Andy's Glasses

So what do you do when you’ve opened a brand new, fuck-off boutique hotel at the edge of Covent Garden and suddenly find you have a basement you never knew was there? You turn it into a Jazz Club, obviously. Its what you do with basements. Unless you want a prison, torture chamber or crypt. They considered all those options and decided that as a potential income stream, Jazz Club works better. But how do you get people in? Ahhhh, there’s a website (big fucking surprise) which offers tickets to jazz clubs very cheaply, late-ish, which ‘The Twin’ has used before. And we randomly selected this place, the QT Bar, and splashed out a fiver each on entry.

We went to the early set at 7.30, because the later one, at 10, would leave me grooving to the groove next to two sleeping twins. And I hate that because one might fall off her chair. This early start was a great sacrifice as Spurs were playing Preston in the Cup at six o’clock and you can’t get WiFi on the tube. You can in a jazz club, particularly a really stunning, posh one like this, but its rude.

There were abundant staff. Who were really lovely. And very smart. We were greeted by Wojciech (never asked his name but that one fits the bill) who was delightfully exuberant and ‘charming’ in that overly flirty way. Don’t know if he was some outlandish maitre d’ or a waiter but he brought us the bottle of wine we ordered, so I asked for a food menu. Five minutes later I asked him again. 5 minutes later I asked the mistress d’, and then again, five minutes after that. And five minutes later someone different just offered us one. About 20 minutes later the mistress d’ came to tell us that one of our food choices was not available. “But you only have 4 things on the menu”. Yes, and that one’s off. Sorry. What came was fine and beautifully presented as we listened to the ‘jazz’.

Which wasn’t ‘jazz’ as I know it. And I do know it a bit. I’ve been to Ronnie Scotts, I know what jazz sounds like. Its sounds… random. It can sound all sorts of things but generally its 7 brilliant musicians all playing different things at the same time but sounding ‘together’. This wasn’t like that. This was 7 musicians, certainly all capable of playing jazz, but playing re-arranged covers of very popular songs. Everything from Careless Whisper to Uptown Funk. And all done really well. But not jazz. This was more ‘barmitvah band’. But one of the good ones that people with much more money than sense fly over from Paris, or Tel Aviv, so that Auntie Fay can zimmer her way round to Hava Nagilla and then get taken to hospital. And they were fantastic musicians and singers with unusual and good arrangements. But it weren’t jazz.

Though what it was was happy music. And audience participation. And songs everyone loves, albeit in a different way. A really happy, lively, fantastic evening. But not a jazz one. And normally, going to a barmitzvah costs you much more than a fiver and you have to wear a suit.

What I missed was Spurs beating Preston thanks to the incomparable Son Heung Min scoring two goals of the highest class available. They weren’t jazz either, but we’ll take ‘em.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

In 2007 Jeff Bezos took an ipad and mated it with a copy of War & Peace. Possibly artificially inseminated, they never told me. Thus was born: The Kindle. 
In about 2008 I reluctantly, begrudgingly, moaningly, bought one. An ‘e-reader’. I hated the idea, hated the thought, hated pretty much everything about it, except ‘it’ itself. Because it was and is the most wonderful invention since the internal combustion engine. And look how that one turned out!!! You can take 5 ‘books’ on holiday and it still weighs 25grams. Possibly 74grams, no fucking idea, light enough that you never have to worry. If you take 50 books instead, it still weighs the same. I have no clue how that works either, but there ya go. So one holiday and I was totally sold on it, even though I’ve always loved books. They’re tactile, they have covers, they smell of paper, all the good things, yet replace them with yet another ‘device’ and all your worries disappear.

(as a ‘PS’, on that very first kindle holiday, on day 2 I managed to sit on Mel’s one and cracked it. Even though I’m not as heavy as the scales may say I am. And I thought ‘a book wouldn’t crack, would it?’ But again, we learned a valuable lesson. Which is that Mel can be very loud when screaming.)

I have a system. I only buy paperbacks for my kindle. Never hardbacks. But… but… but… I know, on the kindle there’s no difference. Except the price. For the same download you save a tenner waiting for the paperback. So I generally do.

Thus, out came The Ink Black Heart, by Robert Galbraith. Who is, some of the time, JK Rowling. When she’s not in Harry Potter mode. And we love his… errrr… her? books. But its only out in hardback… owwwwww… that’s 18 quid a download… owwwwwww… but if we wait its only gonna be a tenner… owwwwwwww. Then Mel went into our local charity shop to drop off some old stuff. And saw: The Ink Black Heart, sitting there, hardback, perfect condition. And it was… four quid. WE ARE SORTED!!!!

And then I picked it up to read it. In fact it took both of us. 890 pages of… probably paper. Its a brick. And weighs… ever such a lot. So much that I don’t wish to hold it on the tube, have no desire to shlep it round in my ruck-sack, and have to rest it on a pillow when I read it in bed. If I want to move it downstairs I’ll fix up a pulley.

Yeah, I love ‘books’, but just not necessarily in the physical sense any longer.

Happy Reading

A xxxx

The sales of electric cars have rocketed. In 2020 they accounted for 10.7% of all car sales. Last year (not including ours cos WE STILL HAVEN’T GO IT!!!) it was up to 23% of total car sales. During the same period, the number of public charging points has grown by 6. But 2 of those don’t actually work. So its nice to see that the government, who tell us we MUST buy electric cars, who are going to ban new petrol cars by 2030, really getting behind their own plans for greener, healthier, less polluted cities and motorways.

Electric car drivers suffer from ‘range anxiety’. It can be treated with drugs but they can only be used to send you high as a kite once you’ve actually run completely out of charge, down a back lane with no streetlights, somewhere in Hertfordshire. Might as well take a couple’a these and then you won’t give a shit. Whilst you wait for help. Though what that ‘help’ will look like I don’t know. Possibly a man with a charger on a 14 mile long cable plugged in on the Essex border? A lorry with a 20 foot high battery on the back? Who knows. You’re certainly without a paddle.

On Sunday we went to Leeds for a funeral. My brother-in-law drove up too. In a petrol car. Even though he has a brand new, all-electric, super-plug-in, green-flagged Volvo Thunberg in his garage. But why?? Ecology aside, you save a hundred quid taking the ‘lectric. Its silent. Its fab. Its green. Its everything. But that’s only if you venture out less than about 270 miles from your home charger. If the round trip is 400 miles then ya have to think about it. Worry about it. Get anxiety attacks about it. Suffer… range anxiety!!!!!

His car is quoted as 270 miles on a full charge. But that is because car manufacturers are as economical with the truth regarding electric car range as they were with ‘fuel consumption’ (see: everyone vs Volkswagen, 2016, 17, 18, 19…) on diesel ones. So 270 miles, once you add the ‘reality factor’ becomes 220 miles. Turn on the heater (it was -3 on Sunday) and that drops to 165 miles. Should it rain and the wipers get deployed, that comes down to 92 miles. Don’t use the radio, just sing. So he might make it one way, to Leeds, but then what? Public chargers few, far-between and working at about 40% of them actually working. Though there is a new charger, somewhere in Yorkshire, but that’s scant benefit.

Whilst I’m waiting for my new electric motor car, I’m in training. I keep the old petrol car with the fuel light on. Red and flashing. And that’s when I go on my journeys. To learn what that ‘range anxiety’ is going to feel like.

So all praise the government. Those not currently under some inquiry or other.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Before we dismiss Nadhim Zahawi as ‘just another money-grabbin’, tax-evadin’, in-it-f’rimself, stinkin’ rich Tory bastard’, I think we need to know more about ‘the man behind the bastard’, where he’s from, what he’s done. Only then can we judge the shit out of him based on scant information and lack of background. So I researched him thoroughly. Being the convicted Wikipedophile that I am.

Unfortunately, due to a computing error, the information received was superimposed upon the next entry in Wikipedia, which may have confused a lesser being but I managed to sort out quite easily, being clever and brilliant and, most importantly, not being particularly bothered about ‘facts’ or ‘truth’ or rubbish like that.

So Nadhim Zahawi-Ratcliffe was born in Iraq. As a little girl she grew up in Iran before marrying Jim Ratcliffe, the guy who wants to own Manchester United, possibly changing her name to Nazanin during this phase of obvious gender ambiguity. The blurred images weren’t clear at that point. She went to prison in Iran because she was dependant on Liz Truss and Boris Johnson for freedom and justice and as those two couldn’t organise a hymn in a church, she languished there for years. Then came over here and formed YouGov, the polling company, and although he was back as Nadhim, and a man, he chose to have his share of the company registered to Balshore Investments in Gibraltar. Which was a bit ‘taxy’ whichever gender he/she was at that time. Balshore Investments had nothing to do with the Zahawi-Ratcliffs other than full ownership of it. He was reunited with his daughter when he returned from Iran and the rest, as they say, is history. Except for him being the Chancellor, in charge of all the nation’s tax affairs, whilst dodging his own personal taxes. Nothing of any ‘conflict of interest’ in that.

I hope that clears up the entire matter, if not his reputation. Or her’s, perhaps.

Happy not at all confused Tuesday

A xxxx

Leeds is precisely 200 miles from London. I know. I just counted every single one of them. Twice. Once there, once back. And all because somebody died. A real ‘somebody’, not just ‘the death of Spurs’ dreams’, the end of all hope for football fans in N17, not even the day civilisation died (when Arsenal won 2-nil last week). Nope, this was a real person. Laid to rest in Leeds. And we went. Because sometimes, you just need to.

It was a remarkably unremarkable journey up there. Which is the absolute best you can ever hope for on the first motorway in the land, designed for 1955 levels of traffic and butchered by the 2020s obsessions of slowing everyone down, speed fucking cameras and worst of all… emissions! I kid you not. As you approach Sheffield (in your 40-ton, 8-litre diesel spewing monster lorry, or even Mini Countryman) you see a sign saying ‘slow down to 60!!! For reduction of emissions!)

Sheffield. Where they used to make steel. Where two monster chimneys adjacent to the motorway spewed out 24-hour a day shit for 60 years. Where all the inhabitants smoke 60-a-day. Most importantly: where we really don’t give a shit about Sheffieldies and we’re in a hurryyyyyy!!! So I sped up to 80. I’m that kind’a guy.

So we buried poor old Mike, God rest his soul, had some lunch and set off home.

My wife has so many attributes. She’s organised, she’s really together… errrrr… she’s gorgeous (I really do have to say that), a fantastic swimmer… errrrr… she’s just FAB! But she can’t navigate for shit. Give her control of Waze and she’ll have me turning into Tesco’s car park or the driveway of number 7 Shakespeare Drive, Bradford, before you can say ‘turn the car around… turn the car around… turn the car…’ Its just not her thing. I’m ok with that.

So for the way home she called up the satnav of choice and plugged in ‘home’ and off we went, back to the M1. Or so I thought. Waze decided that in fact, the A1 was a better bet. But it didn’t tell us. It certainly didn’t tell my navigator. So we trekked about 25 miles across West Yorkshire to find it.

I didn’t mind. I didn’t know, in fact until about half a mile down this funny-looking ‘M1’, when it announced ‘end of motorway’. Ahhhhh, its the A1M. Oh. Oh well, all roads point south. Eventually.

And as it happens that was also a nice, easy, clear run home. Just 9 hours after we left that morning. The only bad thing was that we made it home with sufficient time for me to see Arsenal score the winner against Man. United. Is one little traffic jam too much to ask for when you need it???

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So we’re living the dream. It’s not raining. In fact its absolutely gorgeous out there. Bright, sunny, just a fab looking morning. A… tennis morning!!! Perfect! And yet, its fairly cold. We arrived on the court to find it a sheet of ice. So we went for a coffee, came back half an hour later, all that sunshine must do something, surely. Yup, now the courts are half a sheet of ice. And half ‘my side’. Cleared by the ‘heat’ of +3 degrees. I wanted to play. I could run around like the loony to which I aspire on my side. Spurs Paul would have to be a bit more careful though. It was ankle-twistingly, leg breakingly, serious concussionly icy on his half. Not my fucking problem.

If only someone could devise an indoor tennis court, not subject to the whims of the weather. Oh yeah, they did that and I hate them. Horrible lighting, nasty perspective, carpet-burns, horrible. But at least consistently horrible, regardless of wind, rain and snow. Or better still, a bit more global warming, but in the winter. You all need to produce more carbon. In the interests of tennis.

Don’t know if Nadhim Zahawi plays tennis. I know he doesn’t pay much tax because they just fined him about 3 million quid for being naughty and cheating on his tax return. Well, that’s a bit harsh. Some shares which may have looked like his were actually held in his parents’ names by an offshore trust managed in tax-free Gibraltar by a third-party, resident on Mars where tax rates are notoriously low, and withdrawn to a Cayman Islands bank account in the name of ‘Not Zahawi, someone else’. Nothing wrong with that. But like it or loathe it, we actually need people like that in government. People who live in the real world, are very successful in that world and understand finance and business beyond the sacred walls of the Palace of Westminster. Career politicians lack real world experience. Successful businessmen just ‘get it’. And if the chairman of our governing party tried to deprive the NHS of a few boxes of PPE to financially compensate himself for giving it all up for the nation, all the better.

Otherwise we end up being run by civil servants like Kier Starmer, who seems to understand nothing.

Happy, icy, sunny Saturday

A xxxx

What do doctors know? Well, they know lots about things they can’t do. Treat a virus. Make you young again. Prevent cancer. Stop heart attacks. See patients. But to give them credit, they can be useful. If you’re lucky enough to ever be able to see one as they remain in full-covid mode, locked in a security protected practice, guarded by seven armed pit-bullesque reception staff who only answer the phone between 9.15 and 9.17 on a Tuesday and only to make telephone appointments and tell you “DON’T COME IN TO THE PRACTICE!!!!”

So I managed to speak to one on Wednesday, by phone, obviously. She was very nice, I have to say. And was probably wearing a mask to speak, so I was safe. Because I have a pain. In the armpit. Strange I know. It’s a nerve pain, probably from the years of having a dodgy shoulder. Which has now been replaced, but they left most of the nerves in tact. Certainly this one. The troublesome one. I was happy with the phone bit because there is absolutely nothing you can see. So she prescribed me some pills which are great for nerve pain.

The above is part of the list of possible side effects, with their accompanying probabilities. Basically, I have a 90% chance of contracting a virus and a 10% chance of dropping dead. With pretty much everything else covered in between. But EVERYTHING.

I know this is standard ‘COVER YER ASS!!!’ tactics but there’s really so much that can go wrong. But really?

Then I had to ponder the other drugs they make you take. You know, you get to 60 and they change your ‘risk profile’ and force statins on you, make you take aspirin, plus various other shit. All of which come with similar warnings. So what about the combinations? I’m no conspiracy theorist but if I have a 60% chance of dyslexia from one drug and an 80% chance of loss of the use of one arm with another, then I have a 140% liyh9ose Beiojjl scieur ocwuouon cojssshoh

It’s fucking serious, man! Don’t take drugs! Unless you’re a Spurs fan, then TAKE EM ALL!!!!

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I have a routine. Everyone has routines. They’re unchanging. That’s why they’re routines. I emerge from my shower, apply various beauty products, none of which seem to have any noticeable effect, dress and come down for breakfast. A banana. Because I’m healthy. Because I’m calorie conscious. Because I’m an athlete!!! And mostly because they don’t have a breakfast buffet here where I can eat half a pig, the output of the henhouse and an entire bakery, like they have in Mexico. And I write to you.

So why is this day different from all others? Because I read in the paper that Emma Raducanu is playing Coco Gauff in the Aussie Open. Today!!! Or, possibly, ‘tonight’, could be ‘tomorrow’, you never know about days and times over there. But it started at 8am UK time. The only time that actually matters. I looked at my watch: 7.59!!! Game on.

We never turn the tv on during the day. Only for football. House rule. And Andrew Marr on Sunday morning, though he’s turned into Laura Kuensberg which is not quite so compelling. But for Emma? And Coco???

To watch Emma I’d climb a mountain. Fortunately I don’t have to; we don’t got none in our house. For Andy Murray I wouldn’t be prepared to turn around. Emma and Coco is something else though. They’re both incredible tennis players. And they’re both incredibly gorgeous. And hit the ball so fucking hard. I love tennis and bizarrely, I love gorgeous athletic women.

Its almost the best thing ever. Its like a supercharged V8 Dodge, made of chocolate. Its like Spurs beating Arsenal last Sunday. It’s like Harry and Meghan hugging Wills and Kate, but if you actually cared.

And now I have to go to work. Maybe I’ll call in sick. Lovesick.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

As the wait for the electric car enters its 13th month, my concerns for our fragile planet remain significant. With my level rising from ‘whatever’ to ‘hmmmm’ with the last raise of world temperature. But I can’t save the entire planet, all the whales, the Brazilian rainforest, just with one car. So boffins have come up with a brilliant invention.

They’re sending up a satellite. I know, ‘space’ is awash with fucking satellites, its like the M25 for satellites up there, but wait. This one consists of 2 massive ‘reflectors’ which catch the sun’s rays. It’s easy up there, no clouds. Thinking of using it for our next holiday. And then the rays are fed to a transmitter which converts the radiation to microwaves and beams them down to planet earth, drifting below. And although they always tell you microwaves are dangerous and cause horrible things like death, these ones are different. And they will be stored as energy to heat our homes and light up the world. All for free. Though granted, there are some ‘set up costs’.

The transmitter and the concept is British, obviously (?), because we’re good at ‘space’. Other than rockets. But the reflectors are being made by the Saudis. A nation so innovative in ‘green technology’ that they’re currently building a ‘green city’ out there in the desert. I’m thinking ‘solar power’ but I could be wrong. Thus we’re getting them to help.

Negotiations are therefore taking place as to whether this new energy source, once up and running, will be allowed to power the houses of gay people. Will women be allowed to turn on the lights if there’s not a man in the house? But I appreciate these are minor technicalities which will be ironed out.

They didn’t say how much energy will be produced. Would it power the City of Birmingham for a month? Or heat half a kettle in Wiltshire? We need to know more. But its very exiting nonetheless.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

“It hurts, mummy, it hurts”; runs the plaintive cry
“Make it go away, mummy, send it way up high.”
“Get fucking real”, answers mummy, “and get a fucking grip”
It’s only a game of football, you snivelling little shit.

But its not an “only” anything, it happens again and again,
It is life itself!, distilled down to a microcosm of pain.
I hate to lose a football match, whoever it may be to
But to lose THAT particular one is oh so hard to do.

It hurts on many levels, the agony, the shame, the frustration
The shockwave of pain rocks more than just the nation
It is felt the whole world over, from Texas to Kharkov
And even up to worlds and planets we’ve never even heard of.

Because when Arsenal win a football match it is always a moral crime
But when they win at White Hart Lane society has declined.
It is a sin against the good and noble, a statement of intent
That the devil has moved to north London, and he’s not going to pay his rent.

This was the proverbial ‘game of two halves’ indeed,
As pretty much most of them are, you have to concede
But in this match both those halves were horrible, dire and sad
So for consistency, if nothing else, it wasn’t really too bad.

They scored a couple of goals, with a serious error of goal-keeping
Who fucked up so bad he had all of us distressed and weeping.
The other goal was a cock-up too, this time managerial
Thinking that the Arse’s extra mid-fielder would be simply immaterial.

The fact is that we were beaten by a better team all round
With a manager, though Spanish, has his feet firmly on the ground.
And that’s the hardest thing of all to accept in any meaningful way
That we lost it fair and square at the end of the (fucking) day.

And as Joey sat there, playing with his toys, oblivious to the game
I had to think, with tears in my eyes, how most shit stays the same.
‘You are our future!’, I thought, for my Spurs fan of tomorrow
He will share our rich legacy… of misery, anger and sorrow.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Xxxx