Andy's Glasses

Mel has left me! She’s gone! It had to happen I suppose. She’s lived with a virtual God for 38 years, it gets a bit much. All that awe.

Ok, she’s gone to Dubrovnik with her sister for the weekend, but it’s basically the same thing. I have to do things. Which I don’t really want to do, but have to because suddenly, there’s no-one else here to do them. But how will I cope??

I bought this, in my lonesome misery. A substitute wife. I know, it doesn’t look like Mel really, but it’s about the same size. And almost as dangerous. Because we needed a strimmer, to cut the lawn edges. And I don’t like wires because I cut them. And when you search for ‘battery operated strimmer’, you get one of these. Rather than a little bit of plastic whizzing round to cut the grass you get this which comes with “15 blades!!!!” Which reminded me of the guy at the end of ‘Enter the Dragon’ who had one hand and on the other he attached a selection of wicked, vicious weapons. And because we have a dead, blighted bush which needs… removing, I thought ‘brilliant’, this does it all. And it appears to even work.

So, due to my ‘lonely’ status, Lila and Joey decided to come round and watch the football with me. And they brought mum and dad for added cheering. But there was nothing really to cheer. It was predictably dull as dishwater (and I fucking know a lot about dishwater, this weekend, MELISSA!!!!). And Joey’s attention span is measured in milliseconds. Except when really dangerous, preferably violent, equipment is concerned. Out we went to the garden with the new strimmer/chain-saw, because that’s what all 5 year-old boys dream of. Lila came too because… because she’s Lila and also worked out that watching England felt like a punishment.

And that’s where I spent the match. Fun and frolics in the sunshine, with Little Miss Fun and Mister Exceedingly Dangerous, whilst you were watching another in the series of ‘most boring football matches of all time’.

Then we came in. Because the match had gone to penalties and the curry arrived. Not sure which I enjoyed more. And five kicks of the ball later we could dance round the table, papadoms in hand, Sweet Caroline, chicken tikka masala, Football’s comin home, aloo gobi, Ing-er-Lund, Ing-er-Lund, Mel’s comin home… and pilau rice.

Can’t wait for the semi-final. I’ve pre-ordered at the take-away.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We can now enjoy at least 5 years of stability, growth and low taxes under the leadership of Sir Kier Starmer. Unless either, he changes his mind about any of those 3 things, and he has very consistent history of doing just that, or that the Unions, who fund his party, get pissed off with all this centrist almost-conservativism and change him for someone more ‘aligned to their ideology’. Not Corbyn, but someone like him.

Either way, we have the Prime Minister ‘that we all voted for’. Other than those who voted for someone else. And that’s where there’s a bit of an issue with our electoral system. Because although this was a Labour ‘landslide’, less than half of the electorate (who bothered to show up) voted for them. They achieved almost 2/3rds of the seats in Parliament with less than 40% of the vote. How is this possible?

Well, you see, it’s our system. First past the post. Small(ish) constituencies which can be affected by groups or just large numbers of individuals intent on preventing someone else winning. Tactical voters. Thus Labour won over 400 seats with 9.7 million votes, whereas Reform’s 4 million votes brought them just 5 seats. Yet managed to fuck up the Conservatives royally whilst doing so. Because this election was never about Labour winning. It was just about the Conservatives losing at any cost, by whatever means, for all their ‘sins’ over the last, well certainly 5 years, but possibly up to 14.

So if you’re in the constituency of Lower Eshersdown & Heartmundshire and Labour are never going to win there, you vote for the Lib Dems or, if you really must, for the Reform Farages, just to stop a Tory victory. Which is why those two parties both had outstanding success at the polls. It also meant that those parties had so many votes, as they came second in virtually all the contituencies in the country.

Thus you can expect the usual Lib Dem rant about Proportional Representation, the only electoral model which would allow them to transcend their stance as ‘the go-to party for tactical votes’. And you’ll get similar from Farage who sees a way in and will cling on like a parasite in your intestine.

The good news is that George Galloway failed miserably, even after investing half his personal savings in Palestinian flags. The not such good news is the 5 ‘independents’ who won seats did so on a specifically, strictly and exclusively Gaza message. So if you’re thinking of complaining about school availability in any of those constituencies, or immigration, or poverty, in the next five years, don’t bother. It also means we have, for the next 5 years, five people in parliament who are way more sympathetic to jihadi ideology than they are to concerns about the King’s health.

Meanwhile England are playing in about an hour in what is being termed (in my house) ‘The Pragmatic Games’. Gone is flair and style and panache. Instead, we’re watching teams of great players playing for penalty kick offs from the first minute. Only Spain have decided to buck this trend. Which is why the Euros are currently ‘boring as fuck’. If England fail to win I’m never voting for Gareth Southgate again.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I hate it when anyone ‘reaches out’ to me. Not in the Four Tops sense but in the contemporary use and abuse of that term. More Freddie Kruger coming out the lake, arms outstretched, than Motown hugging. When you get the phone calls from someone ‘reaching out’, it’s generally going to cost you money.

But not this morning. No. This morning someone ‘reached out’ to offer me something free!! I love free stuff, however useless it is. This wasn’t useless. I was ‘reached out’ to in order to see if I qualify for, basically, an ‘old person’s panic alarm’. A GPS tracker (in case I forget where I am) that you wear round you neck with a button on it for when I fall over. And, obviously, I do fall over. But I fall over being a hero! Not an old man. I fall over doing fearless and dangerous things!! Like walking. Anyway, what I said to dear, sweet Bethan was: “YOU CAN KEEP YOUR FUCKING OLD PERSON’S FUCKING… THING!!! HOWEVER ‘FREE’ IT MIGHT BE AND YOU CAN CROSS ME OFF THE LIST OF OLD PEOPLE RIGHT NOW!!!! AND THEN FUCK OFF!!!!”

I’m not at all sensitive to aging, nor its alleged affects on physicality. I’m in what’s known as ‘deep denial’.

It’s election day. Thank God. Cos then we can all talk about something else. Which will be wonderful. But it won’t be. We’ll be talking about how we miss having a Conservative government, how the country’s all gone to shit, how ‘twinning’ Milton Keynes with Rafah was a big mistake, how Starmer lied about… everything, how we wish he hadn’t just become a puppet for Angela Raynor to pull the strings, about how bad it was doing a trade deal with Hamas only for them to blow it up with the building and everyone in it, and how the NHS is now 50 billion quid a week richer but you still can’t speak to a Doctor for six months and hospitals have queues round the block for essential surgery.

I don’t mind a Labour government. Just not this one. Now go and vote.

Happy Voting Day

A xxxx

I’ve decided to bow to the will of the people and stand for Prime Minister!!! Yes, your pleading and begging, crying on my doorstep, lobbying my support team (Joey) and imploring me to become the national saviour I’ve always been destined to become, has made me decide to stand tomorrow. But, like, just ‘straight to PM’, I’m not mucking about with all that local politics shit, getting a new lollipop lady for the school, neighbours bickering about a new extension, putting bobbies on the beat because Mrs Uppity feels vulnerable coming back from a night at the bingo. That’s not for me. I want the BIG stuff. Tax. Education. Defence. I want an SW1 address with a black door and I want the big red button which fires nuclear weapons. My destiny!!!

The country needs ‘CHANGE!’ And we know that because Kier Starmer is not allowed to go to sleep on any day until he’s said that word 4,750 times. And yet I agree, as everyone does, we do need a change. But disagree that Kier is the man we need to change to. He’s a flip-flopping tosser. Thus can’t be trusted. So my changes will be different to his intended ones.

Being a socialist, I’ll give lots of money to anyone who needs it. Even those miserable fuckers too lazy to get off their arses and do some work, we will support them! Make sure they have enough money for rolling tobacco and possibly even a few bob left over to feed their kids. England football shirts will be given out, FREE, on the NHS. Tax will be abolished completely, it’s nasty. This will need to be rolled out nationally, starting initially with my road.

I’ll sort out the perilous ‘trans debate’. Every ‘women’s toilet’ in the country will have a mandatory sign saying: ‘IF YOU’VE GOT A NOB YOU AIN’T COMIN IN ‘ERE!!!’ Followed by ‘go to an appropriate toilet or please take a free, disposable scalpel, stored underneath’.

Working people will be defined (are you listening, Kier) as ‘people who work’!!! I know, its not the Labour way, reserving the term for anyone who comes home at 5.30 with dirt under their fingernails, but that’s what its gonna be.

We will continue to welcome all illegal immigrants and consider them for asylum. In particular, due to their essential contribution to the nation’s economy, the ones convicted of rape, murder and assault in their country of origin.

And in line with boycotting Israel, we shall place immense skips at the end of every road. Please dump all your horrible, Israeli made or created things in there. Like: iphones, pacemakers, about half the drugs from your medicine cabinet and all your computer equipment, routers and anything else with a silicon chip. Then your conscience is clear. But you won’t be able to post that information on Instagram.

And finally, should I win, that will represent the official end of all democratic process in Britain. Like Presidents Xi and Putin, it will be my job for life. I can sack the king and become a virtual God.

Vote Andy tomorrow!! And God help you.

A xxxx

In my late teens and early 20s I would go to at least one ‘gig’ every weekend. We’d look through Time Out and they’d list every possible musical ‘event’ going on in every pub, club, back garden and garage across all of Greater London. And you could always get in. No booking required. We saw some amazing stuff. And also some out-of-key shit performed by drunken stoners who fancied themselves as Led Zeppelin but dropped like a lead weight. Ok, we were generally a bit selective. Because I’ve always been a terrible music snob. As everyone should be. ‘My music’ is brilliant, anything else is shite? Is beneath my level of sophistication? Is beneath contempt (pop)? But there was an incredible wealth of talent, and pubs were their way of promotion. Or failure.

Don’t know if they do that now, kids who want to be ‘stars’ just apply to tv talent shows and get their eyebrows waxed to show what great musicians they are.

But much as I used to love BIG gigs as well, at Wembley, the Albert Hall, Hammersmith Odeon, I always loved the intimacy of small venues. Ok, it doesn’t always work. In 1971 I went to the Red Lion in Leytonstone to see a ‘new band’. Tiny pub, ceiling about 2 inches above your head. About 500 people crammed in to see (then unknown) Status Quo. Were they good? Don’t remember. Were they loud? Oh yeah. Some of my teeth fell out.

And last night we went to see Graham Gouldman. Mr 10CC. Ok, one of four Mr 10CCs. He’s 78. And has been writing hit songs since 1964. For the Hollies. For the Yardbirds. For Herman’s Hermits. And, of course, for 10CC. And he’s never stopped. He’s written, produced and run bands continuously since.

It was at the Pizza Express Live in Holborn. The ‘live’ refers to music, not the pizzas. But both were just great. He played a mainly acoustic set of songs he’s written, new and old. With a group of totally brilliant musicians for accompaniment and harmonies. Who knew he wrote ‘For your love’ for the Yardbirds? ‘Look through any window’ for the Hollies? Ok, Dreadlock Holiday is easier to guess. Each track accompanied by a great story, charmingly related by a man very at ease with the world. Even though he’s a Manc. He’s a very lovely one.

But most importantly, there was pizza. The Pizza Express American Hot hasn’t changed since Churchill was on the throne, since Czechoslovakia was just one country. Although it has got a bit hotter. And no-one minds that. I’m only allowed to eat pizza about twice a year because it’s too unhealthy to be fashionable (why the fuck would you put the calorific load values on the fucking menu???). Given a choice, I’d eat it every day. A cheese sandwich with loads of other shit on top. How can you go wrong?

A really great gig. A really great man. A really great pizza.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m starting to believe! It could happen!! It’s coming home!!! Though, realistically, how could it be ‘home’ for a trophy that’s never even visited here? Ok, its coming to OUR home, but the implication is that its going where it belongs. And all trophies belong here. Somewhere near Golders Green.
So I’m believing, but not really sure whether I care yet. Even though it was an incredible result yesterday. And ‘incredible’ in that you really couldn’t believe that such a lacklustre bunch of underperformers could have ever pulled a win out of quite literally nothing. We were abysmal. Dire. No shots on goal. Midfielders asleep. Defenders caught checking their Instagram feeds during corners. It was so bad I went and made a chicken pie.

I cook to relieve stress. And to eat, obviously. I like eating. Not sure I like watching England. And when I came back to the tv half an hour later (pie now ready for the oven and looking really good, even if the fucking pastry split putting the ‘lid on’), we were still 1 nil down with about 20 minutes to go.

This was not Spain we were playing. Thankfully because that would have been a blood bath. Nor France, Germany or Belgium. No. We were playing Slovakia. Our second bunch of Slovs in a week. And this one, like the last one, belong firmly in the ‘second tier’ of teams. Nations which are so low on the rankings that they never try to win games, in any meaningful sense. They just try to stop other teams from winning. The Italian model. Horrible to watch. And they hope that at some point they get a break and can possibly score. Which they did yesterday. And if that doesn’t happens, they’re basically playing for a penalty shoot-out from minute 1.

But class will show and up steps the physical embodiment of footballing ‘class’, Jude Bellingham. Having slept through the entire second half, and most of the first, Mr ‘Walk-on-Water’ waits until the 5th and final minute of injury time to score a quite wonderful goal to send the game to extra time.

And in the very first minute of that Harry Kane, the man who’d squandered more chances in that match than in any 10 year period of his wonderful career, popped up with what would become the winner. And we all sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ because…

Spain played later on. I didn’t go to make any more pies. Didn’t need to. They were fabulous to watch. A pleasure on the eye. Pies are pleasure elsewhere and a tad more calorific.

So watch Spain. The healthier alternative.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’ll tell you how bad Joe Biden is. He makes Donald Trump look like a man in control of all his faculties. That’s how bad Mr President is today. By November he’ll be worse. And in almost 5 years time, at the end of his 2nd term, should he win it, he’ll be losing the battle not to piss himself 5 times a day. Because he doesn’t remember which room the toilet’s in. So just a brief question to the Democratic Party of America: really?

Over here we have different election issues. Somewhat more pressing as we have but 5 days to go!!!! before relighting our nation with Leninist ideology. Ok, maybe not the full ‘red mist’ that will descend immediately, but it’ll be in the background, loosely disguised as a beefy northern bird with red hair.

And as we have a ‘first past the post’ electoral system here, horse-racing analogies are as perfectly acceptable at this time as debates trying to get men into women’s toilets.

So late onto the field trots a 3-legged nag with a shaggy mane and one eye on the glue factory. It runs under the name of ‘Farage’s Reform’ and has never won a race in its long and miserable life. Yet it stands proudly among the thoroughbreds (Starmer? Thoroughbred???).

Farage, the xenophobe’s xenophobe, has spent the last 15 years, as well as telling us how bad ALL foreigners are, whether in the EU and telling us what to do, or whether they’re arriving here in boats, planes and on the backs of lorries, he’s been saying that his party, whatever that may be called at any given time, are absolutely NOT racist. Perish the thought. Heaven forbid. He wears a suit, FFS, how can he be a racist???

Yet he’s just sacked three candidates for being racists. And then, some Reform ‘canvassers’, pre-election door-knockers, were caught by secret cameras being really, really, REALLY racist. Ok, they didn’t do much due diligence in the selection process, they had neither time nor resources, so the people who turned up went out extolling the wonders of the Reform party. By calling Rishi Sunak a ‘fucking Paki’ and saying how incoming boat-people should be used for target practice. In case you happen to be a UKIP/Reform fan and don’t therefore realise it; those are not nice things to say.

So Farage, rather than have the ready answer, apology, excuses for which he’s famous, turned into Donald Trump. A lying, denying ‘fake-news’ist.

“It was a set up!!!”, he proclaimed, “they weren’t my people; Channel 4 planted them”. And consequently, pissed off with the BBC for showing the footage, Nigel refused to go on the Kuensberg show today. And for any party leader, 4 days before a general election, to not go onto the foremost political tv show we have, is a virtual statement of having given up. Of near suicide of a party which was a bit of a Frankenstein’s monster in the first place. Cobbled together from old bits of other failed entities.

I used to always be in admiration of Farage, even though not liking him particularly and hating most things he stood for. But now? He’s just a thin, white version of Donald Trump. (Nothing to do with race, just the facial foundation colour of choice).

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Last night the England football team did us all proud. Even for those football fans who, like me, don’t really give two shits what happens in the Euros. But England won their group. Which is brilliant. Yet the press is being really unfair about it. Criticising their play, accusing them of lacking ambition, neither entertaining nor producing, calling them ‘BORING AS FUCK BUT WITH LESS CLUE!!’ Really unfair. They were playing Slovenia and that’s a really hard fixture. Fielding, as they do, no less than 11 Slovenians in their team. That’s more than you’d get anywhere else in Germany. Or England. And although Slovenia is ranked 57th in the football… errrrr… ranking table, that’s not to underestimate them. In a nation famous for… Sloves?… errrr… famous for not doing well in football tournaments, they were always going to be difficult opposition. And if they’re not, we’ll play so awfully that we make them look like they’re difficult. And that’s how good we were. Who needs goals when you can win the group with a nil-nil tedium-fest? Better that way.

Kier Starmer (England fan, Arsenal fan…) has 3 problems. The Greens, who feel he’s not green enough. The Pro-Palestinians, who feel he’s not Palestinian enough; he never wears a keffiyeh in Parliament, nor shouts ‘from the river to the sea’ at the Tories. And from the ‘trans’ lobbyists and ‘feminists’ who between them have produced Fermat’s last theorem for the non-mathematical. A problem for which there is no solution within the bounds of all we know. Even Alexa can’t help with this one.

The ‘trans’ group want empathy, understanding and compassion for their plight, which is definitely a difficult one. So they want to be treated in their chosen gender. Particularly trans women. Even if they have a penis and a beard. Whereas the feminists are stubbornly insistent on having ‘safe spaces’ for women. Like public toilets. Changing rooms. So the question is: at what point in this ‘transition’ is a former man unquestionably a woman? Anyone can wear a dress. I do it all the time. Means nothing. And Kier has pledged to make it ‘easier to be certified’. Which is one step away from ‘self certification’, the absolute farcical situation they tried in Scotland for 10 minutes until a bloke used it to get into a women’s prison and, surprise surprise, assaulted women (ones without penises).

Wherever you draw the line will upset one party or the other. And both are militant. So good luck with that one Kier. And he thought he only had to bother about the economy, education, policing, knife-crime and the Euros.

Happy One week to voting day, day

A xxxx

People assume, when they see me, that I’m this, pretty perfect physical specimen, neat, compact, tidy kind’a guy, fully in control of his limbs and extremities. Unfortunately this is not strictly the case as I’ve always had the pretty unfailing ability, as my dear mother used to say, to ‘fall over a blade of grass’. I try to control it. I medicate. I attend Clumsy Bastards Anonymous meetings, I wear padded suits. Yet just when you think all is safe, bits of the world jump up and bash me.

I was playing tennis with Spurs Paul on Saturday. Ok, it had been raining a bit (remember rain? Phah, thing of the past), and I went for a shot that was, if I’m honest, a bit out of reach. So I did what any dedicated tennis god (or total fucking schmuck) and I dived for it. I got the ball, then realised I was in mid-air and under the influence of gravity. Grazed my right hand and right knee. Bled a lot. Stuck on a few plasters and played on.

Sunday morning was bone dry. It was a fabulous, clear, sunny morning. When I was attacked by a hedge. There I was, on my bike, just cycling down the alleyway on the way to more tennis. Both sides of the alley have big hedges. And this time of year they all become triffids and explode in size. So as I weaved my way down between the bushes, my handlebar caught on a branch. Leaving me in mid air and under the influence of gravity. Left elbow, knee, hand, hip and shoulder. Lots more blood. Considered getting a transfusion, just in case, but instead washed the blood off, stuck on a few plasters they gave me at my cafe, and went to play. The blood stains clashed with the coffee stains which adorn all my (174) white t-shirts, but not much I can do about that.

My brief in such such situations is: just make it look not too bad for when Mel sees it.

I mean: fuck me!!!! I’m a wreck. Beaten to shit by gravity and gravel. So when I said to Mel that because the weather’s so beautiful, I’m going to take my electric bike into the City today, she banned it. Stole the battery so it won’t go. Hid the keys. Let the tyres down. Because she feels that klutziness comes in cycles. Or perhaps it’s karma for all the bad shit I do.

I’m going to be very careful from now on. Meanwhile, I’ve bought shares in Elastoplast. I would say ‘hedging’ but after Sunday…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So let’s get it straight. What Farage actually said. Which was that Russia was provoked into attacking Ukraine by the ever eastward extensions of the EU and of NATO. You can disagree with that. But only if you’re a moron, an imbecile, any politician trying to score pathetic moral high ground points or anyone else who either knows nothing or chooses to re-write Nige’s words so it seems they know nothing.

This alleged provocation was not intentional and yet was totally predictable and understandable. Russia sees NATO as ‘the enemy’ and ‘Europe’ too. So to see all his neighbours gradually inducted into the EU is bad enough if you’re not a paranoid megalomaniac. But when they join NATO, the ‘armed forces bit’ of the West, he simply HAS to react. With the blessing of his people who eat up his rhetoric about the evil West who aim to take over the world. Their world.

Farage didn’t justify the war against Ukraine. He just put it in that context. As he did 10 years ago.

I don’t even like Farage, so why am I defending him?

Because I sadly listened to the radio on the way back from the dump (long story) and heard every MP, every spokesperson for every political party, spout the same shit. Which is that ‘Farage supports Putin in his war on Ukraine’. Where’d they get that? Some took it even further and called him ‘a threat to national security’. Really? One even stopped just a whisker short of accusing him of being complicit in the recent Russian hacking of the NHS computers. FFS.

It’s all about timing. Hamas attacked Israel on October 7th because Israel was on the brink of signing an accord with Saudi Arabia. Iran’s greatest enemy (other than Israel). So it sought to destabilise so that yet another Arab nation wouldn’t side with Israel or even be on good trade and political terms with them.

Similarly, Ukraine applied to join NATO, and that was Putin’s red line. Well, Russia’s all a bit red, this is a different red though. So he invaded. He’d reached the point where American rockets and missiles could be sited within a mile of his border.

How can every politician in our country misread something so wrongly? Other than to try and gain some weak advantage from it. Turn Nigel into a straw man and set him alight for their own gain. Unfortunately for them, Farage is just cleverer than all of them and won’t be bothered in the least.

Honestly, it’s enough to make you vote ‘Reform’. Almost.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx