Andy's Glasses

Last weekend I was deploying my new ‘super-strimmer!!!’, the one with the circular saw attachment, to cut down an old bush. My mate popped round. Quite a big deal because he lives in France, so we had to make a big fuss. (We put the kettle on). And then he told me that I was doing it wrong. That what I needed was… these things in the pic. A super-amputater-lopper-killer-cruncher-DEATH MACHINE!!!! Ok, I don’t know how one would search for them on Amazon, but he did and bought them for me, bless him. Because it was his birthday. That may seem odd, but I never denied that.

And I love this new tool. I’ve added it to my collection of ‘tools wot break fings’, of which I now have a shed full. Because I leave all the ‘beauty’ and the ‘construction’ of the garden, and planning the ‘beds, and all what used to be termed ‘girly’ things, before the term was appropriated by people with beards and bras, testicles and pantyhose, to Mel. And I’m the removals department. She only has to point vaguely at something in the garden with a question about its rightful place and the next thing, you can’t hear for the sound of two-stroke engines, you can’t see from all the exhaust fumes and its much safer to go inside and lock the doors. You can replace a shrub; fingers and limbs, more difficult.

And the satisfaction is wonderful. Clearing space. The restoration of the Feng Shui. Yin (Mel) aligned with Yang (errrr…). And I’m sure we can fill that gaping void with something.

I’ve just learned that Joe Biden has withdrawn from the Presidential race. Not the human race, he’s got a few more weeks left in that one, we hope. Because now he’s done what he should have done about 6 months ago, before the race even started, we can go back to talking fondly about old people’s frailties in general, and his specifically. But for future reference, Joe: if it looks like a fuckwit, it probably is a fuckwit.

I’ve never been a big fan of his, the only thing good about him was that he isn’t Donald Trump. But his ever-changing words of ambiguity about Israel and Gaza didn’t endear him. His refusal to admit defeat when the entire world was screaming the painfully obvious at him showed either a profound arrogance or such an obsession with power that he simply couldn’t consider the good of his country above it. All he has to do now is remember that he’s no longer the candidate.

But in view of the fact that he is still the President of All America, except the Candian bit, I shall show him some respect. And therefore won’t proclaim him the ‘tosser of the week’. But I will name him plonker of the week instead.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We survived the pandemic. Well, anyone reading this did. Lots can’t read it, cos they died. Such is life. (Oh, the irony). But basically we survived. Collectively.

What happened yesterday didn’t directly kill anyone but probably had a greater effect on our lives. Not just because of the devastation to travel, hospitals, trains and doctors surgeries as well as many other small and very large businesses, shutting them down completely and irretrievably. But also because we now have something new and very all encompassing to worry about. Forever.

All that really happened was that a company called CrowdStrike implemented an upgrade on their security system which protects all the previously mentioned and many more. And the upgrade/patch/whatever you wish to call it, went wrong. Fatally. Catastrophically. Devastatingly wrong. And turned off systems. But not just ‘off’, but back to the dreaded ‘blue screen’ which means back to factory settings. Re-instal the ‘drivers’ which people like you and me don’t know nuffink about because your computers all come pre-installed with such things. And if there’s no drivers, there’s no data. There no connection to the macro systems which large companies use.

So when you turn up at Gatwick, south terminal, to check in for your flight to Majorca, they’ve never heard of you. When you go to the doctors because that pain in your heart which almost killed you last time seems to have returned, they can’t access your records, test results, blood information, scans, nuffink. And worst of all, when you go to Gails to buy a coffee and a cinnamon roll (the absolute ‘must have’, if you can afford one), you can’t have it cos you can’t pay. And Gails don’t take cash. Well, they didn’t til yesterday. So all those phone obsessives who refuse to carry any other medium with them for payment, for Id, for anything, went hungry. Or died at the doctors.

It didn’t affect me. My work system still worked perfectly and, more importantly, the credit card machine functioned normally. We really don’t care who people are, just what they’re paying. But anyway, I have ‘failsafes’ built into my system. I have two modems, secured links, anti-Russian technology, Chinese-fighting dongles and, most important of all, a stack of scrap paper and… a pen. The ultimate problem solver when the entire digital world collapses in a useless pile of gigabytes.

So next time you see me at work, with loads of post-it notes stuck on my computer screen, rather than taking the piss, I think you should bow in admiration for finding someone who is prepared for digital doomsday, which yesterday almost became.

And I ALWAYS carry cash. You never know when a good drug deal will come along.

Happy Saturday. Or, ‘happy next Tuesday’ if you’re one of the affected.

A xxxx

So when last we spoke of The Brother, he was banged up in the Royal Free, having avoided dying of sepsis but trying to overcome complete organ failure. That was some months ago. And things were indeed looking brighter as stuff started functioning again and thus one more of his multitude of ‘life support’ could be removed. Until, eventually, about a month ago, they decided to ‘let him go!!!’, like Elsa in the jungle, away from the ICU (they probably needed the bed) and free him… to the kidney ward. As he was still on dialysis. And then… his kidneys started working again. So other than his failed swallow reflex, meaning he had to retain the naso-gastric tube for feeding, he was… unplugged. Not a euphemism for an acoustic set, but literally unplugged. He was doing physio but with no massive degree of success. To spend 15 minutes having a team of nurses shlep you bodily out of bed just to sit on a chair next to the bed for 30 minutes of discomfort can be… demotivating. And produced no discernible improvement to his mobility. But he carried on. Mainly as his diary was otherwise clear.

Just return to the dire depths of January for a small detail of massive importance. The third operation to save him found the cause of the sepsis. A perforated tumour in his colon. We never even knew he had an unperforated one and there ya go, he hit the jackpot. They ‘removed it all, and a big section of colon’. And because we were worried about dying from sepsis, what we’ll term ‘the immediate concern’, we kind’a compartmentalised the whole ‘tumour’ thing. There’s only so many ways you can worry about your brother dying at any one time. So the sepsis and the organ recovery took over our thoughts.

Until we reached the first paragraph above. When it was all going well. And flickers of light could just be seen at the end of a very long tunnel. When they told us that the cancer had spread. Widely. And can’t be treated at all. Palliative care. Two words you never, ever want to hear in the context of anyone you love. And Richard entered a very dark and depressed 6 weeks. Not that any of us were exactly whistling down the corridors of the hospital.

We struggled to find a nursing home that would take him because of his feeding tube. Apparently nurses don’t like them, can’t deal with them. And he couldn’t eat. But eventually we found a lovely place where they would take him, N-G tube and all. Butttt…

It is a very orthodox, Jewish care home. And my brother is an ultra-orthodox Atheist. But, so what? He’s bed-bound and left alone other than the nursing, which is first class. And the food’s great. Which shouldn’t be relevant but the weirdest thing happened the day before he left hospital. He ate a bowl of soup. Swallowed it. As you, kind’a, would do. But he, kind’a, couldn’t do. And then on Wednesday when he moved in, I sat with him as he had a bowl of soup and then ploughed his way through moussaka. HE CAN EATTTTTT!!!! A miracle.

His whole mood lifted when he left the hospital. Its strange, as the room he’s in is very much like the one he left. And now he can eat again. And is talking of getting in a wheelchair, possibly (a thought which hadn’t previously crossed his mind), as he’ll need to be lifted into it, so we can go out and see if he can swallow unkosher food as well. Its the will of God.

Thus in a sea of gloom, we have just a little twinkle of light. Not the brightest of lights, but at this point, we’ll take it gladly.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Victoria Embankment Gardens Park is the most sacred area in London. Because I said so. It is a veritable island of peace, calm and good karma in a sea of London mania, homeless drunks and lost tourists. And it is beautiful. So I walk through it every working day to get my fix of serenity. To marvel at the flower beds (they plant them about 3 times a year at some fucking outrageous cost; new soil, thousands of beautiful, mature, plants and flowers. Three months later they’re gone. Then new ones just ‘appear’.) To marvel at the fabulous statues and sculptures. The one of Arthur Sullivan (of ‘Gilbert & Sullivan’ fame) is just… wonderful. Its great in the rain, but when the sun shines, like today…

My park was invaded by an organised group of morons. Upsetting the whole vibe of the place. Displacing my chakra, no end, with all those Palestine flags spoiling the view. I went up to a policeman who told me its because of the state opening of Parliament later this morning. Well, they’re in the wrong fucking place then. Parliament’s a mile west of here. Tell ’em to piss off. No, I’ll tell ’em to piss off.

But then into the park came a virtual sea (possibly a big river) of high viz yellow. Miles of it. Emblazoned with ‘POLICE!!!’ Then from the other end of the park came more. But, like 30 more. There were possibly 80 law enforcers by the time I walked on, and no more than 25 protesters. Who were all pale and pasty and limp and, obviously, totally stupid sheep.

Everyone has the right to protest, that’s one of my cherished values. The one which doesn’t exist in Palestine. And everyone has the right to be stupid. Sometimes these two things coincide.

The inevitable chant went up through a megaphone, ‘FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE!!’ I didn’t stop to ask them which river/sea, I just know they wouldn’t have a clue. Nor understand that the saying is not Palestinian, as they understand where ‘innocent Palestinians’ live, but a Hamas chant, a cry from jihadis to destroy Israel, the current occupant of the place ‘from the river to the sea’, along with everyone in it. It is a cry for genocide. Which is stated in the Hamas ‘to-do’ list. Article 9, “kill everyone in Israel then the rest of the Jews in the world”. A bit ironic that the word ‘genocide’ has now been hi-jacked, thanks to our South African friends, by the imbeciles, the virtue-signallers and about half of the government’s cabinet members. I wanted to tell these poor, educationally sub-normal twits that they’re doing Iran’s bidding. Free of charge and blissfully free of any concept of reality. But the police formed a cordon and wouldn’t let me through.

I left hoping to hear reports of police brutality. Don’t know if that would help, but it wouldn’t do any harm.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Praise be to Jesus!! Sing His name!!! Because our Lord saved Donald Trump. From sure death. The hand of Jesus turned the ex-President’s head to the side and is the salvation of the entire world!!!

Donald Trump has always paid lip service to God. He’s a Christian (capital ‘c’) because his support base is the Bible Belt. How they reconcile his ‘belief’ and ‘God-fearin’-ness’ with grabbing women ‘by the pussy’ and committing fraud, inciting riot and generally showing the sort of morality and indeed Christianity of a crack-addicted jihadi coyote I don’t know. But Americans are strange people and they WANT to believe that a fat abusive con-man is their true representative. ‘Let he who hath not sinned cast the first stone’. Well Trump ain’t throwing no stones any time soon.

So our Don, ever the opportunist, finds himself first of all in the role of hero. Survivor. Others might see him as more a victim of his own stupid refusal to address ‘the gun issue’, or even accept that it is a problem. But then, secondly, he sees another opportunity, that his ‘near death’ ear-lobe experience has brought Jesus (himself!) back into his life. ‘Saved by the hand of God’, is how Don sees it. Or how he promotes it. And being generally such a vile and obnoxious creature (Don, not God) reaffirming his ‘deeply held’ Christianity is a massive ‘re-set’ for him in the eyes of most of his ardent followers.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christians, particularly in America, because they love Israel, they love Jews and they are a big part of the American support for the Jewish State. I’ve spoken to Mormons at Lake Tiberius, Texan Christians in Jerusalem and they’re almost like normal people. But more Christian. And they wear lanyards so they don’t lose each other. In the wilderness.

But Trump ain’t like them. They’re genuine. He’s a chancer who’s found yet another way to turn adversity into polling numbers. Hero and saint with just one nick of his ear. And the rednecks just lap it all up. Bless ‘em.

Fortunately, there’s serious opposition from the Democrats in the form of… oh, hmmm… ok, looks like Trump will win then.

God bless America. And God help America.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

It was the day of dreams. Ok, always open to the odd nightmare, but a day of sporting glory, or, obviously, not such glory, depending on… things. Most days in life without even having one massive sporting final, but yesterday there were two!!!, and a half.

Because first thing on the day’s agenda was MY tennis. Not that pretentious shit they play at Wimbledon with ball-boys/girls/things and Robinson’s Barley Water being served by morning-suited butlers, but proper, ‘grass roots’, in-the-park tennis, played by real men. Who fetch their own balls. And drink neat vodka in between the points. And thus did Spurs Paul and I ‘pre-enact’ the final which was to follow. I was Carlos Alacaraz, he was Katie Boulter. And it was brilliant. Magnificent. Two virtual gods of the game at our peaks. Held together with blood thinners, statins, anti-inflammatories and blue tack.

Then, after lunch, came that other game. The other Carlos Alcaraz playing everyone’s favourite pantomime baddie, Novak Djokovic. Not so much a match as a statement. A changing of the guard. An exhibition. Of how being 21 doesn’t solve all the problems in the world but it can be the absolute perfect age for pure physicality, stamina, strength and, as yet, injury-freeness. The only hard thing Carlos had to do was keep his cool. Because Djokovic has shown over the years that, brilliant an exponent of my game he might be, its mental strength which wins big games. And Carlos was simply magnificent. He broke Djokovic’s serve in the very first game and never looked back.

And then, at long last, the Euro football final. England vs Spain, in Berlin, everything set for the victory which has eluded us since 1966, all ripe for our ‘destiny’. Some of us were merely praying that an England win would see the end of the expression “it’s comin’ ‘ome” once and for all, because ‘it’ would have come ‘ome, so we could ban the phrase, making it punishable by prison sentence upon utterance. But alas, it wasn’t to be. I’m not sure England did a lot wrong, they just didn’t do enough right. And I felt for my boys. And for Gareth. Who deserved it if only to prove yet again what a total bellend is Gary Lineker. And I don’t really know how you put Harry Kane with Jude Bellingham, Phil Foden and Bukayo Saka, the best players in their respective leagues this season, and apparently prevent them from being brilliant. Yet consistently that’s what happened, other than a few moments of brilliance spread very thinly over the four weeks.

And now there’s NOTHING!!!!

Happy sport-free Monday

A xxxx

This was it!! A Kennedy moment for the post-millennials. Because ‘everyone always remembers exactly where they were when Kennedy was shot’. And nothing since then has been remotely as memorable. And that’s 61 years ago. Yet realistically, the rest of the 1960s was in black and white, then, as they say ‘if you remember the 70s then you weren’t part of it’, and once the 80s came everyone tried their utmost to forget the whole ‘New Romantic’ thing. So now we finally have our moment. “We all remember exactly where we were when Trump got shot”. And how we immediately wondered how the fuck anyone could miss such a massive target. He is not only ‘as wide as a barn door’ but he’s painted bright orange. The perfect target.

Following this tragedy (tragic because he missed) Once President Trump was rushed to hospital where they later declared that The First Ear Lobe will survive this assassination attempt. And Mr Trump hardly cried at all as they stuck the plaster on. He was a very brave boy.

Trump later posted on ‘X’ what a terrible thing to happen and, ‘how could such a thing happen in America??’

I’m no expert but I reckon it’s got something to do with guns. Those same guns which Trump, when president, refused ever to see as ‘part of the problem’ when school kids were getting machine-gunned in their classrooms and concerts became killing fields. The guns aren’t the problem, the fat guy said, we need to address mental illness. Which they do. But having 433 million guns in a country with a population of 360 million may have just a slight impact on… issues where shooting is concerned.

Trump can’t ever offend the gun lobby, the NRA and other right wing arms manufacturers who fund his campaigns and demand their quid pro quo. Anything that threatens the domestic arms trade is simply off the table for any republican politician.

So inevitably, this shit occurs.

Police are looking for a partially sighted Democrat with a tremor in both hands.

Well, actually they found him and shot him, obviously. Its America.

The assassination attempt will have no effect on the men’s final at Wimbledon today, nor the Euro final in Berlin this evening. Unfortunately, Trump is coming home.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So it came to pass that following ‘debate-gate’ in which poor Joe Biden forgot where he was, what he was doing or how to get away, there have been growing calls for his withdrawal from the presidential election. Several leading democrats have now spoken the unspeakable and suggested that Biden step down because, basically, he’s unfit to stand, let alone to govern for 4 more years. And each democrat who speaks out gets, pretty much, duly ignored. Only Biden can sack himself, fall on his sword, he can’t really be ‘sacked’ because he’s been elected by his own party to stand against Trump.

Then yesterday the game changed. Because yesterday, the suggestion that Biden pull out came from, not just politicians, not mere senators and congressmen and state governors or other generally clever and engaged people, no. Yesterday’s call came from George Clooney.

George Clooney!!!! Yes, George Clooney. So this is something that now has to be taken seriously. When the politicos fail, you need an actor to take control. And George knows because he’s actually played a president or two in his career. He didn’t just go from ER to Oceans 11 automatically, ya know? He’s never played a President with incipient dementia, specifically, but the point is: he COULD.

And in this instance, George Clooney, or ‘Jordan Cloobey’ as Biden calls him, is not just a mere thesp. He’s not only an interfering, virtue-signalling, do-gooding all round mouthpiece for virtually any fairly liberal cause which gives him and Mrs Clooney a good photo-op. He’s also a big-time Democrat fund-raiser. So when George speaks, the whole fucking party sits up and takes note. Because you can’t run an election campaign on steam. It takes billions of dollars. Which is fine for Trump, he’ll just steal them from the tax-man, from his investors or rob a bank if he has to, now he has almost total ‘immunity’. Whereas Biden is constrained. Which is not the same as being restrained, that’ll come a bit later.

So to get this straight, the President of the most powerful nation on Earth doesn’t know Zelenski from Putin. Thinks Kamala Harris is Donald Trump and only chooses not to believe in Santa Claus because he ‘knows’ its just Kermit the Frog wearing a beard. And the only person powerful enough to stop this man running for re-election is a third-rate actor who is America’s equivalent to Gary Lineker on the scale of handsome/moronic.

Glad I’ve cleared that up.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m not the most ‘god fearing’ bloke in the world, I admit that. I only speak to Him when Spurs are losing or when they miss stupid, easy goals. When I’m driving sometimes. Often. But sometimes there are ‘signs’ that simply cannot be ignored. Not ‘miracles’ in any biblical, Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the Whale, burning bush, sense, but ‘signs’ that can only really be understood in the context of some form of divine intervention.

England winning the semi-final last night was miraculous enough, given the awful way we’ve been limping through the previous rounds. But then, this morning, ‘this’ just dropped through the letter box when I came down for breakfast (see pic). And the combination of England reaching the Euro finals and some ‘angel’ delivering a message from The Lord above, loosely disguised as a menu from a cheap and cheerful, bog standard, 307 different curries all described in exactly the same way, restaurant. Or possibly just a ‘take-away’. Who knows? Who cares. You phone ‘em, they bring you a curry. And the ‘angel’ didn’t look like… you know, l’m thinking white, wings, diaphanous, looked more like a brick-layer from Warsaw’s wife, but ‘He moves in mysterious ways’.

So that would appear to be Sunday night sorted then. It’s the will of God.

And the goal by Ollie Watkins. A player I’ve loved for many a year and have always paid him the finest compliment I know: I WANT HIM AT SPURS. Ok, it would possibly condemn him to Kane-syndrome, but at least it would get him out of Aston Villa. Who wants to live in Birmingham?

Anyone who critises Gareth Southgate if officially the absolute tosspot that we already know Lineker is. Two finals in four years. Over a hundred games and always clever. Even if not always ‘beautiful’. The man walks on water.

And for last night’s game, I was so exited by the prospect that I actually went and spent time with God. No, honestly. Well, I was in a synagogue in St John’s Wood for the memorial service for a bloke who selfishly died during the fucking Euros!!! And we prayed. And there were speeches which, in the manner of such events, all sounded the same. So I watched my watch, checked the score on my phone very sneakily and then, for the first time in my entire life, I ran past the sandwiches and cakes without touching them, dived into the car and broke every speed limit (Hampstead is all 20mph, so speeding is really easy there) to get home for the last 20 minutes. Had to overtake a blue-lighting ambulance but that’s his worry.

So now I’m exited. Not to the point where I’d ever say ‘it’s comin’ home’ in earnest, because it’s stupid. But I’m brushing up on Neil Diamond lyrics in case good times never feel so good. So good. So good. And I’m up to lamb pasanda on the menu.

And, as long as no-one else dies, I can’t wait for Sunday!!!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Gotta give it to Sir Kier; he don’t hang about. Hit the ground running. Hasn’t even had time to unpack his collection of Arsenal shirts at 10 Downing Street and he’s off, whizzing round the ‘Kingdom’ in search of allies. Starting in Scotland with the current leader of all of Scotland, Mr Not Nicola Sturgeon. I’ll bother to look up his name if he manages to last 3 months without a corruption scandal or rape conviction. I think Starmer went there as his first port of call because the guy was available. Wee Jimmy No Mates. The First Minister of Scotland had just seen his party get hammered in the Westminster elections, losing three quarters of their seats there. And is the head of a party that no-one likes any more, a party with but one message: separation. Which no-one wants to hear. So his diary is completely blank and the chance to speak to Kier was something he could just squeeze in between golf (all Scots play golf) and lunch (haggis and chips). A very productive meeting they had too. Discussing… well, important political shit involving England and Scotland, obviously, possibly the Loch Ness Monster.

Then Kier flew over to Northern Ireland to try to understand what various leaders and deputy leaders of former terrorist organisations were saying as they strangled our language into something akin to Russian. More productivity. And too much productivity is exhausting so he went to Wales where nothing ever happens and he could be gloriously unproductive.

Meanwhile the rest of his party did what incoming politicians always do to show they mean business; they put on hard hats. Yellow ones. Over 400 MPs went around the country disrupting good and struggling businesses, reducing productivity for a photo opportunity which cost 400 factories at least 2 hours of lost production whilst Angela Raynor learned to rivet and the Chancellor of the Exchequer put a screw in a car door all by herself.

And now Kier’s off to New York for a NATO summit of all the big-wigs and strutting plutocrats and world leaders. Where he belongs. Where all that destiny and productivity has led him. To take his seat at the top table of world authority. No, not Putin’s house, NATO.

And talking of Putin, he bombed a children’s hospital in Kiev yesterday. It was all over the news. And terrible, tragic and to be honest, disgusting. If Waze knows when I’m in the passenger seat and shouldn’t be driving, Putin knows where his missiles are going. So I’m waiting for the marches, the protests, the demands on politicians, the upsetting of all democratic process in the name of those poor children, murdered. Well, I thought that’s what we do when we disagree with international politics. Oh, no, of course, only against Israel, sorry, what was I thinking.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx