Andy's Glasses

It’s amazing. The wonders of modern travel. You can leave home in London and arrive at a super, seaside resort on the coast in Cancun, just 19 hours later. Ok, I won’t moan, its unbecoming for someone so lucky to have this ultimate of ‘1st world problems’, but 19 hours!!! So that’s a 10 hour flight and nine hours of total bollocks, bullshit, time-wasting, waiting and, in my case, total impatience. I mean, I’d have paid more for convenience. How much would it have cost to have a private jet pick us up from our local park, drop us effortlessly at a helicopter pad in Cancun which would have us to our hotel in 14 minutes. That would have cut about 8.5 hours from the trip, meant we could have eaten a lot more, drunk loads more margaritas and been so relaxing that the additional £138,792.44 would have seemed worth it.

Hindsight.

Never mind, we’re here!!! In Playa del Majures and its… pissing down. Grey skies, like we get at home, pouring rain, like we get at home and room service, like I get at home. But…

It’s warm. Wonderfully, barmily, tropically warm. Because (as far as I’m concerned) we’re in the jungle. I share the 5 year-old’s view of geography. If its lush, dense, tall and green and stretches for more than 22 yards; its a jungle. Unfortunately that means snakes but haven’t seen any yet. THANK GOOOOOOOODDDD. Because I share Indiana Jones’ view of snakes.

Decided that, although we’re ‘all inclusive’, I’d miss out on the tequila for breakfast. Just for today. As we did a ‘stretch class’ straight after and I thought being sober might make it easier and better. I was wrong. The guy who took it was your normal smiling, charming Mexican happy person, or appeared to be until he started with the ‘now take your left leg, wrap it round your neck three times and pull both arms in opposite directions whilst bending 90 degrees from the waist’. Little fucker. Just another sadistic bastard but this time with a Hispanic accent.

So I’m fed, watered, latte-ed up to the eyeballs and its still raining. But I don’t care. I’m care-free, don’t ‘ave ta do nuffink and this place is fantastic.

Very happy holidays

A xxxx

It’s Christmas time, there’s no need to be afraid. Apparently. They didn’t sing that at Gatwick airport on Christmas Eve during a train strike, border control strike, nurses and ambulance strike and pilots strike, did they? Ok, I lied about the pilots to enhance the story. But really, its hell here. Bob Geldof’s starving Africans were lucky to have avoided the South Terminal in late December.

That may be some kind of exaggeration too. I do that. To get sympathy. But trust me: it’s HELL getting to Mexico for a winter-sun, white sand, super-luxurious, free-sombreros, all you can drink Marguerita-fest, a charitable event to raise awareness for the ‘worms’. The ones at the bottom of a bottle of Mescal tequila. We’re all wearing ‘save the worm’ t-shirts and are trying to instil vegan values to enhance our battle against this cruel and senseless tradition. Worms have feelings too, ya know!!! Oh, they’re not really worms anyway, more, maggots. And as such have the most under-developed sensory system of any animal outside of East European football clubs.

I shouldn’t complain. I leave that to Mel. She’s a pre-emptor. I only complain about bad shit that’s happening or happened, and about Arsenal, whereas she’s already complaining about things that might happen next week. Foresight. Foremoaned is forearmed. Though only about holidays. It’s her way of coping with this post-covid, will-it/won’t-it happen mentality instilled upon us over the last 3 years. She’s not really a complainer generally. It’s just the insecurity and unpredictability of travel which causes her (and me) stress and concern and always have a lingering doubt that it won’t actually happen. Will be cancelled. We’ll be turned away for sneezing at check-in. Fog. Rain. Snow. Air. Water. Covid. Strikes. Death.

And that’s it so far. I must admit. Gatwick’s never looked more beautiful. Of course, I’ll keep you appraised of all eventualities.

Happy Christmas!!!!

A xxxx

A massive day for all Scottish men and women. And everyone else in between. Because Madame Sturgeon, slayer of the Salmond, purveyor of Evil, daughter of Satan!!, has decreed that in ‘her’ country, there are no borders or barriers between the genders, all nine of them. And you can truly be ‘whatever you wish to be’ in that land of Braveheart (who ‘transed’ in 1679 to be the Queen SHE always wanted to be) and Roberta Burns and Billie-Jean Bremner.

Yes, the wokes have won, north of the border. So if you remain in the unenlightened south, where men are still men and women reserve all rights, but you fancy spending a few hours in a changing room or public toilet, or maybe a prison, of the alternative gender assignment, just hop on a train to Glasgow and perve away. Its legal up there.

What Sturge et al have actually done is got the maths wrong. Its not a socio-philosophy problem but just numbers. Because to avoid causing upset, stress and confusion in a very small group of people already upset, stressed and confused, they’re prepared to the throw the safety and security of half of their population (the gel half, as in gels with wombs and bits and pieces of the more expected nature) under the fucking bus of obsessive political correctness.

Everyone is entitled to ‘safe spaces’. Even women. And by allowing (the possibility) of some 6 foot 7 caber-tosser with a long, red beard and a kilt to stroll into a ladies loo because he ‘identifies’ as a woman and is dressed in a kilt, just ain’t right. To stop him (if yer ‘ard enough) would be to refuse HER basic human rights.

I love Scotland. They make some of the finest Scotch anywhere. Errrr… And I love a good Scotch. But, really? This is ‘progress’? Really???

Happy Friday

A xxxx

It’s been a bumper week for me, musically. I recorded a ‘history of Fleetwood Mac’ and have been watching. It’s a different one. Not new but different to the previous 10 ‘histories of Fleetwood Mac’ I’ve watched. This one going right back to the Peter Green days of ‘Albatross’ and ‘oh well’. Following the tragic death of Christine McVie the other week, tv goes into ‘obit-mode’ and that’s just fine with me. Any old footage of Stevie Nicks is good footage. And the music is just as good today when sober and drug-free as it was in 1979 when none of that applied. In-juuurring, innit.

But in last Sundays paper was a feature about another favourite. In fact, the only musical favourite I have born this side of 1979. Taylor Swift. And I love her too. Not in ‘that way’… ok, a bit in ‘that way’ because, if I wasn’t such a post-me-too, super-woke, non-objectifying egalitarian icon!, I’d be prepared to woolf whistle.

Yet its not about that. It’s about the music and more, it’s about the woman.

The songs pretty much speak for themselves. And every 66 year-old British man with grandchildren can easily relate and empathise with how difficult it is to grow up as a teen girl in Mississippi. The boys, the clothes, the angst, it all resonates. Period pains in the shadow of burning crosses whilst dressed full cheerleader mode; we’ve all been there.

But those lyrics are simply brilliant. And she writes them all. That, however, is the easy bit. The hard part is keeping control of your songs, your music, your life, when you’re a one-person industry and everyone wants a piece of you. A big piece. Yet little Taylor not only fights the musical giants (Sony, Spotify, Alexa) on her own behalf, she insists on better deals for those less fortunate, who don’t get 4 million downloads a week. The strugglers, the unknowns, the grass roots of the music biz. And she wins. Then she engages her fans. Previews new songs and albums to them, privately, meets them, has them over for girly nights (we’re all girls, Taylor’s fans, its just a matter of how you identify) and actually listens to them. Which keeps her ‘in touch’ and off the pedestals that other ‘grounded’ stars seem to hoist themselves onto.

Ok, and she’s a total babe.

I think I’m ready for some more football in my life now. It’s been almost a week and its taking its toll.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

How strange, you may think, that coming just a couple of days after Kathrine-Jenkins-gate, when the opera star lost her bag on a flight to Rome, we now learn of Bluebell-gate, in which Bluebell, a Labrador, was sent to Nashville to join its owners, but instead, arrived in Riyadh. Ooops.

But is it strange? Or is it that BA just lose about 3/4s of all cargo they handle but its only when it happens to someone famous, Like Kathrine Jenkins or Bluebelle, that it makes the papers? When its just my hiking boots, NO ONE CARES.

The consequences of this latest incident could have been tragic. What if the dog had been sent to Korea instead? She wouldn’t have made it outside the airport before some cunning restauranteur saw her potential.

Are female dogs allowed in Riyadh without a face covering? Headscarf, at least. Are they allowed out without a male dog’s permission? She certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to drive.

But its ok now, she’s safely in Nashville. Well, I say safely but she is a black Labrador. A golden one would be safe, but be careful, Bluebelle, watch out for the men in pointy hats.

Elon Musk. The most brilliantly clever and exhaustingly industrious asshole on the planet. Who so misjudged his ‘audience’ with delusions of his own amazingness that he simply failed to realise a massive truth. That people hate him. For being rich. For being smug. For being revolting, South African, obnoxious, successful, ugly and… that pretty much covers most of it.

So when he decided to ‘poll’ Twitter’s billions of registrants to vote for him just to ‘stay or go’ as the media platform’s chief person, they were always going to say ‘GO’. And they did. A shock to no-one, other than Elon. Leaving him with a… errrr… a ‘thing’ that cost him £36billion, with hardly any staff left, users leaving in droves and no-one there to run it. Plus, his promises to let free speech reign only seems to apply to free speech he personally approves of. Which is, kind’a, missing the whole ‘free speech’ thing really. Even though he chose to let Trump and Kanye back on board. Giving that freedom of speech only to right wing lunatics and followers of nazi doctrine. Which is not fair on the militant communists, conspiracy theorists, flat-Earthers and tree-huggers.

If I used Twitter I might be bothered, but I don’t know how.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Lionel Messi was officially crowned ‘the best player ever’ after we sat riveted for three hours to the ‘the best World Cup final ever’ and the entire tournament was re-named as ‘the best World Cup finals ever in winter’, the ‘best World Cup corruption’, ‘the most workers ever dead because of a world cup’ and the most things ever banned in a World Cup environment (booze, gays, human rights…) and I’m still shaking with excitement now. I hope its excitement, early-onset Parkinson’s is the only other option and I don’t fancy that much.

I would say ‘the match started’ but really it didn’t. Argentina started but France… didn’t. The (then) holders decided to give Messi and co. an 80 minute head start. It’s only fair. So the Argies surged and weaved and the totally brilliant Angel Di Maria combined with incredible Lionel and the sensational Alexis Mac Allister (how long’s he going to remain at Brighton??) to be 2- nil up at half time. So they ‘relaxed’. And that seemed to be going well too. France’s super-mega-star, Kylian Mbappe, was asleep. Maybe a late night party on Saturday, who knows.

But sleeping lions wake up at some point. Normally to eat, but in this account of twisting metaphors and generally terrible prose, this time it was to score! Twice in 2 minutes, the first a penalty, the second a goal of total Mbappe-ness and spectacularism. Holy shit. 2-all, ten minutes to play and suddenly we were all awake again.

Extra time was simply spectacular, especially the second period. The distillation of an entire match in 15 minutes of frantic, end-to-end amazement. The incomparable (as he was about to become during the next hour) Messi, inevitably scored what looked like ‘the winning goal’. But in the absence of obese people identifying as female in full song, it weren’t over. Because the other side had the soon-to-be incomparable Mbappe around to score an equaliser and send the match to the dreaded ‘penalty shoot-out’. The cruelest of cruel endings.

Unless the French lose, when its ‘plus ca change, plus ca meme chose’. Which means: MESSI WON!!!!

It was definitely the right result. But the journey to get there was what World Cups should always be about. Even ones as dodgy as this one.

Happy Monday to all Argentinians. We forgive you for the Falklands. Almost.

A xxxx

Now here’s a tragic story. Katherine Jenkins, the Welsh opera singer and all-round super-babe (I mean that in the ‘she’s such’a luvverly gel’ way, nothing to do with any objectivity, misogyny, racism against the Welsh or any other way which people may find objectionable; even though she’s well worthy of all the above) flew to Rome. To sing for… The Pope!!! And British Airways lost her baggage. Which included the beautiful, opera-ish dress she was to wear for her performance. Which is not massively tragic, the Pope’s got lots of dresses, he’d lend her one, I’m sure, being ‘charitable’ and all that other Catholic stuff, but was sufficient to make the newspapers. Ok, sufficient to make it into the Mail on Sunday.

Whereas when BA lost my hiking boots somewhere between Heathrow and Inverness one summer, it didn’t even make it into the Hampstead and Highgate Gazette. Nor the Jewish Chronicle, even though I claimed ‘antisemitism’ as the cause of the loss, nor even in the Hampstead Garden Suburb newsletter. Though I appreciate that someone installing a new drain-pipe in a non-approved colour and the ensuing legal battle is far more important that ME GETTING WET FEET IN ULLAPOOL!!!!

But that’s the price of fame. You become newsworthy. Everything becomes newsworthy. Even losing a dress. You’re in Rome, FFS, buy a new one and send the bill to BA. Or claim on your insurance.

Yet Harry and Meg have courted the fame that they blame as the cause of all ‘the troubles’. The irony is not lost that they fled the country to avoid the press, then invited them into their home for 6 months to film their most intimate of feelings. And during the release of this ‘documentary’ by Netflix, ‘the Palace’ has been noticeably silent, regally restrained, royally pissed off, no doubt, but elegantly silent.

Then today in creeps a little article how ‘Meghan drama harmed the Queen’s health’. Oooohhhh. Not ‘Harry and Meg’s’, just hers. They didn’t mention what colour Meghan was, nor inquire ‘where she’s from’. But the implication, a very subtle form of ‘MURDERING FUCKING BITCH!!!’, is writ large. Doctors failed to explain whether this was done by osmosis or whether Meg actually has the power to accelerate cancer, which the Queen died from.

Yet there is a connection. And Netflix should issue a warning on the series: THIS PROGRAM MAY MAKE YOU GIVE UP THE WILL TO LIVE!

Football at 3. Getting into pre-match mode. By eating.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Well that’s it then. Decided. The rabble have gone, the chaff blown away in the wind, all that’s left is ‘the two’. France versus Argentina to decide the championship of the entire fucking WORLD!!!

And, of course, I’d like to point out that the ‘World Cup’, unlike all American sporting competitions nominally ‘world’ this or that, actually means, like, sort of, ‘the whole world’. Not just the little bit between Florida and San Diego, which no-one other than Donald Trump cares about anyway.

France and Argentina. From a footballing perspective it is indeed quite tantalising. But then you have to consider who you really want to lose more. And that’s where it gets quite difficult. Do I wear my “10 MESSI” shirt? Or paint my face that horrible tricoleur and hope it doesn’t rub off on my shirt?

We’ve had more wars with France than any other nation. Although, thankfully, all are historic. Yet the reason for those wars still applies. They are a horrible nation of arrogant, smug ‘orribles, with exceptionally good looking women who can bring you to near orgasm just by having a conversation with you about bus time tables.

Argentina is also home to exceptionally beautiful women and is one of my favourite places on the planet. But we had a war with them in 1982 over a little island no-one gives a shit about. And I truly love little Leo Messi. But when they beat the Netherlanders last week on penalties they disgraced themselves by being horribly unsportsmanlike. All of ‘em. Which was the only instance of such nastiness in the whole tournament. And it left a sour taste.

But then you have to think: Mbappe and Messi… the absolute upcoming star of the game against the best ever(??? Another debate entirely). And of course, they’re teammates at (Qatari-owned) PSG, which adds yet more layers. The main difference is that if you take out Messi (and good luck with that, creating economically-viable nuclear fusion is possibly easier) Argentina will struggle. But if you take out Mbappe, Griezman will kill you (ask any England player), and the French are solid in depth and great at defending.

So who, as ‘neutrals’ are we to support on Sunday? We don’t. We just wait for it to finish and then proclaim ‘yeah, I said from the off they were gonna win it…’

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We all know about ‘splitting the atom’, it happened a hundred years ago. In Manchester, oddly. Lot of bad things happen up there. But Ernest Rutherford ‘split an atom’ and released a shitload of energy. Later they ‘invented’ nuclear fission, yer bog-standard, chain-reaction type atom-splitting thing. It wasn’t until Robert Oppenheimer came along and turned that into a bomb in 1945 that anyone took notice. Then rather a lot of people took notice. Many of them noticing it just long enough to say “FUUU-!!!”

Nuclear power stations work on fission. Take a very dangerous product of a radioactive nature, like Uranium, like Plutonium, and effect a fission process but in a controlled manner. No-one wants to see a mushroom cloud over Esher. Loads of energy, because once started the process goes on and on and on as the energy released by the atoms ‘splitting’ causes the next ones to split, with loads of energy left spare to heat my kettle and allow 300 million people to watch the World Cup.

But its a nasty process. It goes wrong. Chernobyl. And nastier still possibly is that it produces ‘nuclear waste’. Plutonium and Uranium that is ‘depleted’ but only as far as its energy yielding days are concerned. It has to be ‘dumped’. But where do you dump it? It may be depleted but its still highly radioactive and will be for a few thousand years. You can’t just fly-tip it into Waitrose car park. They have cctv.

So the ‘nuclear power’ dream has always been ‘fusion’. Fission is splitting, fusion is combining. Which lets off even more energy, works with lovely, clean hydrogen rather than rotten, dirty radioactive isotopes and is very controllable. Its how the sun works; how hard can it be? In fact it is very hard and requires way more energy to create than is generated in the process. You’d need to imput 3 boiled kettle loads to boil one kettle. And then yesterday, those damn Yanks, for the first time EVERRRRR, created nuclear fusion which produced 50% more energy than it ‘cost’ to fuse. And that is truly fabulous. Cheap energy here we are!!! Unfortunately, it ain’t cheap, its very very expensive. And needs a day to set up each fusion.

So the race is on; get it cheaper and it needs to be happening once every second, rather than once a day and we’re in biz. So all you have to do is work out how to get there first.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I don’t do ‘yoga’. Which used to be skinny south Asian people sitting under trees cross-legged for 16 hours with their eyes closed and pinky fingers aligned to enhance the force or create a karmic orgasm or whatever the fuck they were doing it for.

Now its for not-so-skinny white women and its all about streeeeeeeeetching and flexibility and downward dogs and upwardly mobile and warriors and that’ll be £42.75 for the session, thank you very much.

But is that ‘yoga’???

Well, its not yoga in the ancient Indian sense of the word, but who cares about them? They’re all dead. It’s the new, sanitised, Lululemon-world yoga. Which starts when you park the Porsche Macan in the car park and unfurl your Harrods, Designer’s Guild mat on the gym floor. And ends 30 sweaty, stretchy, healthy(?) minutes later. Fine. If it makes you happy, its good. I wouldn’t do it because I don’t drive the right car, so generally have no thoughts one way or another. Live and let ohmmmmm.

Yet there are forces (in India) at work claiming ‘cultural appropriation’, ‘whitewashing’ and how this massive ‘industry’ should be paying back to where it all began. And that’s where I come in really. Because I am the anti-woke guru. Ooops, can I say ‘guru’ in a metaphorical context??? And those words feel like razor blades scraping down a window to my soul.

If they called it ‘yoga-based, Pilates-style stretch classes for entitled middle-class Sweaty Betties’, all would be fine. Because yoga is a spiritual exercise and at the David Lloyd they don’t sell spirits. And they have no souls either.

The yogis should feel flattered that they are given a nod for inspiring one of the most modern forms of popular masochistic narcissism.

I do ‘tai chi’. That too is ancient. Like most of the guys I do it with. But we modify it, our ‘guru’ has changed it. Mainly made it much more violent, but that’s exactly how the ‘ancients’ did it before it too was ‘culturally appropriated’ on cruise ships to mitigate that extra portion of chips with morning coffee.

There’s only so many ways a body can move. Possibly less for my body. And does it really matter what you call your chosen path to subtlety and vitality and a promise of eternal life? To quote from the ancient Indian sages and the ancient Chinese monks: “iss all a load’a bollocks anyway”.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx