Andy's Glasses

We picked up Mel’s new car on Sunday. Its gorgeous. And hybrid. We’re done with range anxiety, f’reverrrr!!! Well, I think we have. I’ll have to ask the car. If I can find out how to do it.

Because cars are not cars anymore; they’re just computers with a few mechanical bits attached. In order to drive up the road to get a pint of milk, you need a masters degree in game theory. It’s no game with me. It’s more chaos theory.

My car has ‘buttons’. You press them, and things happen. Fans come on. Heaters blow heat. All you have to do is work out the icons, most of which are pretty self-explanatory. And there’s only one rule: if it’s red, don’t press it. But new cars don’t have buttons. They have ‘menus’. Lots and lots of layers of software which the Japanese instal to ensure that the thing you want is buried deep. So deep you can’t find it. The guy who gave us the car turned off the ‘heads up display’ because it bothered Mel. I liked it. Thought it was a bit ‘Tron’ (if you can remember that far back). But off it went. And he hooked Mel’s phone up, so that the constant connection to twin sister remains unimpeded. Anything else? We’re fucked. We have been invited back for some more ‘lessons’ which we don’t want but simply have to do. Otherwise, what do we do if it rains? If we need to open the boot?? The only redeeming feature is that with a hybrid you don’t have the most annoying thing ever invented; ‘stop/start’. So there’s 3 hours of our lives we get back, not having to find how to turn it off. Yesterday Mel told me the radio isn’t working. She can’t find the (fucking: her word, not mine, I would never…) radio. Its gone off. She ploughed through a series of endless menus, nothing looked like a radio. I went out and pushed the button under the computer. The only button in the car. Big black one. And the music came as if from the angels. Or Bose. Either way; it was on!!!

When Jeremy Clarkson (all bow) reviews cars, the first thing he does is spend 3 days working out how to turn all the auto-health-and-safety-Euro-ispired shit off. Stop/start. The stuff that drags you back into the wrong lane when you try and overtake. The beepers and bells and alarms and sirens telling you a dog just shat within 3 feet of your back bumper. We need bureaucrats in car design like we need Jesus to save us.

But I won’t make judgments on the car because its very pretty and drives fabulously and is a hybrid and I can put petrol in it whenever I like. I’m done with the polar bears.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

A lot of people think I suffer from Tourette’s. I was tested. By some fucker who was just shit. Total tosser. Who diagnosed that I have ‘foul mouth syndrome’. Its similar to Tourette’s in that vile, inappropriate words and phrases are shouted out seemingly at random but often very relevant times, but in my case, its just because I’m a c**t. I swear a lot. And the massively important difference is that my foul mouth is because I choose when and where I swear and the words are completely conscious and calculated. Whereas in Tourette’s, the condition is defined by outbursts which are not under any conscious control or filters or awareness. In fact the true criterion for Tourette’s is tics and spasms, again, obviously, uncontrolled. Not all sufferers swear and shout, but those who do exhibit as little control over their oral output as they have over their tics and twitches. The words are simply vocal manifestations of those tics. It is a horrible and totally debilitating condition. Which doesn’t mean it’s not funny to see, but it must be a total curse to live with.

Poor John Davidson. A famous Tourette’s sufferer and campaigner. He went to the BAFTAs because the movie ‘I Swear’ is basically his story. A proud moment for him. Not from a vain point of view but for its power to raise awareness of his condition. He seems to be a really lovely guy. The movie won best actor for Robert Aramayo, who beat Leonardo di Caprio and Timothee Chalamet to the gong. Brilliant.

And then ‘the moment’. When two guys went up to introduce the next award. Both were black. And as they arrived at the dais, John Davidson shouted out ‘2 N***ERS!’. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t think it. It didn’t reflect any value or opinion he holds. It just happened.

The 2 men froze, looked totally shocked, as ya would, and then coolly carried on as if nothing had happened. Although not totally. Because nothing is as shocking as hearing the ‘n-word’. I get that. Especially if you’re a b-person.

What they should have done was laugh. I cannot think of any insult, slur, comment, observation of physical differentness, question of race, colour or the length of my penis, that I wouldn’t have laughed at. But heh, its easy for me to say that.

The BBC had played the award ceremony on a 2-hour delay. So they could edit out anything offensive or bad or wrong. Yet chose, as they tend to in such circumstances (Bob Vylan at Glastonbury, anybody?), to play the offensive words anyway. Why? Because they are tossers.

I do find it fascinating that although Tourette’s sufferers have no control over the flow of obscenities or stuff that comes out during their outbursts, it is always ‘relevant’ in some way. Its almost as if whatever is unconsciously thought as ‘something you MUSTN’T say’, is what gets shouted out loud.

John Davidson did nothing wrong. The BBC did lots wrong. And why do I find so many things to be ‘funny’ whilst others are fuming? Fuck ’em.

Happy FUCKING Tuesday

A xxxx

This fabulous picture is of the ‘big screen’ at the Tottenham stadium, yesterday afternoon. Showing MY Joey, parading round behind the official team mascot, Chirpy. This is ‘an honour’. To walk behind a man dressed as a big chicken, waving a flag. If this had been any kind of metaphor, ‘Chirpy’ would have walked his way straight to KFC, if he’d have seen into the immediate future. But we don’t have metaphors at Spurs. We have become our own fucking metaphor. And not a good one.

I will admit; playing against Arsenal fills me with dread. Playing THIS Arsenal takes that ‘dread’ to whole new levels of horror, of panic, of sheer terror. But, watch it I did. I had to. Its the whole flagellation, masochistic, self-harming torture you just have to endure to qualify for the moaning that will follow afterwards.

We picked up Mel’s new car. Oooooh, its lovely. The ‘hand-over’ involved ‘the paperwork’: 10 minutes. The ‘car’: 5 minutes (door, seat, steering wheel, pedals, start button; how hard can it be?). The ‘system’, 1 hour. To learn… nothing that you will ever remember. You want to turn on the blower; phone microsoft. They offer you two more sessions of learning, after a week or so. Bring back ‘buttons’!!! Lots of ’em.

So we were late back, arriving just at kick-off time, about 5 minutes after our guests had arrived. Ooops. And it went ok. We didn’t look too out of our depth. Even when Arsenal scored, we came right back and scored at the other end. That was good. We weren’t intimidated. And embarrassing Declan Rice can only ever be good. I wasn’t unhappy at half time, I’d even come out from hiding behind the piano. No-one in the house plays the piano. Its there just for Spurs/Arsenal fixtures.

We were having tea. I heard a cheer. And you learn about cheers when you watch as much football as I do from another room. And this was definitely an ‘away cheer’. The home one is much louder, longer and quite frankly, better. Oh dear. We were losing. But there’s plenty of time to equalise. Or… to… errr… concede 3 more, as it transpired. We didn’t know that then. Chirpy didn’t. And we didn’t. So we still clung on to the worst thing in the entire world. Hope. The killer of killers.

We equalised again!! Holy shit, this is almost good! But an evil combination of Arsenal cheating, (even Gabriel is not such a woos as to go down after such a weak knock, let alone fall to the ground as if shot in both legs), blind referees (he should never have questioned the goal), and being abandoned by God in our moment of need. Again! Meant the goal was disallowed. Taken away. Stolen. Which changed the whole nature of the game.

So when obnoxious shit, Eze, scored again, there was never going to be any come-back. It was over. The fourth goal was just… honestly, it was downright rude.

So now we languish so near the ‘drop zone’ as to be a part of all the ‘relegation battles’ we normally watch from afar. Its suddenly become ‘real’. And worse than that, Arsenal take another step towards the league title. Fortunately, they’re not playing us every week and have difficult games like Wolves to play on other days. So that, combined with Man City’s inevitable, end-of-season ascendancy, means that no fat ladies are singing just yet. Though a few fat chickens are chirping.

Very unhappy Monday

A xxxx

War! Hmmmph!!!! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.

You can’t argue with Edwin Star and his fab hit song. When we used to have protest songs. Now we just have protests without the songs. In 1970 Neil Young wrote ‘Ohio’, a protest song about a protest. He wrote it in 15 minutes after learning that in an anti-Vietnam war protest at Kent State University soldiers opened fire on the students, killing four and wounding nine. The single came out just 5 days later. That’s almost ‘live commentary’ in the pre-internet days.

But we’re loading up the Middle East with ‘weapons of mass destruction’. All aimed at Iran. And when I say ‘we’, I mean ‘him’. Trump. A man capable of changing his mind three times in a 5-word sentence. But he’s sent sufficient fighting machinery to the Gulf to threaten every camel in the region. He sent one ‘boat’ (they’re all boats, if it floats and it ain’t a duck; issa boat) which is about the size of Ipswich. But holds way more aircraft than all of North Anglia. There’s more boats with more planes. Fighters, re-fuelers, radar planes, the lot. Other boats carry missiles. You can get quite a few of those a big boat. So ‘we’ are prepared for war.

What we’re not sure about is why. I mean specifically. Generally, any reason to attack Iran is a good reason. Anything from the horrendous government there, to the nuclear threat, to ‘there’s nothing to do this Saturday night; let’s invade Iran’. Trump threatened ‘intervention’ when the IRGC were murdering protesters. No protest songs because pop songs have been banned in Iran since the revolution. So if you can’t sing them a song, send in ballistic missiles instead. Right???

Iran have also been doing more than their fair share of posturing. Testing weapons, displaying some nice shiny tanks in Tehran and making all sorts of noises how any invasion will result in a ‘regional response’. You don’t need a degree in geo-politics to understand that as a threat to Israel. They wouldn’t invade any of their allies, not that they have many; they certainly wouldn’t attack Saudi Arabia, their worstest of enemies. Anyone else in the ‘region’ would be protected by the Saudis and Iran fears them greatly. And they hate Israel in Iran. But like really, really, REALLY hate it.

I don’t know where Trump’s boys (and gels) would strike. Because although half the population are Ayatollah-wallahs and could do with shooting, the other half are not. They’re just good people stuck in hell. Without freedom, without hope, without fucking bread at the moment as their economy has collapsed. And I wouldn’t want to add ‘shelling’ to their current list of woes.

I hate the Iranian rulers and the way they rule, with terror, total control and death as their major methods of diplomacy. But I worry that the Great Orange One in Washington could call for an attack because he’s so pissed off with his Supreme Court for stopping his tariffs. And although Israel is definitely onside with any action against Iran, acting on the whims of a spoiled child throwing his toys out of the pram, is never a good reason to start a war.

Not really sure there is ever a ‘good reason’ to start a war. Edwin Star was right.

Not talking about sport. Possibly never again. England rugby turns to shit and Spurs play Arsenal in 5 hours.

HELP MEEEEE!!!!

A xxxx

Schools are on half term this week. So ‘Lila and Joey Thursdays’ take on a whole new life. No more taking them to school and having 5 hours of ‘getting shit done’ before pick-up time, swimming lessons (theirs, not mine), then back for dinner. No. Half term means we spend the day keeping Joey away from anything breakable, including his sister, playing and, it must be said, endless fun.

The kids had 3 days this week at ‘tennis camp’. Where they learned… tennis. Who’d’a thought? So as it was dry-ish, we walked round to my little club and the four of us spent a surprisingly long time (Joey’s attention span is limited, other than playing chess, oddly, football, and doing maths, which he’s quite remarkable at), knocking balls back and forth, even fifth. Kids feel that its better to try and hit the ball as hard as you can, rather than actually making contact with it or playing a shot. They’ll learn. And it was rather nice all round.

Then Prince Andrew got arrested and the whole tone of the day changed. The ex-Prince, to give him his proper title, was taken in for sending sensitive trade stuff to… who else but everyone’s favourite dead man of the moment, Jeffrey Epstein. Back in 1827 or 1973 or whenever. Don’t mattah! Crime’s a crime, innit. Even when perpetrated “AL-LEG-EDLY”, by a once-Royal parasite and no-good-nik and all-round hate-figure. No-one was unhappy for Andy to become the first arrested Royal since Charles I back in… long time ago. Because whether Andy raped Virginia Giuffre or not, he still needs banging up just for being an arrogant pig once married to Fergie, the pig’s pig.

We went out for lunch. Which was memorable only for the outrageous price of eating mediocre food in a pleasant environment with kids ordering hot chocolate. Mine was ok. Joey’s was better. As I finished his too. Lila ate most of her shakshuka. Which was a bit selfish when I’m sitting there waiting, but good for her.

We went to see a show about ‘bugs’. Which everyone seemed to enjoy. Especially the ‘everyones’ under 10. Of which there were many.

Then we had to go into the loft to get a new jigsaw puzzle out. Lila loves the loft. Cos its dark and spooky. Joey, not so much. But we all went up the dodgy extendable ladder anyway, because why wouldn’t you? Then we started on the puzzle (big one, proper one) because Lila has always been quite remarkable at doing puzzles.

Then we ate some more, sent the kids home and… collapsed in a fucking heap. We have all week to put the house back together.

Happy day-after

A xxxx

For some reason, we’re watching our way through ‘Luther’. Why we’re watching a series which began 16 years ago I have no idea. Someone said (someone is ALWAYS saying ‘watch this’, ‘watch that’, its the nature of streaming), ‘watch Luther’, and we duly did. Are. Cos there’s lots of them and we don’t do ‘binging’, we don’t watch very much tv really. But we love a cop drama and its nice to watch a series in which they send actual ‘text messages’ to each other on old Nokia phones. And Idris Elba (can I still call him ‘Idris’ when he was knighted last year???) is fab, as you’d expect. But Ruth Wilson is spectacular.

I’ve always had a ‘bit of thing’ about our Ruth. In that she’s fucking gorgeous. But as ‘Alice’ in Luther, she’s something else. She’s cleverer than everyone else, odder than everyone else, funnier than everyone else and more dangerous than anyone ever. And she does it brilliantly. Not just because she looks so good whilst doing it.

In series 3… possibly 4, she ‘returns’ (she’s always coming and going from the show) driving a Jensen FF. A car so amazingly ‘special’ that it was a fantasy motor for all car-crazy kids in the early 70s. As you can see from the pic, it has not one but two(!!!) air vents on each side. Which is how you know its an FF. And not an Interceptor. Because the Ferguson Formula made the car 4-wheel drive. The first time a road car (off-road cars and proper jeeps had 4-w-d forever) was equipped as such. It took 14 more years before Audi ‘invented’ the Quattro with 4-w-d.

The Jensen was just so stylish (read: dog ugly), you can almost ‘feel’ the chic and luxurious cool of West Bromwich oozing from its pores. Because that’s where Jensen Motors was based. They imported 7-litre Chrysler engines from the States, shoved them into their bodies and 4-wheel-drove them. They even tried to fit the (in-)famous ‘Hemi’ engine to the car. But the Hemi (which is still the engine used in drag racers) proved too powerful for the Jensen to cope with. Which is a shame, because we all love a car with almost infinite power but lacks the proper suspension, brakes and strength to handle it. Jensens were supercars of their day. Expensive. Roaring V8s. Muscular.

And here we are, just 16 years late, and our Ruth/Alice pitches up in one. Class.

In the latest series we’re watching ‘Alice has died’. But her character is such that it doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t be pitching up again any minute soon. More importantly, I hope the car’s ok.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

That’s a metaphor. False dawn. You know what it means. If not, you should. And yet today, as I wake to blue skies and sunshine, I’m living the metaphor. Because mornings like this shout at me to: GET THE E-BIKE OUT!!! As it’s been laying dormant, hibernating for the winter. Well, for the wet. I don’t mind cold. Got lights for the dark. But wet? On a bike? It’s the 8th level of hell and misery. So when the morning is clear and bright, on that bike is where I really want to be. And I may not be a fully qualified meteorologist, but I fucking live here. And simply ‘know’, without even looking at the app (yes, I am still JUST capable of having a thought without validating it on an app), that it’ll be pissing down on the way home from work. It always is. So I shall wait a while. Maybe give it a polish. Charge up the battery (it ‘dies’ in the winter) and prepare it. Not even sure how you do that; I just ride it. Bring on the dry.

Kier Starmer has had to make another ‘u-turn’. According to The Times, the 14th of his short tenure. So far. It’s only Wednesday. And half of these ‘reversals’ of intention have been due to legal issues. Yet our PM was a big-shot lawyer. What I want to know is: how big? And why wasn’t he shot? This latest u-turn was his intention to ‘delay’ a bunch of local elections so that… well, the official reason was because of restructuring local government systems, but the reality is that with Labour incredibly unpopular and low in the polls, they thought they could avoid the disaster of getting hammered in local elections by waiting for a ‘rise in popularity’. As if. So Farage, the logical beneficiary of Labour’s demise, started legal actions. And won. Against the government. Led by a lawyer. Whose delay tactics proposal were illegal. Ok, Starmer was a criminal lawyer, but there’s a few other legal types knocking around in Downing Street, FFS. How big a moron do you have to be?

Similarly, the High Court judgment on Friday about the proscription of Palestine Action, was another example of poor legal understanding. By Yvette Cooper, when she was Home Secretary. Because although no-one, including Palestine Action themselves, deny that they embark on terrorist activities, like trespass, breaking and entering, wilful destruction and hitting policewomen in the back with sledge hammers, those crimes are punishable under normal criminal law. The criteria required for proscription go beyond. And although PA do go beyond to this level, the government addressed it wrongly. Because they lack lawyers? Or because they are fuckwits? I don’t know. What I do know is that people carrying banners saying ‘I oppose genocide; I support P.A.’ are beyond moronic. Might as well carry a sign saying: ‘I eat baked beans; keep your hands off the Chagos Islands’. Or better still: ‘I oppose genocide; I support an organisation which supports genocide’. Tossers. So now the government have to take it ‘to appeal’ to proscribe this vile group of terrorists. And the more stupid, grey-haired grannies, vicars and book-clubbers from Orpington they arrest, the better.

I post this picture just to show you all how trendy I am. They say ‘if you keep something long enough it comes back into fashion’. I bought my first Levi 501s when I was about 10. Well, my mum bought them for me. And I duly had to sit in a bath with them, which is what you did. Half hour in a bath wearing your ‘shrink to fit’ Levis. That was almost 60 years ago, and I’m still wearing them. Not the same pair, alas, but I have several of my (massive) 501 collection which are truly ‘vintage’. Torn to shreds from wear, tear and Joey. Who likes nothing more than to find a little tear and make it a very big tear. So now I’m in fashion. Maybe its time to move to Wranglers.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

It is now 7 days before the Spurs Arsenal match. Next Sunday afternoon. I’m going to try to be busy elsewhere. To avoid the nail-biting, sweating, swearing, suicidal, tea-spilling, table-thumping, head-banging, wife-beating (as if) anxiety that match produces. I haven’t been to a live derby game in about 10 years. And cringe my way through the televised ones from behind the sofa. Even when we’re playing well (I’m old; have a long memory) it fills me with dread.

We’re not, currently, playing well. We’re not even playing poorly. Or badly. Or terribly. We’re just shit.

But wait! We have a new manager! That’s good! Isn’t it?

Igor Tudor has been brought in as ‘interim’ manager until the end of the season, when we’ll install a new ‘proper’ manager. The irony being that at Spurs, ‘interim’ managers often last longer than ‘proper’ ones. It is what it is. Igor has 3 months to ‘get us out of trouble’. With ‘trouble’ here meaning relegation. Which is currently, an uncomfortably close consideration.

The manager is ‘dead’, long live the manager.

This one has had 11 jobs in 10 years. So is perfect for Spurs general managerial ethos. But what he virtually always does is raise a team quite highly, but only for a little while. Which means, quite honestly, that he’s the perfect man for the job.

Or would be if he had any idea of our Premiership. Which alas he does not. He’s a Croatian. He’ll have to go places to overtake Luka Modric as ‘my favourite Croatian ever’, but getting my love could be a motivating force for him. He’s managed all over the place, France, Turkey, Greece, Croatia and Italy. Mickey Mouse leagues, the lot of ’em. Bunch’a lazy, strolling, Oscar-winning divers, divas and tossers. Which is why Spurs can be the forth best team in all of the European elite, ahead of Barcelona, PSG and Real Madrid, whilst languishing in 16th place in the English Premier league, miles behind giants of the game like Leeds, Crystal Palace and Brentford. Quite frankly, our league is faster, harder and way better than all the others. Adapting to it, either for players or managers is never easy. But heh, if Igor can get us past Arsenal with some self-respect, I’ll willingly bear children for him.

Interesting that in Scotland (the most ‘mickey mouse’ league of them all) Hearts were miles ahead of Celtic and Rangers at the top of their table. Now its just 2 points ahead. The last time a non-Glasgow team won the league was Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen in 1984. So really, for the sake of giving the entire nation a small modicum of footballing respect (possibly very small), COME ON HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

It’s going back. The Electric Vehicle. Next month is the third anniversary of our lease agreement and those fuckers are taking it back! Some anniversary present that is. Congrats. Three years. Give it back or we send the bailiffs. And we’ll miss it. Because in some ways, it’s the most fantastic vehicle ever created. Smooth, silent, fast-as-fuck and refined. Bit like me. Other than the silent. The refined. The fast. I’ve always been quite ‘smooth’. But in other ways it has been a nightmare. EVs are like puppies; fabulous fun but you wouldn’t want them straying too far from home. Because you might need to… charge them!!! In a public space!!!

The EV ‘experiment’ is not going well. The government here try to convince everyone to buy them. Whilst doing fuck all about the massive infrastructure required to maintain them to a realistic standard. Yet car manufacturers are punished, severely, if they don’t sell the proportion of EVs (to petrol and hybrids) which Ed Miliband and his troup of fuckwit tree-huggers has kind’a randomly decided that they should sell. The ‘fines’ are in the millions of pounds. Yet really, they should be fining us for not buying them, not the manufacturers who have dutifully spent their billions in production costs and manufacturing cars which people don’t want to buy.

In America the ‘experiment’ is a total failure. Ok, there’s not exactly pressure from the government to either worry about climate issues, nor reduce petrol consumption. But the ‘big 3’ of Ford, General Motors and Chrysler (now part of Stellanis), have all now decided to abandon the ‘project’. They have all incurred losses in the 20 to 30 BILLION dollars region, making the electric dream machines which Daisy Duke wouldn’t be seen dead in. Ford even made the F.150, America’s best selling ‘truck’ for 49 fucking years, as an EV option. No-one wanted it. And you can’t use the very valid argument that ‘Americans can’t make decent cars’, because millions of indecent cars are sold to good old boys every year. Just not electric ones. The problem is obviously the distances involved ‘over there’, where to just go shopping, you have to leave your wife, sister and mother, with the 14 children you’ve fathered with all three, in your shack in the Alabama wilderness and drive 120 miles to the nearest ‘town’. Where there won’t be an EV charger until 2043.

So we had our car ‘tarted up’. This involved people with hammers and fillers and paint-sprayers. And now we’re scared to use it. In case some nonce puts his tool box on the bonnet while he’s opening his van, or some drunk rams the car with HER Waitrose trolley. Cos if the car’s not perfect there’ll be a price to pay. Not a nice one.

Therefore, we’ve pre-empted and bought… THE NEW CAR!!! And its sweet, its a hybrid, its white (as if there was any question), it has pre-entry climate control (the number one criterion) and if we scratch it or bash it, we don’t have to worry about the fucking lease company. We’re going to get them to get it now. Safer that way.

The electric dream is over. For now.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

That’s the first time I’ve ever written those lyrics down from Kate Bush’s classic, 100-year-old song. And therefore it’s the first time I’ve realised that ‘winedy’ and ‘windy’ are spelt the same way. How clever she was. Anyway, we’re once again celebrating Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte’s classic novel, the finest one she ever wrote. Ok, the only one she ever wrote. A book filled with passion, with love, with Yorkshire, with rain, moors, wind and… zzzzzzzzz…

It was my ‘o-level’ book for English Literature (which I managed to fail, alas) and I avoided actually reading it, in any meaningful way. As in, reading it. I started. A hundred and ninety-three times I started it and with my adolescent sense of commitment and duty, gave up on page 4 every time. I was 16 years old. The book had no reference to dragster cars, motor-cycles, semi-naked women or football. Even someone getting shot might have given me the staying power for another 6 pages, at least, but no. It was woeful. Didn’t make me laugh even once. There was an old film of it around since 1939, with Lawrence Olivier and Merle Oberon, which would have helped. So I clicked on ‘Netflix’ and it said: ‘come back in about 45 years’. We didn’t even have video players back then. I could have bought a script and acted it out, I suppose, with my dad as Heathcliffe and me as Cathy, but the script would have looked a lot like the book so that wouldn’t do it.

Later on came the Kate Bush song. Possibly one of the most annoying songs of my lifetime, but I watched Top of the Pops praying for an appearance, because I was in love with her. She was just gorgeous. And then she started moving. As if a ‘modern dance’ teacher had told her ‘express yourself as a salmon swimming upstream to spawn; whilst watching the 1967 FA Cup Final. Just… let it flooooooowww…’

And now we’re back once more, with the latest movie version of my least favourite (but oddly, one of Mel’s absolute fave) book. The new movie has received very mixed reviews. Its smutty. And it has Margot Robbie. Two things which would, together, normally have me queuing in Leicester Square overnight for tickets. But… it’s Wuthering Heights.

During my o-level ‘study’ of the book, I may have avoided reading it, but obviously, we ‘analysed’ various sections of it, for essays and discussion and such like. So I did read bits of it. And I must admit that at times the book had elevated itself, in passages, all the way up to ‘just dull’.

Whereas work is never dull. Yesterday, a guy I’ve known for many years brought his ‘new girlfriend’ for some specs and stuff. Oh, that’s nice. Peter is a loud and funny American who’s dear old wife died about a year ago after a long episode with dementia, poor thing. Peter is 82. And in walked the girlfriend. My jaw dropped. Stunningly beautiful 37 year-old Iranian woman. Bright, clever, funny and just fabulous. Oh, did I mention, Peter is rather… solvent. He’s minted.

Send me an essay of 500 words discussing the moral issues involved, the appropriateness and, more importantly, where you can buy your own one.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx