Andy's Glasses

Last night I had the (thankfully) rare priviledge of putting Lila and Joey to bed. It wasn’t the plan. I was coming round so mum could pop out for an hour, after bedtime. She didn’t tell them because they’d get excited. Not because they’re seeing me, no one wants that, but because I would be the cause of their excitement. It’s what I do. What I’m supposed to do. Grandparental duty. Chase them round the lounge, dangle them by their feet and swing them, tickle them mercilessly, it’s all the ‘grandad handbook’. But, ok, not necessarily at bedtime. So I was a secret. Shhhhhh…

But as I crept in they were both at the top of the stairs waiting. However: I was warned: DON’T GET THEM EXCITED!!! My daughter’s always been much much stricter with me than I ever was with her. Though there’s a fair argument that I need it more.

Anyway, we played: oh so gently and quietly and still-ish. And we were calm and tranquil and we barely had any fights which involved screeching or excessive blood. So to bed. Lila jumps in with her t-shirts (one of mummy’s, one of daddy’s, I offered her one of mine and she said she’d use it to clean the windows), and a lovely soft, cuddly panda, and we kiss goodnight.

Joey clambers under the sheets, taking his essentials: about 14 muslins and… an axe. Ok, it’s plastic and only about 18 inches long with a bright orange head. But an axe? I mean, really?? I’m used to seeing Joey in bed with toy cranes, lorries, buses, dumper trucks and so much plastic (sorry, Greta) that there’s no room for his little body. But an axe is different. As he closes his eyes holding it closely, lovingly to his chest. An axe shows intent. It shows a mindset.

I checked online. The preferred bedtime toys of Fred West. Ted Bundy. Jack the Ripper. Peter Sutcliffe. All went to bed with axes. Probably.

This photo shows Lila exactly 6 years ago, according to whatever oh-so-clever phone or app or whatever reminds you of such things. But it’s so wonderful I had to use it.

Happy, slightly concerned Thursday

A xxxx

Is there anyone in the entire fucking world, other than Rishi Sunak and Kyriakos Mitsotakis (Greek PM) who really gives a shit about the Elgin Marbles? Or the Parthenon Porcelain or the Crumbling Concrete, or whatever you choose to call them? Because I don’t. But, I really don’t. And I have seen them. You can’t miss them when you go to the British Museum. Which generally you do to see something else and just kind of stumble across these most highly contentious old lumps of stone en route to the purpose of your visit.

Lord Elgin basically went to then Ottoman controlled Greece in 1807 and knew a ‘good little earner’ when he saw a bunch of old statues and stones in the Parthenon in Athens. So rather than wait for the marauding Turks to smash them in one of their drunken rages of rape and pillage, he basically stole them. Ok, he alleged that he had permission from the Turks to ship them to England ‘to protect them’, but there’s never been proof of that. They’ve held inquiries, they’ve done loads of research but the cctv in pre-Victorian Athens was really shit. In fact it was a man called Theasophelos who sat on the street corner with a sketch book. Thus did Lord Elgin shift about 4 tons of Greek stone relics to London. Not to ‘give to England to look after’, nor to ‘be viewed by all of our people’, but to house in his private collection. Which he later sold to the government. Who probably parted with some serious wedge to get a bunch of old rubble.

And the Greeks want them back. But for some reason, Rishi is rather unnaturally attached to the marbles. To such an extent that, knowing what the discussion was to be on Monday morning, he cancelled the scheduled visit by Mr Mitsotakis for ‘coffee and cake’ at 10 Downing Street. Which, in the world of diplomatic protocols, is a slap in the face. With a wet flannel. Mr Mitsotakis had to go to Starbucks and buy his own coffee and cake and was most unhappy that he had to fork out £7.47 from the Greek national purse, and the cake was a bit dry.

The obvious action is to ‘share’ the marbles, I mean shipping them back and forth is no trouble at all, I’ll drive. But our two fine (?) nations have no trust in each other that they’d ever get them back. Creating a bit of an impasse. So Rishi bottled out of facing the Greek demanding gifts, rather than bearing them. Although Kier Starmer is happy to let them go. Does he not realise what they mean to ME!!!!

There is death in the world. There are wars. There are serious economic issues at home. There needs to be a proper debate about VAR. And its fucking freezing. So to repeat:

WHO CARES ABOUT THE ELGIN FUCKING MARBLES???

(Today’s pic is there because it is wonderful. No ‘meaning’, no ‘message’, just a polar bear. Probably the one I saved when the electric car arrived)

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I don’t read the Daily Telegraph. Because I don’t wear a tie. Haven’t worn one since the elder daughter was married, 10 years ago. Might do a black tie if absolutely pressed, but it’ll stay on for the first 7 minutes only before I rip it off, gagging for breath. But you need to wear a tie to read the Telegraph. Men, obviously. (No-one who ‘identifies’ as anything whatsoever would ever pick up that paper). Women have to be wearing a twin set and their hair must be appropriately ‘neat and tidy’. Because the ‘Torygraph’ as it was once known, appeals to a certain demographic. You can’t even buy it north of Bedford, there’s just no market for it. It’s strictly the Home Counties and certain parts of London. They burn it in Islington, use it for wrapping chips only in Brixton, it makes good insulation for the children in Peckham, under their coats. And you’re not allowed to buy it without ID showing you’re over 80, either chronologically or ideologically.

But still, it’s a paper, an old one, a dignified one, and it is a bastion of the British White. Sorry, the British Right. Not, like ‘far right’, it’s not for the Tommy Robinsons of this world, if any of them can actually read. It’s for crusty middle class Tories of a certain vintage. It’s for people who drive Jaguars and Land Rovers (because Range Rovers are ‘vulgar’), it’s for people who fine dine and shop at Dalesford Farm. I hate to invoke stereotypes, but they’re not stereotypes without good reason.

Now the Telegraph is up for sale. The Barclay Brothers, stewards of that noble sheet for many a year, have descended into what Telegraph readers would never call ‘tits-ups-ville’. And thus new buyers for the paper are a bidding. And the best bid is from none other than Manchester City owner, Sheikh Mansoor. I’ll spare the rest of his name due to lack of space; there’s miles of it. And the Sheikh’s government of Abu Dhabi backed investment fund would like to buy the Telegraph. No problem there. They’d only be the ‘owners’. Not like they have editorial influence or control of content in any way. Hmmmmm.

As can be seen by just looking at any Manchester City accounts from the Etihad years, honesty, openness and transparency would be the last three words to spring to mind. Which is not a good advert for the credibility of a (once) noble newspaper. Furthermore, people who rule totalitarian states are not famous for self-criticism. They’re famous for beheadings. Stonings. Intolerance. And they are used to being obeyed. Totally. So would that compromise the editor’s ability to be harsh about an Emirate state? Or be nice about an enemy of an Emirate state?

In my humble opinion, Mansour owns enough. Let someone else buy the Telegraph. Just not Rupert Murdoch, obvs (read: ‘totalitarian leaders’, above)

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So there I was, marching for anti-semitism and yet, at precisely that time, Spurs were getting beaten by Aston Villa at White Hart Lane. That’s not right. Not in the spirit of the day. Morally and holy-ly wrong. Thus either Spurs are shit, or, more likely, Aston Villa are aligned with Hamas. There is no other explanation. They’ve been radicalised. And where was God while all this was going on? That’s what I want to know. As His very own team lost its third match in a row. We were top of the league and being happily smug as we peered down at the rabble squabbling for our scraps, and now THIS!!! In fact, not only ‘this’, but ‘that’ too!!! ‘That’ being that Arsenal have now taken over our place at the top. The doomsday scenario. And very upsetting.

So upsetting that I needed a ‘release’. I needed someone to take it out on. I needed catharsis!

And I had to call Sky tv for something. A small thing. But whenever you call them they need to ‘offer’ you stuff. Its what they do. And thus in the flash of 26 minutes which felt like 3 hours, I was offered a new contract. Amazingly, it is £16 a month cheaper than the old one!!!! Letting me know I’ve been paying way too much for years and will be for more years to come. The cost of football. But heh, 16 quid a month is worth saving. And as ‘my new best mate’ was rushing through the terms and conditions’ as they all have to do, he just slipped in about a one-off, £30, ‘admin charge’.

‘Sorry?? What was that?’
Oh, you know, a charge for… errrr… for admin.
‘You’re pushing a button whilst on a conversation which you instigated and I’m paying for the call. Where’s the fucking admin?’

You see, it all came flooding over me, Spurs losing, Arsenal winning, Man City and Liverpool drawing, United winning, Newcastle winning, plus the fact that in 2023 we have to march against anti-semitism in the country I was born in, fun though the march was. But it all washed over me and Asnil (or whatever) was the lucky beneficiary.

‘Ok!’ he cried out, ‘I’ll do it for 20 pounds’.
No you won’t, I’m not paying anything. Its dishonest, immoral (the definition of which is ‘charging me money’) and deceitful. Cancel the contract.
‘I can do it for 10 pounds’.
You can fuck right off, matey.
‘But everyone pays an admin fee’.
Everyone’s stupid.
Ok, I’ll waive the fee.

Oh no, I wanted to keep shouting, to keep arguing, I was really enjoying myself, and he’s spoilt my fun. But even though I was tempted to continue by demanding they pay me an ‘admin fee’, I decided to let it go. Take my meds, perform some tantric tai chi for half an hour, think of my happy place (Wembley, 1981) and say ‘ohhhhhhmmmmm’ unitil he’d finished the new ts and cs, the ones WITHOUT an admin fee.

Good Monday, if not a Happy one.

A xxxx

Well, as marches against anti-semitism go, this one must go down as a bit of a disappointment, on many levels. I’ll tell you why.

There was no food. I mean, how can you get a bunch of Jews together at lunchtime in a bagel-free zone?? Jews feed each other, even when we’re not hungry. So to gather (pick your own number between the estimated 60,000 to 105,000 people present) so many, with not a Danish in sight, was rather upsetting.

There was no flag-burning. No death threats. No screaming for others to be killed. A complete lack of violence. Even a bit of incitement to violence would have been welcomed, but no; nothing. Just peaceful people enjoying a day out in the… in the drizzle bonding and being happy just to make a point. And that’s tragically disappointing.

Tommy Robinson was arrested in a pub before the start of the march. I’m not sure why. As the leader of the British not-quite-nazi-skinhead League of thugs and football hooligans Party, he is, as of the time of writing this, fully in favour of all things Jewish. But better safe than sorry, so stick him in jail til it’s over.

If there were 100,000 present, that is remarkable. There are somewhere around 250,000 Jews in England. Although non-Jews were not just allowed but actively encouraged to attend. Because, generally, Jews are unlikely anti-semites so are unlikely to become pro-semites due to a rally.

However, the event was so successful that there is, as of 4.00pm today, absolutely no anti-semitism left in the entire nation. One little march through Westminster and its ‘job done’. The anti-semites have thrown away their ‘from the river to the sea’ posters and placards, finally understanding, in a fit of crowd-inspired remorse, that in fact it IS a very horrible and inflammatory message to send. As is ‘all Jews must DIE’, pictures of burning stars of David, concentration camp imagery and all the rest that’s pretty horrible too. Jeremy Corbyn went on the radio immediately afterwards to say how he is finally going to say that he’s ’opposed to anti-semitism’, rather than the usual ‘I’m opposed to discrimination of all kinds’, weazly, obfuscating, evasive bollocks he usually spouts. Kier Starmer is getting circumcised as soon as he can find someone with a small enough scalpel. And Gary Linneker is going to hang himself publicly for… well it doesn’t matter which of his many crimes really, long as the job gets done.

And people are no longer going to single out Israel for crimes which other nations commit but get by unmentioned.

So that was a complete success. We’ve stamped out anti-semitism in this country. Now we need to work on the UN. A much harder job.

Happy Marching Day

A xxxx

Tomorrow I’m going to march for anti-semitism. Its important. And I don’t like Jews, they’re small, smelly, money-grabbing, controlling, conspiring, money-laundering war-mongers, so I’m joining the march. And in case there’s any trouble, Joey’s coming with me. And there will be trouble, cos he’s bound to need a wee when we’re in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

Oh, it’s a march ‘against’ anti-semitism. Oh. I’ll do that then. Whatever. It’s my democratic right to protest, not really bothered about the details.

But first we must be eternally grateful those who have facilitated and organised the return of some of the hostages. Ok, it’s only a few but it’s a start. And it’s ALL down to the Red Cross and the state of Qatar.

The Red Cross actually drove the freed hostages across the border into Egypt. In vans. Like, made sure they were filled up, changed all the gears, and turned the steering wheels, wherever necessary. Well done Red Cross.

Ok, for seven weeks they have done, precisely, nothing. They haven’t checked the hostages, supplied medical aid to them, nothing. So they’ve really upped their game by supplying the vehicles. Bless ‘em.

As for the state of Qatar, they negotiated the entire thing. Well, they’re in the right position to do that as they, along with the Iranians, generally fund Hamas. And a few other terrorist organisations. That’s why they hosted the last World Cup, the really hot one. In the desert. In the stadiums built by 10,000 dead Sri Lankans. And who else could ‘negotiate’ with Hamas. Where would you find a Hamasian? You’d have to go to the tunnels. Other than the Hamas head office, which is conveniently located in Doha, Qatar. So well done those heroic peace-niks of Qatari government. They get to sponsor a jihadi death cult and then claim the international kudos of sorting out the release of hostages. We’ve had sportswashing, now it’s hostage-washing. Fuck ‘em all.

And thus, armed with my usual diplomatic, balanced and non-judgmental equanimity, I shall march with my people.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So I’m not saying a show called ‘Guys and Dolls’ is up there in any woke list of ‘must-sees’ as its set in the 1930s? 40s perhaps, when guys were guys and those-identifying-as-women were called ‘dolls’. Which is a touch too binary for contemporary acceptance. Addressing some as ‘hey: Doll!’ is not acceptable in the workplace. Though a few of the actors looked decidedly less ‘binary’ than did either Marlon Brando or Frank Sinatra in the movie version. Yet I make no judgments nor guess at pronouns. Not me job. And I don’t know if you’re familiar with the storyline, but its a great one. Scumbag ‘gangsters’ all wanting to gamble away whilst a bunch of evangelical Christians go marching by singing hymns and begging people to ‘reform their ungodly ways of liquor’n’gamblin’ for the sake of your eternal soul. Amen’. I’ll add ‘a-whorin” to that just because I want to. Normally, the gangsters would just roll over the Christians, steal the collection boxes, rape the women and put the big bass drum on ebay. But this is a musical so we give it a bit of license. And one of the gangsters acherley falls in love with the Christian babe/doll… woman. Who’d’a thought?? And then… no, no spoilers. You simply couldn’t imagine nor guess. Probably.

But that somewhat simplistic precis doesn’t do the show justice. But like, REALLY doesn’t do the show justice. Because it is simply fucking brilliant. The songs… remarkable, the lyrics brilliantly, award-winningly witty, written back in the day by Frank Loesser, and in this case, the production is a wow. It really is. The cast are fabulous (a word chosen very carefully and in considered manner) and the sets are just… just…

The Bridge Theatre is relatively new for London. Where most of our acting spaces date back to Shakespeare. The world of stage performance didn’t begin with ‘Wicked’ on Broadway, ya know, some of us have been thesping for centuries. And it feels like it in most West End venues. Cramped, overheated, Tudorish, horrible. And the Bridge is a revelation. Also, the ‘stage’ is different, mainly because it doesn’t have one. Just an amazing central floor area with sections which rise and fall depending on who’s standing on them and singing at the time. And they let the paying public ‘mingle’ around the unlifted areas for the full ‘immersive’ experience. I might have considered that if they let you gamble down there but opted instead for a seat.

But here’s the funny thing; The Bridge theatre is, like, right next to Tower Bridge!! I mean, coincidence or what?? So when you come out, this is the view. Which is shit, I grant you, but there were no really good car parks or cranes around.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Whilst we were positively glued to yesterday’s ‘budget statement’ by the Chancellor of the Exchequer himself!, Jeremy… whassissname, over in Holland they were busy voting for a new Prime Minister. Yes, it was election time in the land of the free, the tolerant, the nice, liberal and obviously a bit stoned. And the winner was… (pause for effect, like on Bake-off)..
Geert Wilders!!! The most intolerant, not-nice, un-liberal and possibly not even stoned man they could find in the whole of Holland. He is horrible. He is the bastard love-child of Nigel Farage, Tommy Robinson and Marine le Pen. He hates dark-skinned people generally and muslims in particular. He wants no immigration, sealed borders and the banning of the Koran. Which, whatever you think of the Koran, is a bit much. You either ‘ban all religious books’ or none, you don’t just pick your least-loved minority. Burning books is something he should consider too. Always a positive move for any liberal democracy. Anyway, good luck to the Dutch. (They’re gonna fucking need it.)

Because we have bigger fish to fry. If we can still afford to do so after the ‘most tax friendly budget in the history of glossing over the small print and robbing people blind’. Fish may become a once-a-year treat. One sardine at Christmas for a family of 9 to share. Awwwwww.

Hunt gave us some ‘huge benefits’. A whopping 2% off national insurance!!! That makes the average wage better by 350 quid a year!!! My pension (yes, I get a fucking pension!!!, what of it???) is going to rise by £21 per week! That’s huge! It’ll pay the dry-cleaning bill for my butler. Put a quarter of a tank of gas in the Bentley. Almost cover the entire cost of my morning coffees!!! (croissants not included). But seriously (ish), I mean, ‘tax breaks’? WTF??? We pay more tax than those any other nation. And due to clever and nasty little ‘things’, like freezing the tax threshold, the level at which we start to pay income tax, we effectively get a tax rise every year. The paltry benefits offered yesterday, as if we were each being presented with our own palace, go nowhere to even offset the immense burden we’re already saddled with. He did a good thing for business, has to be said, which should be good for ‘growth’, but for those of us earnin’ wagiz, with ‘raging’ inflation and increasing fuel costs, we’re not going to be feeling ‘rich’ any time soon. Thanks, Jeremy, thanks a lot. Maybe I’ll move to Holland…

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Every time I watch the news I get annoyed. Whenever the radio’s on I get violent tendencies. I won’t open the newspaper until delicate objects have been removed from my vicinity. Including any family members. And it all stems from, basically, one word. A word so simple, so basic, so important and yet so tragically misunderstood by apparently everyone except me, that I alternate between wishing to vomit when I hear it, to wishing to inflict pain and suffering on the utterer. That word is ‘ceasefire’. Which is the new battle cry of the ignorant.

Of course, its not the word itself, words carry very little baggage, but the context, the assumptions and the implications. The word itself means a ‘mutual truce’. An agreement between two (or more) warring parties to… errrr… to cease firing on each other.

So the cries go up. Along with ‘Free Palestine!’, though from whom no-one mentions because it all gets a bit messy and ‘from the river to the sea’, which is even messier, the shout is now ‘CEASEFIRE!’, as if the IDF are going to hear and heed immediately the cries of people who really have no understanding of what is going on. Or if they do understand, they choose not to demonstrate that. Even Kier Starmer gets it. Or says he does so he can continue to tread a really fine line between siding with ‘the murderers’ and demanding ‘peace’.

There was a ceasefire between Israel and Hamas on October 6th. It didn’t last a day. 5,000 rockets, 1400 brutal murders, 240 hostages taken. Which was not only in breach of the ‘ceasefire’ and any and every ‘international’ fucking ‘law’ you can imagine, but was done with a totally cynical disregard for the people of Palestine who were always going to bear the brunt of any retaliation. Hamas knew that. Yet went ahead.

I know, its unfashionable to even mention October 7th now, or the hostages, you’re only allowed to talk about ceasefire. Those murders and kidnappings have somehow been retrospectively justified by the might of Israel’s response. And yet what Israel is doing is not only clearing out Hamas but showing up their abuse of the Palestinians they’re supposed to represent, by putting their most vulnerable out there as human shields. And yet, the BBC are so quick to point out, correctly, that ‘the videos of Hamas taking hostages INTO the hospital, in full view of all the staff, are ‘not validated”. Yet every statement from Gaza, all the figures, incident reports and tales of bombings come from Hamas. No caveats. A terrorist organisation with not a scruple nor moral consideration between the lot of them. Yet BBC, ITV and Sky all treat the news with equivalence.

I don’t like Benyamin Netanyahu one little bit. But he represents a democratically elected government and is their spokesperson, not their dictator. Hamas are ISIS. Same plot, same methodology, same ideology. A death cult. Who, as even Kier Starmer has pointed out, have stated many times that they would take any opportunity to ‘repeat’ the events of October 7. Which a ceasefire would give them. Which would make the stance of both the United Nations and the Scottish Parliament decidedly questionable, if they had any credibility on the world platform, which fortunately neither do.

People watch the reports and they are horrible. The bombings, the deaths, the parents crying for children. And so they cry ‘ceasefire’. Meaning ‘stop Israel from bombing’. And I get that, I really do. I also get that it will not stop Hamas from doing anything, other than getting stronger, re-grouping and trying again.

The only way to ‘free Palestine’ and get a ‘ceasefire’ is for Hamas to be gone. Totally. And the hostages returned safely. Only then can the innocent civilians of Gaza be free of their barbaric overlords who care not one little jot about how many of them die in their cause, or at their swords.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

This is Mandy Patinkin. We know him from ‘Homeland’. He was the boss CIA or FBI or whatever acronym they were. He was fab. Strong. Experienced (euphemism for ‘older than everyone else’s). Watched the first 3 series, all brilliant, then got bored, as you do as plots get thinner, more stretched beyond credibility, as it all gets a bit ‘same shit different day’.

Then, what, 5 years later, Mel sees that Mandy is doing a show. Oh. What’s he gonna do, relive Homeland? Interrogate a few jihadi suspects in front of a West End audience? Shoot three people dead? Bit of water boarding? Who knows.

That was ages ago. Then, suddenly, months after booking, we’re off to Shaftesbury Avenue to see the ‘show’. Whatever it may be.

But you see he had a life before Homeland. His ‘experience’ wasn’t in fact in ‘enhanced interrogation’ but in shows on Broadway. Films. Tv shows. First and foremost as a singer in musicals. He was best mates with Stephen Sondheim. Starred in everything for decades, belting out tunes in his very deep voice. As he did yesterday. Show songs, none of which we knew, but most were amusing. He’s amusing. And he is also a fantastic raconteur. Not tales about ‘show biz’ but about his life growing up in South Chicago. And he ended his show, the theatre absolutely packed with real fans who gave him his first standing ovation just for walking onto the stage, by singing ‘somewhere over the rainbow’. In Yiddish. As it was originally written.

The music was fine, the stories wonderful but really worked for me was someone who was so comfortable just being a Jew. Not ‘in yer face’ with it, just part of what he is. A very American way to do it.

I still don’t know why we go the tickets, but I’m glad we did. Other than Saturday afternoon in the West End, which is as revolting as life gets. Unless you are a party of 78 Serbian bargain-hunters, a hen-troupe from Huddersfield or pub-crawl from Putney. They all seemed to enjoy getting in my way. And blocking Tottenham Court Road station. All that was missing was a few ‘from the river to the sea’ banners to make it a perfect end to a lovely afternoon.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx