Andy's Glasses

Rishi Sunak made the greatest sacrifice possible, for a political leader. He knew that whenever the election was called he was going to be humiliated. There was no doubt nor question, it was only a matter of ‘how badly’. So he took one for the team. The football team. Because knowing how badly most ‘real’ football fans (the sober ones who don’t have vuvuzelas) feel about internationals, he realised that the only way to actually make the football seem interesting was by instigating something so dull, so drab, so predictable and banal, that it would even make the footy look exiting. Hence the call for an almost unprecedented July election. In the middle of the Euros.

Yet when he called it (the odds were 34 to 1, at that point), he had no idea that, either the football was to be so bad, or that, had he waited another 4 days, he could have got his team 57 to 1 from Betfair. Lost opportunities.

Because the football has managed to out-dull the pre-election-bollocks!!! And that hasn’t happened since John Major won against the stiffest opposition from Arsenal’s George Graham years. (1 nil, to the To-o-ries, 1 nil…).

First it was the Scots. Ok, that was fairly amusing in an ‘auld enemy banter’ kind’a way. But then England played. The first match was merely awful. Last night we were elevated to ‘simply dire’. The Scots have since drawn a match which, in this part of the Euros, and if you are desperate, counts as a ‘VICTORY!!’, a chance at least.

The leader of the SNP has an accumulator on. His party to tank in Scotland without a majority and Slovenia to beat England by 6 goals. 250 to 1. As far as independence goes, if the SNP win, that’ll be a mandate for a referendum. If they lose, that’ll be a mandate for a referendum. Every time I hear that song from Frozen, ‘Let it go’, I think of Scotland. (32 to 3 against).

I’m going to the bookies this afternoon, even without any inside information at all. I’m putting 50 quid on Kier Starmer to stick to a statement for 5 consecutive days, George Galloway to get killed in what would be a ‘friendly fire’ terrorist attack, Spain to win the Euros, Harry Kane to win the Golden Boot, The Lib-Dems to take Somerset East and the whole Serbian team to get burned alive by their own fans flares. 2 million to 1.

I’ll bet its a good Friday

A xxxx

The main political parties, and also the Lib Dems, Greens and Farages, have now laid down their projections and intentions should they win the election. Why the ‘other’ parties do so is beyond me, but they’re on election autopilot and know no better. It’s manifesto season so you ‘show your plumage’. Tossers. The Faragers, being the illegitimate love-child of Sir Nigel and some other clever xenophobe who wishes not to be named, have instead issued their ‘contract’. It’s like a manifesto but for parties that won’t win many… any… seats. And it’s a good idea. Less presumptuous than issuing ‘your plans when elected’, when you obviously won’t be. Reform’s ‘contract’ is what they want to do in 5 years time. Subtle but very clever. Very Farage. He has an unerring understanding of how not to piss everyone off, even and especially, those who actually disagree with 90% of what he says.

If only the ‘big two’ had any such clue. They do nothing but piss me off. Because now the manifestos are launched, we enter the analysis phase of telling everyone how THEIR manifesto won’t work. Doesn’t add up. Sums are wrong.

Ahhh, cries shadow chancellor Rachel, the Tories are cutting tax by 0.6% of 22 billion of the first 75% of national GDP and in fact that raises the overall tax burden by 9.34% over and above the 22.7% increase in bank rate reconstruction considerations. That will cost everyone in the country precisely: £4,800!!!!

Fuck, I’m voting Labour then!!!

Ah, but the chancellor has analysed Labour’s plans and within 0.3% of national debt interest limits, the planned NHS expenditure exceeds budgetary means by 26% over the drop in National Insurance contributions by the self-employed. Which will cost everyone in Britain, precisely, £4,800!!!!

Even Farage has made fiscal promises of a rather dodgy nature. But he’s allowed more latitude in such respects because of his inherent ‘dodgy geezer’ status. He’s just a skinhead with hair. He’s going to find 50 billion quid to go towards the NHS (everyone has to say that, its as mandatory as it is worthless and stupid) and to help fish out foreigners in the population and deport them. 12 billion of this money will come from ‘making a 5% cut in the Civil Service workforce’. The total annual cost of which is 9 bil. Making 5% about 450 million. A bit short there, Nigel, but there ya go.

At least Nige has made it a much more interesting election campaign than it would have been. But unless I can remember where I put those photos of Starmer in bed with three children and two sheep, I think it’s a foregone conclusion. In fact, any photo of Starmer doing anything remotely ‘interesting’ would be good.

Happy Hustings

A xxxx

I’m taking down all my posters from the bedroom wall. The 55 year-old one of 20 year-old Olivia Newton-John with flick-up hair, Charlie’s Angels, with more flick-up hair (I like flick-up hair), Kylie Minogue in hot-pants, Gal Gadot in Wonderwoman and the Wonderbra ad. All coming down. Mel doesn’t mind, long as it doesn’t leave marks on the wallpaper. And it’s because I have new crush. This one. Jude Bellingham. Not in a sexual way, obviously, as I’ve always identified as a lesbian, but just because he’s so beautiful. Big. Strong. And wonderful. I can almost even forgive that unforgivable Brummy accent because he speaks so nicely and is witty and charming. He is possibly the most totally perfect man since… well, since me. No faint praise.

Despite telling you how uninterested I am in the Euro football tournament, I was an unwitting victim of place and time. My birthday party guests had left (Lila and Joey, couple’a daughters, Tory Boy) so we cleared up the destruction and devastation, which only took 3 or 4 hours, and I just found myself sitting with the Sunday papers quite near a tv at 8 o’clock. What can you do?

I watched, but only the first half. Then, because it was my birthday I took a bath. So now I’m clean for another year. Plus, I can’t watch Gary Linneker without wanting to damage the tv and Cesc Fabregas’s teeth were distractingly bright. Apparently the second half wasn’t much anyway. But that first half was: The Jude Bellingham Show.

Never mind his goal, which was absolutely brilliantly taken, it was his overall total control of the game that had me hooked. He moves majestically, he’s tough, he tackles. Those horrible Serbian hooligans tried to push him around, he just pushed back. He goes down; he just gets up again. Thus was the main cause of the Serb’s 19 fouls. But they couldn’t stop him. For someone so big and strong he’s remarkably agile, quick and graceful. And that’s such a rare combination that I haven’t seen in any player since Zidane. A previous incumbent of the number 5 shirt at Real Madrid. And if you’re being compared to ZZ when you’re 20, you’re not doing badly.

So that’s it, my new man-crush. Poster going up today. Because Mel thinks he’s gorgeous too. She loves big(?), strong, dark(ish), rugged types.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We all hate Alexa, right? She sits there in the corner, as if she’s minding her own business. And we think her ‘business’ is to play us the radio channel of our choice, the album which springs to mind, a weather report that will be fucking awful. Whereas her actual ‘business’ is spying for Beijing. She reports directly to President Xi, who listens to every conversation we have, eager to learn what we’re making for dinner, when the car needs charging, how Mel is struggling (again) to work out an Amazon return, even though she’s done 3 every day since the first lockdown.

And no-one likes a spy. An eavesdropper. Yet here I am in the kitchen with Wishbone Ash playing loudly behind me. I finished The Groundhogs playlist whilst preparing lunch. The old vinyl albums are somewhere in the loft. I’ve tried sticking one in the Sony SoundBar but it won’t fit. But the Chinese can play it for me without any bother. So, it would seem, resistance is futile.

Been lucky this weekend. At 10.25 yesterday morning the torrential rain just stopped. We play at 10.30, and we did. Then as I was back, about 100 yards from home, the heavens opened again. The courts dry quickly, leaving just 2 slippery patches. One each, which was nice. Thus I hit a ball, looked up to see no opponent. Spurs Paul had vanished! He slipped on his ‘wet patch’ and gone over. He was fine. I know you’re concerned. As you should be. He’s no youngster. He got up, we played on. And I thought: it’s much better to fall over whilst running round a tennis court than when getting out of bed at 3 am to go to the toilet. Young person’s fall, old person’s fall.

Which I mention just because today I am officially 68 years old. Which accounts for listening to The Groundhogs, Wishbone Ash, etc. Then I realised that with age comes experience. And thus, in this morning’s tennis, I used that extra ‘maturity’ and ‘statesmanship’(?) as Spurs Paul isn’t 68 for 3 weeks. Whippersnapper. Yet it’s only when you write it down that ‘68’ takes on meaning. That meaning being ‘Jesus!! That’s fucking old!!!!’

But heh, you’re as young as you feel, right?? And how I feel depends on the time of day, or night, and how many cars I’ve washed, lawns I’ve mowed, tennis matches I’ve played. Can feel 25, can feel 107. And I can still get into my lovely, age-inappropriate car. Just takes a little longer.

Happy Birthday and Happy Father’s Day

A xxxx

There’s a football tournament on. Don’t know if you caught that. Started last night. In Germany. Which makes all the metaphorical talk of ‘Munich being invaded by a Scottish army’ a bit… insensitive? Or maybe I’m just being too soft. Too historical. Anyway, there’s football in the middle of the summer and that’s something we should all be exceedingly grateful for. Not only that, but… it’s a showcase for all the bestest, most exitingest, most heavily tattooed, most ridiculously overpaid, soccer super-talent. Ever!!! And dressed in their full international kit regalia. Brilliant!

Except…

I’m finding a growing number of serious football fans becoming ever more disillusioned with international football. And I don’t know why. I’m there in my full England kit, my Gareth Southgate waistcoat, my bass drum strapped to my chest and a ‘King Charles face’ strapped round my head, cross of St George blowing in the wind, ready to go to Heathrow and no-one’s coming with me. It would appear that proper football fans don’t want to go to internationals any longer. They leave that to those who just like to drink beer all day and all night and more in between, if possible. Football England seem to be doing their recruiting at Alcoholics Anonymous. The failures section. Fallen far off the wagon.

International football seems to have lost its connection with sober people. And as someone who is sober at least some of the time (when I HAVE to be), I’m struggling to find my enthusiasm for this tournament. Maybe it’ll come, as it progresses and gets a bit more exiting. The match tomorrow, England’s opener against Serbia will just open the old Harry Kane wounds and have me wondering why Jude Bellingham earns his (outrageous) wages in Madrid. And the match will be played, as all Serbia matches are, under a cloud of red smoke. It’s either a case of Serbians having some kind of ‘all the flares you can carry’ permanent deal, or it’s that Serbians spontaneously combust at football matches, leaving just plumes of red smoke. And the ones who aren’t ’auto-burners’ are just there for the fighting. And to demonstrate just how far ‘to the right’ most of Europe has moved.

So if I’m not interested in England much, what is the point of the tournament? Ah, you see, the purpose is to enjoy the suffering of other nations. Like, shall we say, just for an example… so many to choose from… ok, Scotland. No one likes to see the Germans win anything. And much as I really like most Scots who I meet, the ones I can understand anyway, when it comes to international sport, they are our enemies. I didn’t want to see them so humiliated last night but they must learn from their mistakes. Heaven knows they made enough. Primarily they must learn that ‘someone standing between the goalposts is not automatically a goal keeper’. They need certain skills not apparently available north of the border.

So the tournament moves slowly through the group stages. Giving the commentary team the chance to learn the pronunciations of lots of obscure stadiums all of which sound like cheap wines made from antifreeze.

COME ON ENGLAND!!! (We are in the tournament, aren’t we? What about Brazil?)

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I was eagerly awaiting the Green Party manifesto. I’m desperate to know how they’re going to save the planet. Or, at least, save the borough of Barnet. And yet I’m a little confused.

To get their ‘manifesto’, they need to meet up. Traveling from across the country to a meeting place in, say, Stony Stratford, using up valuable resources, burning carbons, they can’t all fucking cycle there, can they? Then they turn on all those lights in the meeting room, drink coffee, or probably bark-water, being Greens, using only the bark of dead trees. And then they write down their manifesto. They plan it. Make notes, compile the list, embellish, re-do, put it on the computer (electricity and… wear and tear on fingers, shedding skin cells into MY environment) and eventually, they print out the ‘finished article’. On paper!! No wonder there are so many dead trees for their tea, they’ve cut them all down to print out their document.

Which no-one will ever read. Or care about. Or give a single thought to. Because, politically speaking, they are an irrelevance. A waste of my oxygen every time they speak. Yet they have some brilliantly innovative ideas. They want to throw another 40 billion quid at the NHS!!! Like it’ll make a difference. But where will they get it? Oh, they’re going to have a ‘wealth tax’. Millionaires and billionaires will be taxed on their assets. ‘Just 2%’. Well, a billionaire will be more than happy to give them 20 million quid every year. That sort of money is always ‘liquid’, lying under the bed in used notes. It’d be cheaper to get a divorce. Or… he/she could just move to Switzerland/Monaco/Caymans/Bermuda. And take their innovative, creative, job-creating mind over there. Great idea. Get rid of the people we need to ‘grow’.

They’re also going give a knighthood to Greta Thunberg and declare freedom for all of Palestine, an officially recognised state, with borders ‘from the river to the sea’.

Meanwhile, the leader of the Opposition, soon to be King-of-all-he-surveys, did the best ever impression of a ‘deer in the headlights’ when asked a fairly straightforward question for which he wasn’t prepared. Then was asked the best question of all: why did you say, prior to the last election, that Jeremy Corbyn would make a great Prime Minister? When later you sacked him from the party and accused him of all manner of evil? His answer: ‘Jeremy was never going to win that election’. Making Sir Kier my undisputed Tosser of the Week, even with such staunch competition from the Greens. Because, yet again, the man changes his mind about absolutely everything to the extent that he cannot be trusted.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I was asked to write a full report on the island of Sicily. Because even though I’ve written about nothing else for the last week, for some people (you know who you are), that’s not enough. No. They want to be spoon-fed the details, they want bullet points and guarantees, issued by me, with full, money-back contracts in case I steer them wrongly.

Yet the fact of the matter is; you can’t steer wrongly. If you get lost, you’ll end up somewhere fabulous. The whole island is just… beautiful. Ok, you could find a slum in Palermo, if you looked hard enough, I dare say, but why the fuck would you? When there is just so much beauty around.

Not necessarily the Sicilians, they’re a dour and quite unfriendly bunch really. If you ‘bonjourno’ people on the street they ignore you or pull a gun. The service in most restaurants needs improving just a little, so that customers aren’t made to feel they’re a nuisance and in the way. When we complained because they’d fucked up Mel’s coffee the other morning, the young misery just said “well that’s what you fucking ordered!!!” (Which it wasn’t) But in Italian. Then Rachie came over and his miserable face lit up with a big smile and he ‘turned on the charm’ (in Sicily that means: ‘put the gun away’). Sexist, ageist little shit.

You drive mainly round the coast, obviously, and, although quite lacking in many beaches, being volcanic-like, it is simply wonderful. Most beautiful place in the world. In the same way that the record now playing on the radio is ‘my favourite song ever’. There’s a recency effect. The places we stopped at were fab, we took a little trip to a town called Noto which is the island’s most magnificent collection of Baroque buildings, but I must warn you that the ice creams there are a rip-off.

Then, due to… restrictions (we couldn’t get a flight back from Catania on the east coast with our air miles), we had to drive diagonally across the whole island back to Palermo. Three-and-a-half hours. And I thought it would be dull. Like, all the charm of Newport Pagnell in the winter; like some drab, grey industrial wasteland. But it surprised. It’s hilly to the point of mountainous and exceptionally beautiful. Most of the mountains are volcanic and almost completely barren of green stuff. Making it a bit ‘other worldly’ but really magnificent. A great drive. Even though the dashboard on the car packed up half way there so I had no speedo. Nor the annoying little arrows telling me to change gear. Because in a Fiat 500 you’re always in a lower gear otherwise you’d never get there.

So there, that’s all you’re getting. I’m done with Sicily. Its history. Not Greco-Roman history (with a few Moors and Normans thrown in) but proper ‘done that, been there’ history. But good history. Fantastic place. Really loved it.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Can’t tell you how wonderful the wedding was on Sunday. So I won’t. Fuck you. You should’a made the effort.

Oh, alright then, it was hot. Not as hot as it could have been because there was a bit of cloud cover, causing a searing, scalding 34 degrees to become a just mildly hot 28, which was tolerable. Made more so by alcohol. I don’t know why the doctors don’t recommend ‘serious drinking’ when you’re in super-high temperatures. Because once you’ve had your third aperol spritz and are moving onto Limoncello-sodas, you just don’t notice the heat. Another few JD and cokes and it becomes perfectly safe to ‘dance like a dervish’ til midnight, sweating like a proverbial ‘mutha’. Studies should be undertaken about the benefits of such imbibement on medical grounds. And then it would be free for the over-60s.

The bride was fabulous and, as she always is, really funny. And loud. Bless her. The food was wonderful… for Italian, and the setting, outside, middle of nowhere on a beautiful, massive estate, Mount Etna in the background, was simply sumptuous. Was truly memorable. Possibly would have been more memorable if not for the spritzes, sodas, JD, etc.

Yet here’s the thing. It was the most ‘inclusive’ wedding I’ve been to. My norm for weddings is inclusive to Jews. Possibly Christians. Long as it’s not too many. People of colour. Many colours. But this one took it further. The bride had two bridesmaids and a ‘brides-man’, who was way more feminine than either of the other 2. The groom had his ushers and an… usherette? A groom’s… sort of butch thing in a suit. Though she was pretty gorgeous. In a DON’T FUCKING PRESUME NUFFINK!!!, kind’a way. Or however you say that in Spanish. Which… they were. She was. Ooops.

Then, before traveling all the way back to Palermo for the flight home (there is always a price to be paid for £1 tickets; like a car ride across all of Sicily) we popped in to the local Greek/Roman archeological site/amphitheatre/piles of rocks, which every town, village and high street in Sicily must, by law, have. This one was in Syracuse and was… hot. Really hot. Pompeii hot. The Colosseum hot. That super heat reserved for piles of antiquated stone. It was great. Caves. Errrr… rocks. Stuff everywhere from 500BC. And in between, some truly wonderful modern sculptures of ancient legends. I’m talking proper ‘legends’ here, Icarus, Apollo, Zeus, not ‘legends’ like your best mate for buying you a pint, or Phil Foden or you bank manager for approving a loan.

And this pair of Icarii were there, (to be honest, everywhere you turn in Sicily there’s a headless Icarus staring at you), basically, to show the inherent gender ambiguity of the human condition. They represented the ‘multiplicity of being men and women’.

I’m still not sure exactly which of the 57 gender options I wish to pick, or maybe have a few, like the original Romans did, but inclusive is good. Multiplicity is good. Ambiguity is… different.

Happy working day

A xxxx

We went out for dinner last night, place recommended to the younger daughter, who’s here too. Firstly because she has to fly somewhere every three weeks; it’s a rule, and secondly because the bride is one of her best mates. Since they were about 3.

And on the menu was sardines. I love sardines. But this was sardines cooked in ‘typical Sicilian, east Ortigia style’. I begged them to be done Greek style. Portuguese style. Belarusian style. Anything but ITALIAN!!!! Put ‘em in a bun with ‘special sauce’ and bright orange cheese, barbecue them with aardvark’s brain, in fajitas with guacamole, anything but Italian.

They were ok. Not fantastic but ok. Both the ‘gels’ had taglialini with ragu made from beef and Sicilian tomatoes… Spag Bol. It was lovely. Quite tasty. But really, as an aspirantional food? The sort of thing every student learns to cook before going to Loughborough to study Politics and Mediaeval Pottery.

The pics I’ve posed are the ‘money shots’ of Ortigia. Where everything is big, coastal and wide and airy. But the best of Ortigia is really what’s in the middle. A massive network of roads so narrow and windy, alleyways really, that in any other country they’d be totally pedestrianised. Over here cars try to overtake driving down them. And the buildings are old and the shops are beautiful and there are cafes and restaurants everywhere. And, of course, gellaterias. And it’s pretty. Piazzas, duomos, statues, fountains, few’a them knockin’ around the place and bish-bosh, another gorgeous bit of Italy. Although the ‘bish-boshing’ took a couple of thousand years.

During which, the Jews moved in. And, they made good, settled down, loaned money, were loved and cherished… then murdered/forced to convert/evicted (see previous posts on the Jews of: Lisbon, Rome, Paris, Majorca, Madrid, Budapest, Prague, Milan…). So yesterday we went to see Ortigia’s ‘mikveh’, which is a ceremonial bath religious Jewish people use to ‘cleanse’. Not to wash, that’s too easy, this is to ‘cleanse’ and you have to be spotlessly clean before you enter. Ortigia’s was build in AD500 and lasted until the Spanish Inquisition. When they filled it with hundreds of tons of mud, blocked off the entrance (it’s quite a way underground, where there’s an artesian well) and left it so it wouldn’t be found. Which it wasn’t until 1986. Amazingly, then cleared out and its open for looking at, no longer for cleansing in. Quite wonderful. Quite moving.

Now for the nuptials.

A xxxx

Do you like Italian food? Over here, they call it ‘food’, but we know it as the finest of pastas and pizzas and beautifully grilled fishes and octopuses and tomatoes and cheeses, many of which look much better than they taste. So when you go to an ‘Italian’ in London, that’s what offered. And it’s nice. What’s more comforting than Lasagne? Possibly with chips, and a salad on the side. For Mel.

Yet a week on and I’m almost craving… something different. Something with different flavours to those which define Italian food and therefore make everything taste a bit… similar. We’ve mixed it up, we’ve done pizza and pasta and fish, even a veal (yes, calf abuse is not just legal here but to be actively encouraged) schnitzel.

The bread here is fabulous, but only when really fresh. 10 minutes later it has door-stop use only, even though they give it to you when you sit down in the restaurants. Ahhh, but you dip it in olive oil!!! Made, just over there, behind the cinema. And I can give you a buffalo mozzarella so wonderful and white that I can guarantee it has no taste whatsoever!!

I always find that the Italian default is minimal taste. Bland. Maybe my own preferences have been ruined by a lifetime of hummus, kebabs, curry, burgers and food that simply explodes with taste. Oddly the only ‘other’ restaurants you get here are for sushi. My other favourite example of food designed to have no taste whatsoever. Just lick the wasabi with soya sauce, don’t bother with the rest.

I love it here. Love the whole Italian ‘vibe’. Love the women. Men are all short and/or fat. With one or two gorgeous ones thrown in for balance. And Ortigia is wonderful, a tiny little island off Syracuse, accessed by a bridge, or a swim, crammed with fabulous everythings. Except a good Tandoori or Thai. Salt beef bar. Felafel stall… Anything but fucking risotto.

Wedding tomorrow. Should be fab. And hot. Really hot.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx