Andy's Glasses

The BBC’s coverage of the Olympics is absolutely brilliant. Without doubt ‘the best in the world’. Because there’s no adverts. So even if the presentation was shit, which it isn’t, even if the production was poor, which it isn’t, the mere fact that you don’t get the 200 metres final interrupted to tell us about a new haemorrhoid medication, or the show-jumping cutting to an ad for tampons, the new Diet Coke, KFC’s latest ‘dead-bird-special’ or any other such annoyance, makes it totally unique. And every evening they have a ‘catch up’ on the day’s events. Of which there are always loads and loads and always across a fabulously diverse range of sports. So I call out to Mel “the Olympics is on, bring the tissues”.

And as the first woman crosses the finish line, or the first man jumps the highest, shoots the target, punches his opponent (or, topically, perhaps punches ‘her’ opponent), or rides round the velodrome, I start crying.

Its just fucking weird. I am unquestionably the most manly of testosterone-fuelled, macho, super-tough, heroic, ‘you wan’-some?? come on den!’, Nietzsche-esque ‘Superman’ geezer. And I barely cried at the end of ET. Hardly a sniffle when Bambi’s mum got shot, yet anyone on the Olympic podium reduces me to blubbering wreck. When they win the event it starts. In the interview afterwards it worsens.

Its not sadness. When Simone Biles fell off the beam I was dry-eyed. Mainly with shock because in her entire career she’s never once put one foot wrong. But I didn’t cry. But when Keely Hodgkinson won the 800 I was distraught. Mel was on the phone to my counsellor immediately but then they spoke to Keely in all her post-match emotion and adrenaline high and my sobbing reached a pitch whereby the counsellor couldn’t hear what Mel was saying.

And I know ‘the story’. Its always the same. “I’ve been working for this since I was 7. Possibly 9. Maybe 11. I’ve grown a lot as a person in the last year. I was mentally prepared. Its the most brilliant thing since the 1981 FA Cup Final.” Always the same, regardless of the sport.

Then they get on the podium and as soon as the National Anthem starts, I’m off again. It could be the result of 65 years a Spurs fan, so when anyone wins anything its upsetting. Or it could be just the sheer emotion which the Olympics generates. And it all seems to land on me. I have no idea why really. Nor do I care. Its an outpouring of… something?

Teary Tuesday

A xxxx

My window cleaner, Alan, today pointed out something interesting. Not a greasy mark on the window, something even more interesting than that. Whenever there’s a Labour government we have riots. Under the Tories, its all dead boring with very little violent civil unrest. Put a Labour man in Number 10 and it all kicks off. I’m not blaming Starmer, he’s not the one setting cars on fire. But if Alan the Window Man is correct, this is a terrible pattern.

We’re not precisely sure what the problem is, at the moment, what exactly is causing this great unrest, we’re hoping for a little clarity, or something that make a bit of sense, at least, sometime during the next 25 or so planned riots. Suffice to say: whatEVER the problem, throwing bricks at the nearest bobby is the way to solve it.

The catalyst for the rioting was the horrendous stabbing of the schoolkids in Southport. Then, rather than wait for any facts which may arise, sort of ‘informing’ people, as no-one wants that, the social media boys and gels went into ‘speculation and fake news overdrive’ to create a story in which the stabber ticked every ‘hate group’ box sufficiently for the far-right boot boys to be able to do what they do best. Which is add two and two together and come up with 17.36, set fire to four buildings and 13 police cars, then find a scapegoat for all the nation’s problems, in terms of what colour they might be, then attack the police in all major cities.

In this case they invented a ‘story’ for the stab perpetrator. Who, don’t get me wrong, is an evil piece of shit who should never see the light of day again. BUT… according to the tales spread before anyone who knew anything could get some truth out there, this man was a violent jihadi boat-person, a muslim arriving just last year. All of which turned out to be rubbish. But Christian Rwandans who were born in Cardiff simply lack the hate potential, so the narrative needed to be ‘adjusted’ for the sake of inflaming the masses. And giving them a ‘proper focus’ for all their pent-up aggression. Terrorists. Muslims. Mosques. Simple word association. Almost Pavlovian: someone with dark skin has killed a white person: burn mosques. The sort of quantum leap, guilt-by-association which is the hallmark of the far right. The KKK used it aplenty. Hitler found his scapegoats and engaged an entire nation in their persecution.

And this is where we are now. Driven by fictitious garbage to riot, attack the police and act against any symbol of immigration. And the fact that this is some long way from the initial alleged cause of the ‘protests’ becomes irrelevant. We’ve gone from nought to Krystalnacht in one week. Tommy Robinson, Nigel Farage, they must be very proud of our fine nation.

I’m thinking of joining the English Defence League myself now. Where can I buy some bricks?

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’ve never mainlined heroin. It never really appealed to me. It always struck me as a way more ‘Trainspotting’ type drug than anything cool or glamorous. If cocaine was Studio 54 in its heyday, heroin was dirty syringes in the back alleys behind the club where the garbage and the homeless Scottish people were kept. But I always wondered why anyone would ever take their first ‘hit’ of something so horrendously addictive that your life, as you knew it, anticipated it, expected it to pan out, was over as of that very moment. And apparently the problem with heroin is that the first shot is so unbelievably amazing that you then spend all your time trying to get that same feeling which, apparently, is impossible.

I have a similar issue with doner kebabs. What? No, it’s NOT stupid, it’s a good comparison. Something that you know is really really bad for you but you can’t resist because it is so highly addictive. Thank you!

It’s the same thing, I am forever trying to have the feeling that was produced by the first kebab I ever ate. That taste.

It was 1975, the summer of. I was working for a mini-cab company in the West End, delivering stuff in my little mini. The office was literally underneath the Post Office Tower and I was concerned that it might fall down, because I wasn’t sure my car insurance covered me if I was carrying ‘goods’. Anyway, one lunchtime I walked into the office and was greeted by a smell so strong, so powerful, so absolutely wonderful, that it quite literally felt like I’d been punched in the face by an Algerian woman with a Y chromosome. I found out that what was being eaten by another driver was called ‘a ke-bab’, which sounded exotic, and was available, literally a 1-minute walk away. I went. I got. I bit…

And I can still remember that taste, the entire ‘wow!!!!’ as all those flavours exploded in my mouth. That restaurant was called Efes and was in Great Titchfield Street, where it had been for a decade before I discovered it and it lasted until about 10 years ago when, having already changed hands and ‘gone downhill’, it closed.

Part of me died. Is that a bit overly dramatic? For a kebab?? What you think??

Oddly, my old mate discovered Efes at about the same time, completely independently. It became something of an obsession. Although we’re talking a few times a year, rather than stealing our parents’ wedding rings to fund the habit.

He moved to France. And I’d get a call: “my flight lands at Heathrow at 4.50. I can be ‘there’ by 7”. There was no question where ‘there’ might be.

Obviously, I’ve had kebabs from many, many places. I was even taken in Los Angeles to try this ‘super new thing’ called a ‘giro’. But never has anyone produced a kebab to rival the ones Efes made.

And all this just because I had a kebab last night. From our local Turkish kebabery. And it was wonderful. I dripped down my arms, as they must do, it was filled with goodness and all taste. But was it ‘as good’? No, nothing is. As Crosby Stills and Nash sang so appropriately: “if you can’t be with the one you love; love the one you’re with”. Definitely works for kebabs.

So the quest goes on. And it’s such an enjoyable journey.

Happy Diet Day

A xxxx

It’s totally been the most, like, 100% bestest ever, like maddest, really insane week for Britain. Ever.

Because we’ve been in the Olympics and we’ve won gold medals in sports that until last Tuesday I never knew existed. Yet in just one week, we’ve excelled in the rowing, we’ve bounced on trampolines, shot things with rifles. If the Olympics was in America they would probably have schoolchildren shooting as an event but here we stick with clay pigeons. We’ve out-swum, out-run and out-horse-ridden absolutely everyone. We’ve been brilliant in triathlons, ridden bikes incredibly, had three gorgeous little girls murdered, watched 3 racially motivated riots orchestrated by right wing thugs with a promise of at least 30 morel!!! Oh, 30 more riots, I thought they meant 30 more medals. Anyway: what a week for Britain!!!! Every time I turn on the telly there’s either a gold medal coming in or a police car on fire.

I don’t know if these events are related. Does the Olympics produce levels of competitiveness and testosterone which are absent the rest of the time? The Games certainly produces unheard of levels of testosterone in a few women boxers. But this is not the place for gender issues at this time. It’s all a load of bollocks.

So as good a week as this has been for Simone Biles, it’s been even better for Nigel Farage. Because his ‘thing’ is not overt racism, no-one can get away with that any more, the Blazing Saddles days are long over. But Nigel can take an event, like the horrendous stabbing at the school in Southport, and turn it to fit his narrative. He lets others, or possibly gets others to, put out a few speculative stabs, just some fake news. Like, ‘the bloke with the knife was a Muslim boat-person’. Which then creates a narrative which falls beautifully in line with the hard-right, keep-Britain-white, stop immigration line. And by the time (about 24 hours) we know that the stabber was born in Wales to Rwandan parents, probably both Christian, its too late, the damage is done, The League of British Thugs are on their way to smash up a mosque and attack the police. And repeat and repeat and repeat.

So that’s where we are. Brilliant at the Olympic Games, not so great when it comes to controlling the streets. Can’t have it all.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So the thing about school holidays is that they cause a lot of work, even for grandparents. On a normal Thursday, between school drop off and the afternoon pickup lie hours and hours of peaceful inactivity. Whereas holiday days are full-on. Though realistically, is my life more peaceful with Mel or with Lila and Joey? Who of those can find more things for me to do? Deep philosophical questions. As are questions of ‘love’.

Lila was showing me her newfound ability to write ‘joined up’. Which is brilliant. She’s 7 and can write joined-up, our Prime Minister is 61 and can’t even think ‘joined up’. So I gave her a phrase to write. ‘My name is Lila’, which she dutifully and beautifully calligraphied (new word required: invent one) in lovely script: “My name is Lila”. Ok, now “your name is Andy”, and in lovingly cursived hand appeared “Your name is Andy”. Right, so now write: ‘and I love you’. And on the page appeared: “and I don’t love you”.

And that simply cracked me up. Of course, it may just mean that Lila in fact doesn’t love me, impossible though that would be for you to imagine, but that would be her right. Or it could be that Lila ‘gets it’. That she understands how the truth, integrity, honesty and consistency can only get you so far. Whereas duplicity, misinformation, lying, obfuscating and inconsistency are way more fun. Values I’ve always impressed on her from her first understanding that ‘Old MacDonald has a dog, with a ‘moo-moo’ here and a ‘moo-moo’ there’ is in fact a (rather stupid and exceptionally childish) joke. Why ever state the obvious when stating the opposite gets the laughs?

I know Joey loves me because the level of violence he demonstrates towards me is way in excess of any attack he would launch on someone he didn’t love.

The kids didn’t actually do any, kind of ‘hands on’ welding yesterday, as today’s pic might imply, but their mum did think that might be a good skill for them to learn young. And Thursdays have always been ‘dangerous implement days’, so maybe we’ll give it a go.

And its amazing to think that there are 2 less terrorist leaders in the world than there were on the weekend. Fuad Shukr was a general in Hezbollah and a man wanted for an attack in Beirut in 1993 which killed 241 Americans. He was ‘hit’ by a missile. Shame. And yet, before his body had even fully cooled, the Hamas Leader, Ismail Haniyeh, was hit by a drone, along with a bodyguard in Tehran. Even the Ayatollah had to agree that this was an audacious and brilliantly precise strike. Then, of course he had to add ‘500 women and children were killed in the attack’, so the BBC can spew their favourite line, even though no-one else was actually injured during the strike at all.

The world would sleep easier in its bed tonight for the loss of these two murderers, but for the extreme probability of revenge by Iran. The most humourless nation on Earth. Other than, perhaps, North Korea.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

This is now getting personal. Me and the Chancellor of the Exchequer. First we had ‘black-hole-gate’, into which Rachel Reeves blindly stumbled, and now it’s going to get much colder. Because La Chancellor has decided that the quickest way to pay off the 22 billion pound deficit in her mathematical ability is to get pensioners to pay it from their winter heating allowance. Which, for many of us, means that this winter I’ll be walking round a freezing cold house wearing all the clothes I own to try and keep warm because I can’t afford to turn the heating on because my 250 quid has to be thrown at the Black Hole. Maybe burn a few logs in the lounge. Maybe burn the sofa.

Its hard to think of the freeziness of mid-winter when we’re at the point of the summer when Weather ‘People’ (because we have boys doing it too now) are debating whether we are in fact in a ‘heatwave’ according to official criteria for such things. Or whether, as most of us ‘amateurs’ feel: it’s just a few hot days in a rotten summer of cold and wet, and about fucking time.

I’m applying for a new job for the winter heating bills. I want to be Kyle Walker’s mistress. No, I really do. Because the last incumbent in that post (I presume ‘they’re over!!!’ as they’re in court arguing) has a 2.5 million pound house, gets 350 grand a year, plus a new Mercedes, plus a nanny for the one-but-soon-to-be-2 children, plussssss… 500 quid a month for gardening (must be a big garden) and the same for the ‘hot tub’. In case its… not hot enough or not… tubby enough.

Thing is: when did ‘mistresses’ acquire rights? I thought that very word died in the war. I don’t want to get all Andrew Tate about this but I fully get Kyle has a definite responsibility to his children. I’m just not sure what she is being compensated for. She entered into a relationship with a married man. Who happened to be a millionaire footballer, which I’m sure had no influence on her love for the man, at all. She loved him for his… err… well, he’s a very fast runner, is Kyle.

Anyway; they’re in court ‘getting divorced’ yet were never married. He reckons he pays enough, she reckons she’s entitled to the status, lifestyle and respect of any self-respecting ‘influencer’ and ‘other woman’. I’m just not sure what the going rate for that might be.

Good work if you can get it though.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Oh. My. Goooooooooood!!! I’ve just looked at the nation’s finances and I’ve found… a massive black hole!!! Billions missing!!! Didn’t see that before because the outgoing government must have hidden it. Or covered it with… things. Or…

Well, its an interesting question how you ‘hide’ figures in accounts which are 100% fully on public view and accessible to anybody. Even to clever-cloggs incoming Chancellors-in-waiting who’ve been doing nothing but scrutinise the national accounts for the preceding 3 years. Upon which all promises about taxation and services have been based for the entire election manifesto. Cos you can’t shout ‘we won’t raise taxes!!’ unless you’ve worked out the numbers and showed that your expenditure plans can be funded by your tax income. Unless you’re a total tosser, a subnormal innumerate or Diane Abbot. We got Joey to work out the problem, which he did easily, as you can see.

Its very cynical to ‘suddenly’ find a ‘massive black hole in the accounts’ which would then negate all your pre-election promises about raising tax because they were made ‘BBH’. Before the Black Hole. Therefore we couldn’t have known and will indeed have to raise taxes, NOT just because we’re a Labour government and that’s what will ALWAYS happen, but because of the hole. The black one.

So let’s talk about metaphors. Does our very clever (apparently) Chancellor know what a black hole is? Because the thing about black holes is that they aren’t really black and they aren’t really holes. They are single points of infinite mass which hence have gravitational pull so many times greater than that of our sun. The point being that you simply cannot miss a black hole. You can predict them from light years away because of the incredible effect they have on nearby (like Jupiter is ‘nearby’ to us) planets. Black holes may be conceptually challenging but you really can’t miss them.

Unlike ‘black holes’ in the economy, which you can miss. Though I have no idea how, if your job (and probably a few hundred economists helping out) is ‘The Nation’s Economy’ and nothing else, you miss 20 billion quid. And you know what, she can call it a ‘black hole’ if she wishes, she can call it ‘the legacy of the last government’ if she chooses, she can even call it Doris, for all I care. But it is HER mistake, her error, her negligence, oversight or tragic miscalculation. And, if I’m being harsh, an admission of incompetence.

Happy Monday, Rachel Reeves

A xxxx

Its starting. The Olympics. Today. Paris. Though the opening ‘ceremony’ was yesterday. Pretty much all of yesterday. Went on for hours and hours. And being ever competitive the French showed us that they’re even better at rain than us. God probably hates the French too, so it absolutely pissed down upon the entire 9 and three quarter hours of the show/display/parade/ceremony. Which centred upon the River Seine. And had the finale of Celine Dion half way up the Eiffel Tower belting out a number in (Canadian) French. Bit odd really, last time she sang and boats were involved… well, it didn’t end well. But this time was fine. She sang her song. No man should have to listen to two. And now the games can start!!!

And I enter my ‘Olympics denial’ phase. When I’m convinced that none of what is happening over there is of any remote interest to me. Do I care whether the French can swim faster than Americans? That some obscure activity which no-one understands, in the velodrome, results in this nation winning or that nation winning? Do I care that the Dutch beat the Aussies at hockey?

Of course not. And yet… by the end of the weekend, I will care. Not ‘passionately’, not ‘massively’, not even ‘deeply’. This is more a ‘whateverrrrr’ sort of care, its more ‘peripheral’ to my life, its just an awareness and then a conscious consideration that there are medals, and results and all manner of statistical stuff going on. So that by the time the athletics proper starts off, I’m totally engaged and can quote you how fast Carl Lewis ran his 100 metres in 1873 (ok, not so good with the dates) and how everyone was steroided up to the eyeballs back then which was why it was such fun to watch, and how Simone Biles is just the best human being ever and how Charlotte Dujardin really isn’t, even though the horsey events are every bit as fascinating to watch as golf or paint drying. Horses have rights. Though not quite so many rights in France as they enjoy in more civilised countries where they’re not eaten avec des frites.

Basically: I’m not there yet, but I will be. I just have to work out precisely where ‘there’ is.

Happy Olympic Saturday

A xxxx

This is a copy of the email I sent this morning to the Foreign Secretary of all of England, South London, North Manchester and Golders Green, Mr David Lammy MP. I’m so angry with him that I didn’t even put xxxx-es at the end of it.

Happy Tuesday

A xxx

Dear David, if you’ll excuse the overly familiar, I’m an overly familiar person.

Taxpayer and Voter

It had to happen. For the first time in the 5,000 year history of the Jewish faith, one of our own will be living at the White House. Ok, for 4,800 years of that, there was no White House, and if there was it was referring to a little hut in the Judean hills that Shlomo Yaankovich built out of local chalk-stone to house his wife, Bertha, and their seventeen children. But now we’re talking THE WHITE HOUSE!! The big one. In Washington. Because if Kamala Harris wins the election, her husband, Doug Emhoff, will be the First Husband, but will change that honorific to The First Jew. Which has always previously been Abraham, but now, there’s a new kid on the block. Possibly a ‘new yid on the block’ but I know that fans of certain London football clubs take issue with such terminology, so I’ll refrain.

And its not like they’re having a Jewish president, just the First… person of coital importance. Everyone in America loves a title. They fought a war to rid themselves of kings, queens, lords and ladies, then spent the next 350 years obsessing about sounding as important as they can by using titles.

And all Kamala has to do to make this dream come true, is win the election. The dream, of course, is for the people who make mezzuzahs. They’re little boxes which Jewish people have on their doorposts which contain a little holy scroll and, essentially, ward off evil spirits. As all ‘things’ people stick on doors are supposed to do. But we do them on every door (no toilets, please), inside and out. So for the White House; oyyy, that’s a lot of doors.

But is America ready to vote for Kamala? She’s a ‘woman of colour’, though not a great deal of colour, but all woman. And let’s face it, half of America is pretty much in the dark ages, culturally speaking. There’s virtual segregation in many states, obviously not officially but in any practical sense. The bible bashers all have… ‘classical’ views on ‘a woman’s place’ (read yesterday’s Times article about the Mormon woman who’s a working farmer with 8 kids and she’s just 34). So are they ready to vote for a woman? There’s no question that Trump supporters (same demographic as stated above) won’t be changing sides any time soon.

Yet they really can’t have any other candidate. Kamala is quite unpopular across the political spectrum for her failure to do the American equivalent of stopping the small boats. They don’t use boats there, they just walk across from the massive Mexican border. But Kamala is who they will get on the Democrat side.

Because the funding for the ‘Biden-Harris’ election campaign is already in place. And even though it will become the ‘Harris-???’ ticket, the money’s still good. All $200million of it. But if anyone else stands, they need to find that kind of money themselves.

I’d vote for Kamala. Because I reckon they’d to a really fantastic Friday Night Dinner at the White House and I might get an invite one day.

Happy Monday

A xxxx