international press understand? Hezbollah, like Hamas are terrorists. There is no negotiation possible or worthwhile. These are people who behead children and take selfies whilst doing it. And no-one ever notices that in all the discussions about how a ‘2-state solution’ being the be-all and end-all of Middle East aspirations, that Hamas has never claimed that as a demand. Nor would Hezbollah, except all their spokesmen are currently either dead or in hospital having their ‘phone ears’ stitched back on. They don’t want a 2-state anything. They want it all. Along with the death of the current inhabitants.

But heh, I’m resting, sunbathing and, swimming in the sea. You’re in charge of international events.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

And finally: THE FISH! The most fab fish in all of Europe. Now, unfortunately, an ex-fish, but he (/she) died in the most noble of all causes. To feed me.

What’s fishy though is the mysterious case of the exploding communication devices. Very strange. We’ve all had phones that pack up, electric bikes whose batteries catch fire, electronic devices recalled for manufacturing faults. But yesterday’s… event?, tragedy?, let’s say ‘catastrophe’, in which 4000 pagers simultaneously exploded causing deaths, terrible injuries and rather a lot of blood spilled all over Lebanon, was something different. In both scale and intent. And certainly in the message it sends (no pun intended… ok, just a bit intended).

Firstly, those in possession of the pagers were ALL Hezbollah members. Soldiers. Whatever you term them. And in the UK they are termed ‘terrorists’, like Hamas. So unless you work for the BBC, you would understand that these are not good people. They are not the moral equivalent of a democratic nation’s army. They are people who maim, slaughter and destroy indiscriminately. They target civilians, they bomb school buses. They are scum. Hezbollah are on the same page as Al Quaeda. As ISIS. They have an ideology which is essentially devoted to death. And their mission statement includes the annihilation of the state of Israel and the death of all Jews.

I get that a few innocent civilians were injured. Not many, and not seriously. And oddly, for that part of the world, not claimed as ‘mainly women and children’. Because most Hezbollah operatives are men. And they had the pagers. In their hands, pockets or just nearby. And they took the explosions. And became the ‘martyrs’ we all wish them to be.

But the message this sends is really one of ‘do you have any idea of who you’re threatening? Of how fucking clever we are??’ Because IT experts were last night trying to work out what happened. How it happened. At what level the ‘infiltration’ occurred to produce such a massive ‘compromise’ of an entire paramilitary communication network. Because for most nations this would be simply impossible to achieve.

Due to our limited tv options over here in Greece, I chose to watch the Al Jazeera news, because all CNN could offer was 24 hour coverage of Donald Trump’s golf course in Florida and how the latest ‘attempted assassination’ could have happened. And even Al Jazeera were in awe of the quite incredible ability of Mossad to do what pretty much no-one else in the world can even work out after the event. Which might make Hezbollah wonder ‘what else can they do?’

Ok, enough distraction, I need to get back to food.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There’s few sights in the world as beautiful as a ship under sail. With, like, sails. Four sheets to the wind. In the literal sense. It’s as peaceful as when your Nirvana cd comes to the end. As serene as a David Ginola goal. As beautiful as the South Stand at White Hart Lane. As relaxing as washing my car.

It is oft said that the two happiest days in the life of a boat-owner are the day he buys the boat and the day he sells it. And you know why. To buy something like this one pictured would be the achievement of a lofty aspiration. Then you have to park it. Even driving it is probably not as easy as it looks. I’ve tried using sails a few times in my past and the expression ‘failed miserably’ doesn’t cover the ineptitude even 1%. Ok, you think, so buy a motor launch. A ‘super yacht’. Even a ‘not so super yacht’. Still costs thousands a month to moor it up somewhere you’d need it to be. Yeah, you could park in Dundee pretty cheaply but you want it in Nice, Monte Carlo, Porto Banus, or even Athens. So you have access all summer to the wonders of the Med. I’d keep mine in Tilbury, then just ‘pop’ over to the Caribbean for a week or so.

In truth, I’ve never had any feelings to buy a boat. The Boatman has one but that’s just a luxury flat that floats. With a maximum of 4 knots it’d take 7 months to get to Ireland. I’ve always fancied those boats they have in America. Just a long speed boat with a massive dragster engine on the back. Accelerates from nought to ‘flip right over’ in 3.7 seconds. But they’d be the most exhilarating 3.7 seconds of your life. And the most hospitalised insurance claim of your life too.

So I’m not buying a boat, even though it looks like the best thing in the world. Instead, I saved up to buy a fish.

We ate it last night. I’d send you a pic because it was simply the most wonderful thing, but this photo is too good to waste, so you’ll have to wait. It was a sea-bream and at the totally-Kea-island-bargain price of 55 Euros a kilo. And it weighed a kilo and could have fed 4. They know how to cook fish here. Almost like it’s an island or something. It was simply fantastic. The second best fish I’ve ever eaten. By a long way. The absolute best was a sea trout we had in Port Douglas, Queensland. I’ve probably got a photo of that one somewhere. Must look in my ‘dead fish’ album and find it.

And that’s my life at this precise moments in time. Gorgeous boats that I don’t want and fabulous fishes that I can’t afford. Its tough.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve been to Greece before. In fact, I was here 2 or 3 years ago, for my maiden voyage to Athens. Wonderful city. And I’ve been to numerous islands over the years, as everybody has. You get off the plane, they tell you it’s Corfu, or Mykonos, or Crete, but it’s probably the same island with a different name-tag put up at the airport. They’re all lovely. Because it’s the same place. Only Cyprus is different because you have marauding Turks on the northern border. Otherwise, to all intents and purposes, Greece has only one main island, with a changeable name.

But no-one’s ever heard of Kea. Not until Mark came here anyway. And he’s a famous blabbermouth so he told me. And now I’m here and I’m telling everyone. I was sold by my mate’s words: ‘there’s nothing to do’. Oooooh, I thought, I like the sound of that. Nothing… for a whole week… hmmm…

The hotel pool is ‘refreshing’. So ‘refreshing’ that your testicles will shrink to the size of a (frozen) pea within 1.2 seconds of entry. But it is exhilarating. And because it’s September, the temperature here is a lovely 25 ish. All day. Hot enough to enjoy, not hot enough to fry.

The above is the view from our room. Its horrible. Where’s the motorway? Car park? Hi-rise flats with cladding? We looked at other rooms but they all have the same view. Nothing better on offer. No view of White Hart Lane. THANK GOD!!!

The only surprising thing about Kea, so far, is the price of fish. Just up the road from the hotel is a row of lovely little tavernas, all, basically selling the same stuff. Greek stuff, in the main part, oddly. They all have seating quite literally ‘on the sea’. Where the fish live. You’d think in some kind of abundance. In Epping forest you’d be hard pressed to stumble across a red mullet, but in Kea? How hard can it be.

Yet that red mullet will cost you £145/kilo in the little ‘local’ tavernas. Because they’re fished out of the sea in nets made from spun gold. Only 16 year-old virgins with webbed feet can catch them. They’re carried across the road, all of 12 metres to the kitchens, in special carriages which can only be made in Papua New Guinea and brought here by swimmers.

Fortunately there’s other things to eat. Yet it doesn’t matter anyway: Mark’s paying.

Happy holidays

A xxxx