Andy's Glasses

I just received an email from Rishi Sunak. Personal one. Addressed to ‘Andrew’. Not just that but ‘Dear Andrew’ because he loves me. All Prime Ministers do. Signed it ‘love Rishi xxxx’.

Ok, it was a form message, but ONLY sent to the most important 66 million people in the country.

And he sent it because he’s taken a new stance on climate change and wanted to tell me to ditch the fucking electric car now, turn the lights back on, stockpile coal, burn petrol as much as possible, hike the central heating and eat polar bears. Because we’re so ahead of the curve on climate control that he’s worried we might actually exceed our reduction targets for 2050 and actually be taking carbon out of the environment. Which the trees won’t like. So he’s changing the date of compulsory electric vehicles from 2030 to 2035, and similarly, we can still get new, gas-burning, highly-emitting, carbon producing home boilers until that date, rather than getting penguin-friendly heat pumps.

All all because he thinks that the average brick-layer’s assistant will struggle to come up with 45 grand for a new van and 25k for the heat pump!

Even for a man who would tomorrow swap his fabulous electric vehicle for a 1970, 6-litre, Dodge Challenger R/T and run it on Nitro-methane, Rishi’s move seems a little ‘anti-zeitgeist’. As the whole world is moving towards lowering carbon with the over-riding importance on ‘NOWWWW!!!!!’, Rishi is chilled about the warming, he’s cool with Greece burning to the ground and the floods everywhere from Europe to last night in the fucking West End!!!!

Sales in superglue will rocket as the eco-warriors prepare to stick themselves to every road, building and non-electric vehicle in the land.

Cynics think Rishi’s change of direction is due to people’s hostility against ULEZ, being symptomatic of a reluctance to adhere to environmental issues if they cost ME money. And therefore, pulling back could be a vote winner. There again, looking at the economy, the NHS waiting lists, the strikes and the general shit, Rishi has a lot more work to do. But apparently, ‘we’ll still be fine for 2050, carbon neutral’. Yeah. Right.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Not Russell, for him there is no defence. He is the ‘Everton’ of humanity. The scumbag’s scumbag, whether allegation prove true or not. But I write, with hand on my heart, in defence of men. All men. Because it would appear, we need defending, explaining, forgiving and a host of other things, just because we’re men. And although we’re not all rapists, despite comments to the contrary, you just have to pick up the newspaper (sorry; or swipe up the Mail Online; though really ANY other paper would be better, if not cheaper) to see pages and pages of the growing ‘case’ against Brand. Then how the police are putting 1,000 officers on some form of suspension or ‘suspension light’, limiting their contact with anyone younger than 45 wearing a skirt. Then some actor/director/studio boss has been getting a bit casting couchy with people, and for God’s sake be careful around surgeons, they’ll be inside your underwear before you can say ‘oooooh, Matron!!!!’

But other than all that lot and virtually every other environment where men and women are in any kind of proximity to each other, you’re safe.

So it would appear that if not all, then a high proportion of men are, if not precisely ‘rapists’, then at least something rather unsavoury and unwanted in the sexual assault/harassment/abuse department.

I blame evolution. Which, in a non-directional way, produced ‘woman’ to be alluring to men, so they would attract more mates and be reproductively ‘fitter’ than some rotten old minger with halitosis. And it also selectively produced men to want to reproduce, because that is what evolution is all and only about. Ok, Darwin wrote nothing about casting couches, cars parked on lanes off the Esher bypass, nor the broom cupboard at Nobu. But we (as a species) NEED to reproduce and thus we NEED attraction to the… errr… contradictory… gender… or, obviously, possibly the same gender, but… errrr…

In short, our ‘animal’ side (and that force is BIG, Luke) wants us to be promiscuous, to go out and make loads’a babies. To propagate our genes into the future. The more the merrier.

But then, about 3,000 years ago, such a short time that on an evolutionary line it would barely register a single dot at the end, some bastard came along and introduced things like ‘society’ and ‘acceptable behaviour’ and even ‘marriage’!!! Which kind’a changed things. Essentially, the ‘animal’, man, became ‘civilised’. Except Russell Brand, obviously, Harvey Weinstein, Jimmy Savile, Kevin Spacey… half the police force, all the surgeons, most partners in law firms, accountancy firms, banks and… men. We are innately, biologically, genetically attracted to women. And vice versa (in theory). It takes actual effort not to jump on people to ‘mate’, like real animals do. Obviously more of an effort than Russell is prepared to make. Because he is fucking animal. No insult intended to animals.

However, 3000 years is a long time for mankind. Long enough to ‘socially engineer’ (because it ain’t real ‘evolution’) an understanding of etiquettes and propriety, even with the major setback which was the Romans.

I’m not defending the indefensible, I’m here to bury him. But just as an alternative ‘context’, its not always easy being a man. And a lot, lot harder being a woman.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Now here’s a funny thing. How does the justice system work? It works on impartiality, evidence, balance and fair… justice. No preconceptions, no prejudicial theories outside the context of the trial, just truth. So you get allegations made against Woody Allen, not very nice ones, fairly convincing, lots of relevant data, not looking good for the Woodster, but… but its Woody Allen. The man is a god. Just for ‘Sleeper’ alone he should be exonerated from all crimes for life. Add in any of 19 other masterpieces and he veritably hobbles on water. Well, walking’s a bit tricky at that age. Anyway, Woody, crimes, I initially disbelieve, then I justify, possibly offer mitigation, over-reaction, miscalculation, affirmative action. Anything that’ll ‘square’ in my mind the not very nice ALL-EG-EDDDD actions with the image of a man I love deeply. To maintain his ‘innocence’.

Then Russel Brand gets ‘outed’ as a serial molester, sexual assaulter, predator, groomer and rapist. And immediately my mind is telling me ‘he done it, (my mind is not so grammatically critical as the rest of me ),course he did, lock the bastard up and throw away the key’. That way we won’t have to accidentally chance upon his revolting, smug, evil face ever again. No one was surprised upon hearing this latest ‘scandal’.

And it could be that Russell is correct; that all his ‘promiscuity’ was ‘consensual’. In which case its that age old problem, women just have no idea what ‘consensual’ even means and need to be educated proper. As there seems to be a slight ‘disconnect’ between what was said and how it was received by him. And you have to admit, there is a certain ambiguity in the word ‘NO!!!’ which could be an issue. But this is not about his innocence (yeah, right) or guilt (no question whatsoever). This is about the courtroom which sits, Monday to Friday, AND weekends, evenings and during the night, in my brain. Which has already (by the end of the story breaking the first time) found him not just guilty but despicable. Just like he was prior to the story.

I’m not proud of it, its what it is.

Joey’s at ‘big school’ now with his sister. Awwwwwww…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Yesterday (and today) was the Jewish New Year. The day, as it is written, when all Spurs fans have to make the biggest decision of the year, whether to go to the match at White Hart Lane at 3 o’clock and upset their wives, families, parents, uncles, aunts and a few holier-than-thou mates who’d already put their tickets on stub-hub, or whether to absent themselves from the match so as to score a few more points ‘up there’ at this pivotal time of year when the annual ‘tally’ is run before the ultimate ‘judge’. It’s a moral dilemma. Of sorts.

We needn’t have worried. Once God had counted that all the Jews were absent from the Lane, which took him about 82 minutes, because even God can run out of fingers, He decided all was ok and Spurs could win. Eventually. So He extended the match until that happened. It took ten minutes of ‘added time’ for Spurs to score the 2 goals required for victory, then he added on more minutes, in case we wanted a 3rd goal and, at the time of writing, the match is now in its 14th hour of ‘added time’ and should finish by Tuesday.

Our star (ish) Brazilian, Richarlison, has been out of sorts since… well, forever really, but certainly since he arrived at Tottenham. He can’t score goals. Which, for an Uber driver is not much of a problem, but for a Premier league striker, obviously, a bit more so. He’s had, as he described it this week ‘mental health issues’. Well any fan could have told him that. But acceptance is the first step to redemption. And it proved true that the problems were ‘in his head’. Or in his case ‘on his head’. Because he’s been sprouting a blond head for about 3 years, and his psychologist/barber cut it off. And hey presto, like some Samson-in-reverse, he scored one and made one on Saturday.

I’m officially obsessed with electric transport. The car is phenomenal (outside of home charging notwithstanding), and the bike… OMG it’s the only way to travel. But I don’t ride in when it might rain. Like, electricity and water??? I heard that if its raining and you’re on an e-bike, if your tongue is on the handlebars and your testicles slip onto the saddle and your feet touch the ground, all at the same time: you DIE!!!! Probably because you crash into something but it’s a big concern for us fair-weather, princessy heroes.

Happy Sunday. COME ON EVERTON!!!

A xxxx

There’s big talk about concerning the ‘triple lock!!!’ on MY pension. Yes, I am a pensioner and thus get paid by the state, have incontinence issues, dribble down my shirt and walk round in circles talking about Rommel’s attack in Tunisia. Its what we do. And we do all that shit because we can afford to. Because the government don’t just pay us, but they give us a pay rise EVERY YEAR. Otherwise we’ll go on strike!!! The nation would positively grind to a halt if the above activities were to cease due to industrial action. And the pay rise is ‘triple locked’. Meaning that whichever is the greater of: average earnings; inflation or 2.5%, that’s what we get. And as average earnings have shot up, due to a massive increase in inflation; us old’uns are going to be quids in. And deservedly so. We’ve paid all our lives into a state pension, even though we didn’t want to. We gave our legs for this country. Probably metaphorically, but its what us oldies claim. We need more heating than you young bucks do. And certainly more alcohol. So its all well and good that our annual pay rise is much more than anyone else’s. As it should be. If they gave more money to young people they’d only go and waste it on sex and drugs and rock’n’roll. Possibly a bit on rent, buy a house, pay childcare, improve healthcare… but who wants that? When you can have half a nation of overpaid old folks getting pissed every day on your dollar. “WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOWWWW!!!!”

The other thing about getting old is that you may at some point get to become a grandparent. To, probably, a grandchild. Or two even. And the whole point of being a grandparent is that you don’t say ‘no’. Only when Joey’s broken something, and by then its too late. But grandparents are providers of ‘treats’. Which mummy and daddy have decided to rename ‘junk’. Thinking that by renaming food high in sugar, salt, MSG, excessive colourings and flavourings as ‘treats’ makes them sound worthy, commendable and hence, overly desirable. Whereas by calling them ‘junk’, Lila and Joey will instantly throw their lollypops in the bin (well, Joey probably on the sofa), cast aside their salt’n’vinegar Hoola Hoops, run away from their ice creams, and head straight for the nearest Holland & Barrett. Yeah. Right.

The only thing with ‘treats’ is that they should be secret. And Lila and Joey don’t do ‘secrets’ very well. Saying ‘don’t tell mum’ (dads are always more… flexible) about ‘treats’ or ‘illicit’ viewing on YouTube (teenagers being stupid type videos which are so stupid that they guarantee the viewer will end up an incurable fan of Love Island and The Only Way is Essex by the time they’re 12) that they always tell their mum at the earliest opportunity. Phah! Kids.

Happy old Friday

A xxxx

I am dentally challenged. Always have been. ‘Special’ in the teeth department. For the first year of my life I had no dental problems at all. It was after that it all started. And continued pretty much my entire life. Fillings, abscesses, extractions, crowns, my mouth is barely my own any longer, so full of amalgam, gold(!!!) and, since the recent implants, titanium. Plus some nice shiny ceramics. My front teeth remain ‘my own’. The yellow ones. All the others, shot to shit or gone and replaced, symptomatic of our disposable world. Plastic bottles, teeth, shoulders…

Thus I am ‘known’ at my dentist’s practice. They have me on speed dial. The place is a 4 minute walk from work and I’ve gone there f’rever. And, sadly, frequently. Not just because my dentist is a gorgeous blonde, but because she is simply the best dentist in the world. Not that that’s particularly hard, most of the others are sadistic mouth-drillers and cash-hungry torturers. (Well that’s dentist done then, which profession should I ‘analyse ’ next?).

And last night I had an appointment for… an extraction!!! You know, tie a bit of string round the tooth, attach other end to the door and SLAM! Job done. Though Dr Katharina refused my offer of the string I’d brought along because she wanted to do it more scientifically. She pumped sufficient local anaesthetic in to numb an elephant. And yet it didn’t numb my mouth sufficiently. So she put some more in, this time using a hose-pipe attachment rather than the syringe. Ahhhh, that should do it. But it didn’t. For some reason everything from my nose to my testicles was numb, except the fucking tooth in question. Though we were both bored by that point, and keen to get home, so she yanked it anyway.

There was blood. Most of which I managed to carefully get on my pillowcase and bedsheets last night, to avoid having to spit it into the sink. That was a result.

And now I’m better. Another day, another medical drama. Bring on old age!!! (Shoot me now)

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Let’s face it, no-one wants a bunch of convicted criminals running round the streets. If we did, we’d move to Russia. Or Peckham. And yet when a prisoner actually escapes from prison, we’re instantly engaged and in admiration for the act. Because everyone appreciates that getting out of prison is not very easy. That’s, almost, the whole point of prison. And why its called ‘prison’ and not ‘Travelodge’; both are places you desperately want to leave but only one lets you. So when young Daniel Khalife breaks out of Wandsworth prison, clinging to the undercarriage of a food delivery truck, I’m actually, just for a short while, cheering him on. Its brave. Its opportunistic. Its planned… a bit. And its audacious. And because Daniel’s only in there for ‘spying for Iran’, its not like he represents a danger to small children or old ladies, so we can just appreciate the escape itself.

But those of us who grew up watching ‘The Great Escape’ (EVERY FUCKING CHRISTMAS FOR DECAAAADES!!!), we appreciate the planning required, the incredible attention to detail needed. All the movies and tv shows with ‘Colditz’ in the title made the same point, as did ‘Alcatraz’ films and those with the word ‘Stalag’. Unfortunately, young Dan didn’t pay sufficient attention to Steve McQueen, Donald Pleasance et al and seemed to miss that point.

So he plans his ‘breakout’. He works in the kitchen and obviously noted the arrival and departure of the food trucks, cos much as ‘an army marches on its stomach’, so ‘prisoners stay put on their stomachs’. Everyone has to eat. And he shredded his bedsheets to make the ‘handles’ for him to hold onto under the lorry. Made clips to secure them. Probably noted that the geezers with the mirrors-at-the-end-of-long-poles always took their cigarette break at the precise moment the vehicle left the prison. And thus formed his devilish plan. And it worked!!!! Success!!! I’m bloody OUT!!!

Which is where just a little more planning would have been useful. Like: I’ll be dressed like a prison chef. Like: I might need some money. A passport. Friends. Helpers. Somewhere to hide. But he didn’t. He just ‘winged it’. Which is why he’s now back in custody, being picked up about 3 miles from Wandsworth after sleeping on park benches and river tow paths for 3 nights whilst the police did their ‘headless chicken’ act to try and find him. Then they got a break! Yes. A witness saw him climb out from underneath the lorry at a roundabout!!! Grab him!!! Quick!!! Oh, that was 3 days ago, just after he escaped. Anyway, they called in MI5, MI6, the anti-terrorist squad, the escaped prisoner squad and a few other squads and acronyms and caught the fucker in Kew.

Another dream shattered. Score one to all the squads, score -97 for Wandsworth Prison.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

There’s no football. It has been decreed that: just as the new football season gets properly under way and the old excitements, hopes and… ok, anxieties return anew, they stop everything for ‘international breaks’. Those great games of absolutely no interest whatsoever to anyone which give our star players and bestest idols an extra chance to get injured. Or jet-lagged. Or sometimes… both. I really don’t care that England played Ukraine, in Poland, for obvious reasons, that that’s where most Ukrainians can now be found. And it was a draw. Well, was it really? That’s fascinating. My team are second in the league and I’m supposed to be interested in some qualifying game for a tournament years away.

So I watched some rugby. The lord giveth and the lord taketh away. He took away (meaningful) football and gaveth a shit-load of amazing World Cup rugby. France beat New Zealand. France are the favourites, but only in terms of betting. In terms of ‘nations being loved’, they remain irretrievably rooted to the bottom. They even took time to boo President Macron as he made his welcoming address. Almost as rude as it is totally deserved. But the pundits consoled any All Blacks listening after the match (which was absolutely brilliant) by stating that South Africa lost their opening match in the last World Cup, but still went on to win it.

They didn’t tell that to Romanian fans after losing their first match, which I thought a bit inconsiderate. They only lost to Ireland (also favourites) 82-8. But there’s everything left to play for. (What’s the Romanian for: ‘just go home now’??)

Then England came out to play, the team everyone in the world cares about over and beyond all others. And were underdogs against Argentina, itself a great insult. Unless you’re Argentinian. Our super flanker Tom Curry returned after a long injury and we were thrilled to have him back. For the three minutes he lasted until being sent off by a referee obviously being bribed by Far Eastern gambling syndicates. But playing with 14 men against 15 for the remaining 73 minutes seemed to galvanise the England team into the most fantastic mind-set. They were brilliant. On the other side of the ball, the Argies were simply abysmal. Thank God. The worst performance by them since Maradona was around to inspire them. Since Eva Peron was buried. So now I’m all fired up to win the whole thing.

Meanwhile, over in New York, Coco Gauff won the American Open for gels. I kind’a forgot that, despite seemingly being around for decades, she’s only 19 still. And plays the game… as well as I do. Some might say even better, others ‘what the fuck are you on???’, but I’m glad she won. Not so sure I’ll be thrilled by either Djokovic or Medvedev winning the mens.

So there you are. They take away our football but we shall survive!!!

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve been promoted. In, like, a really short time, just a couple weeks, really, I’ve been elevated from The Bastard Cyclist from Hell!!! to fully-fledged ‘Terrorist’. And I started with such good intentions…

The problem is that riding electric bikes is totally addictive. Riding normal bikes is probably almost as good, but with more sweat and forced exercise. And no-one wants that. It’s the feeling of total ‘freedom’ which you get as you sit upon and switch on. And the fabulous power that the tiny little motor bestows upon you. I ride on power setting ‘5’. I have no idea what the other 4 are even there for.

This week, in case you missed it, and really, you’d have be actually dead to have missed that heat and sunshine, its been dry. And bright. And lovely. Plus, it’s the last week of school holidays so the traffic is just one eighth of its normal term-time lock-jam. So it seemed silly NOT to go in by bike a few times.

Traffic lights are (now) a minor issue. If it’s a big, complex, 4-way junction, I’ll sit there, almost patiently, even though I don’t have a ‘patience’ gland, it was removed at birth. And then I’ll go just like a normal ‘citizen’, when I’m green. But if it’s a more simple or quiet junction I’ll sit there for as long as it takes to ascertain the risk factor, and once that reaches zero, I’m gone. It’s a form of intolerant colour blindness. When you see a line of cars waiting for the lights, you go round them. It doesn’t matter which way you go. Inside is ok, outside a little trickier, the pavement my last resort. But I’ll do that any time to avoid sitting behind 3 cars. Because I can.

Google maps takes me quite a brilliant route to the City. Across the Heath Extension (cos its the only parkway in all of north London where bikes are actually allowed; all the others I just ride more carefully, more politely, cos I shouldn’t be there). In Camden I ride through a housing estate in a pedestrian only area, again, its part of ‘cycle route number 6’. I’ve never looked for the other 5.

Basically, NOTHING holds me up, slows me down or stops me. The whole process appeals greatly to my restless spirit. But once the weather turns bad again, once the traffic reaches school-term levels, when every South African woman gets her Range Rover out to drive little ‘Smits’ three blocks to school, oblivious to the world around her, I shall polish my bike and return it to the shed. To hibernate. Unless there’s another tube strike.

Happy Riding,

A xxxx

Britain is broken! It’s not working. Needs a fix. Several fixes. Thus spake Kier Starmer (zzzzzz) and several of his cohorts, politicising every disaster confronting the country. Which is his job. And would appear to be the job to which he’s best suited, as he wasn’t much of a lawyer and his time as ‘shadow Brexit minister’ had him utter virtually nothing as he stood at Corbyn’s shoulder with ‘that rictus grin’. So ‘moaner-in-chief’ is his perfect role in life. Would that make him a good prime minister (heaven forbiddddd!!!!) I don’t know. But he may have a minor point. We need to count the gates.

We have NHS-gate. The ongoing, never-ending disaster which is our ‘wonderful, world-leading, free-at-the-point-of-service’ catastrophe of waiting lists, striking doctors, cancelled appointments and loads of healthy old people clogging up beds because of…

Care-system-gate. The problem is, we don’t have much of a care system for the old. Well, we’ve never had old people before, have we. Have we?? Ahhh, but with an aging population held together by sticking tape supplied by the over-burdened NHS, ‘we’ are getting older. But have no places to dump the aged because, like the NHS, there’s an expectation that ‘the state should provide’.

School-gate. Not the one where you go in, the other one, the current crisis. Well, not much of a crisis really, just a little problem where kids going to any school built between 1950 and 1979 (and that was the post-war ‘boom’, after the war ‘boom’, blew them all up) needs to go in with a hard hat and protective vest because his schoolroom ceiling is coming down any minute now. They built them with a ‘cheap alternative’ to concrete, called ‘RAAC’. Which is an acronym of ‘Really Shitty Useless Cheap Nasty Crumbly Rubbish’. Ok, I need to work on my acronyms. But it’s shit and has a low life-expectancy, which ends… about NOW!!!

Strike-gate. Trains, teachers, doctors, opticians. We’re all on strike. Not sure why but WE FUCKING ARE!!!! POWER TO THE WORKERS!!!!

And you can’t list disasters without ‘boat-people-gate’. Wouldn’t be fair. They come over, get dumped in a barge in the Solent, which proves to have various diseases integrated into the water system, get put in hotels, wait 6 months before we can put them back on the boats going the other way, and all at a cost of 569,332,298 quid every month. Possibly every week. It’s so much and so stupid I’ve lost count.

Now we have ‘Birmingham-gate’, where the council of Europe’s largest municipal region is officially ‘bankrupt’. No-one really cares, but its a welcome addition to the ‘Britain’s broken’ debate.

So fuck off, Starmer, there is NOTHING wrong with Britain. It’s functioning perfectly. Like a well-oiled… like a well-oiled RAAC ceiling.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx