Andy's Glasses

Our Prime Minister-in-waiting wants to ‘devolve’ the nation. Let the ‘locals’ run their regions. Great plan. I like it.

Who’s paying?

Oh. London pays. Which, to be honest, no-one in London minds. Most don’t even think about it. But I do. Not because I’m clever, but because I’m annoying. So when I heard that Andy’s own patch, ‘the North West’, is ‘doing really well’, including Manchester, of which he was mayor for 10 years, Liverpool, famous for the Beatles and car theft, and a few other places like Wigan and Bolton which no-one is really interested in since their football teams were relegated, other than a ‘useful’ by-election now and again, I wanted to be impressed.

Then I heard that ‘the north west will get investment and improvement’, I thought he meant North West London. Where I live. So I was very happy. I didn’t realise that there was another one. Up there!!! Where the ‘King of the North’ has held the reins for more than a decade and always proclaims his running of greater Manchester to be a ‘massive success’. Well done, Andy.

Except…

I saw a chart. It showed the difference between the tax revenue raised, minus the money spent in that area on public services, for each region of the country. London was at the top, showing a surplus of 48 billion quid. Next was ‘the South East’, which was 18 billion in the black.

No other region was in profit. They all spend much more on ‘public services’ (doing good causes for the people and pissing the rest away on lost causes, spongers and people on benefits for their ADHD or dependence on spectacles) than they earn in tax revenue. They’re ’in the red’.

And at the very bottom of that list. The region overspending a massive 39 billion over its meagre income, was the North West. Andy’s patch. Of which he is proudly effusive as to ‘the success of the region’.

If that’s his measure of ‘regional success’, then on behalf of our whole nation: God help us.

Last night was the first in a month when there was NO football on tv. What the fuck are FIFA thinking!!!! However, the story of little Arthur Fery continues as the ‘wildcard’ Wimbledon entry has made it to the semi-finals. Quite brilliantly, exceptionally modestly, overpoweringly cutely and he now carries the weight of the nation’s hopes on his sweet little shoulders. That’s the hopes which aren’t over in America with the football team. The other ones.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

When Lila was born, 9 years ago, I became somewhat… besotted. I put a photo of her on these very pages. To share the celebration of her very existence. Because she was the most special grandchild EVER born. Ok, because she was mine, I get that, but… she’s breathing!!!, gurgling!!!, feeding!!!, pissing!!!, it was all so special. Even though, as we all know, for about 6 months, not a lot happens. Yet what does happen is enough. For any total obsessive, to obsess about. So I continued sharing photos. Through the magical ‘early years’. Then Joey came along. More cause for obsession, more of my general ethos of ‘love by total and relentless suffocation; never let them go, never stop engaging’. Even when they don’t want to engage. Anyway, my babes have adorned virtually every post I’ve done. But no more. And its all because of you.

Because I’ve been told that what you do is take photos of babes and send them to some monstrous AI vehicle who returns them in a greatly abused, violated and sexualised context. Its what AI does, apparently. Takes a pic of Lila and Joey on the swings and publishes it as Linda Lovelace and Gary Glitter. And I don’t want that. If I find a photo like that someone would die. Many would die. So, I’m sad to say, there’ll be no more Lila/Joey pics. Ok, there’s (by my reckoning) about 2000 already out there, but no more. What a sad fucking world we live in.

However, whist we’re talking grandchildren, we have news. Lila has declared herself pescetarian. No more meat for Lila, no more animals suffering because of her. Its a moral issue. Plus she spent last weekend away with a bunch of vegetarians and she was corrupted. Though apparently has been bothered by this for some time. Fish don’t count. They’re less ‘animal’ and more, sort of ‘fishy’. And I’ve been told to respect her decision. Mainly because at 9 years old its like arguing with a shrunken Kemi Badenoch.

But I thought: “NOOOOOOO!!!!” Not vegetarian! I thought, take drugs! Drink excessively! Join a cult! Support Barnet FC!!! Find Jesus!!! But not this. Though I suppose we’ll find an accord. Between me, Lila and the fish.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Football has become too unruly, the rules too ambiguous, too subject to contextual interpretation by highly qualified individuals, (and no-one wants that), too inconsistent. Even, or perhaps because of, VAR, which hasn’t really solved anything. We need certainty. We need clarity and consistency. So here are the NEW rules, which will be adopted totally by FIFA, EUFA, The Premiere League and any other footballing entity that people can be bothered to watch.

1. The showing of a red card can ONLY mean sending off and suspension IF the nearest fat blonde agrees to it.
2. Red cards against MY team must be immediately overturned.
3. Red cards against the opposing teams are to be encouraged.
4. Any breaking of these rules may be considered ‘rigging’ of the game.
5. The ultimate court of appeal for footballing offences is the President of the United States.
6. Footballing knowledge or experience is NOT required for the implementation of these new rules. Just any old fan saying ‘that was never a red card!!’ is sufficient for the offence to be rescinded. If he’s fat and blond, obviously.
7. Anything the President is unhappy about must IMMEDIATELY be changed. Including goals scored against America.

Gianni Infantino, the head of world football!!!, is in full and final agreement and, as soon as he finishes supervising the furniture arriving at his new Miami mansion, he will implement the new regulations.

Donald Trump is the world’s worst loser. He doesn’t lose. He can’t lose. He’s the rich kid in the playground who pays the bullies cash to beat up wimpy kids. He’s the fat fuck who gropes women and then pays them for their silence. Any bad evidence against him is automatically ‘fake news’; yet he puts out real ‘fake news’ regularly. And seeing his star striker sent of for a horrible foul, he immediately called upon his understanding of the game which was… nothing, and his mastery of refereeing rules, which was… nothing, and decided that, “that decision was rigged”. So he called Infantino, the man called into FIFA to break the horrendous culture of corruption, and a day later a quite literally never before used rule was invoked so that America’s ‘star’ could play in last night’s game against Belgium. Because Trump said: “that wasn’t a bad tackle, I know about these things”. Whereas, as we all know; he knows fuck all about anything, but about ‘soccer’???

America lost 4-1 in last night’s game. Which is brilliant. And yet in some ways irrelevant.

Infantino should not be able to survive this. It just stinks. He just stinks. There is no way back.

Today’s picture I call ‘nob with a medal’.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So I went to bed last night, wearing my England shirt (its quite old; has ‘Styles 6’ on the back) at 10.30, read my book, then turned off the light, went to sleep and woke up with my alarm at 12.30. I Rushed round to the Clissold Arms, ordered two pints of Guinness, and joined the masses for… THE MATCH!!! Which was BRILLIANT. I did have a few, recurring sleep issues but the first half was so exiting, I woke up, sipped some beer and join the other 7 people there in screaming as God’s own child, Jude Bellingham, scored two amazing goals. Ok, 4 people, the others had fallen asleep into their plates of nachos with melted cheese and jalapenos. Then they scored! The Mexicans. Dammit. I took the half time interval to have a quick ‘power nap’. Which turned out, at 2.00 am, to be a lot more ‘nap’ than ‘power. But was screamed awake as the ref was sending off our player!!! NOOOOOOOO!!! It was David Beckham all over again. Ten men just can’t beat 11. Its too hard. But then a penalty. To USSSS!!! Up steps Harry Kane, this time with none of that stupid, poncey, off-putting ‘stutter-step’ bollocks, which I hate more than I hate the Ayatollah, and slams in our third goal. OK, Harry then gave away a penalty a bit later but its 3-2 and surely we can hold on? There’s only 20 minutes left, plus stoppage time (which turned out to be a further 10 minutes in keeping with the new FIFA guidelines of adding up all the time lost and adding your birth month to the total), that should be ‘fine’.
But of course, 10 men, tired men, tired men at high altitude craving normal levels of oxygen. I bought another 2 pints of Guinness; it was going to be a long and stressful 30 minutes for all of us. Except Mrs Serendipity from number 32 who was still asleep from the first half exertions.

We won. Heroes were made. Only the third time in 60 years Mexico have lost in that stadium. I was singing Wonderwall with the barmaid, tops of our voices. “…you’re gonna be the one to saaaaaave meeeee…”, it was brilliant. We all hugged each other. Well, me and the barmaid and Mrs S hugged each other as the sun started to rise over Muswell Hill. It was the best night of my life…

Never happened.

I slept. Never got up. No alarms. Was so sure we were going to lose I just didn’t want to miss a night’s sleep for yet more disappointment. Woke up, looked at my phone and… HOLY SHIT!!!, we’d won. Watched 12 minutes of highlights. Brilliant. MY boys. They did it, even without me. Quite a spectacular result. And they were just brilliant. I’m starting to love the World Cup. Well, I was until Donald (fucking) Trump had the American striker’s red card rescinded by demanding it of Infantino. Probably bribed him. Threatened him. My love of the tournament seems in indirect proportion to my love of FIFA. Which was a ridiculously low bar to start with.

Deliriously Happy Monday

A xxxx

As you know; despite my love of the ‘beautiful game’, I simply couldn’t ‘engage’ with the World Cup. Ok, few snippets on the news, the last 12 minutes of Zaire vs Madagascar, but generally: nyah; can’t be arsed. And then it changed. Wonderfully, totally, fabulously and yes, ENGAGINGLY!!! The reason for this metamorphosis from Johnny Peripheral to THE BIGGEST ENGLAND FAN IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD!!!! is down to just one man. No. He’s no longer a man. He was (in footballing parlance), a ‘legend’. And now he’s just a God. With a capital ‘G’. Because a lot of people don’t believe in God. But after last night; we all believe in Harry Kane. Like Jesus Christ who died to save us; Harry became our national salvation at the end of what had been a rather abysmal game last night in Atlanta. Can’t blame the heat; it was air conditioned. But whilst England were in their customary, first half, nap time, those pesky DRCongolesers scored a goal. And England could seemingly, for the next hour, do nothing in response. But then, cometh the hour, cometh Harry Kane. And he did what he always does, and found a way to score. Like he has on the 70 previous times he’s scored, THIS SEASON. And we were saved. And yet… there was extra time and penalties looming. Hmmmmm… penalties. All English football fans love a penalty shoot-out, even if its not against Germany. GOD HELP US!!!

And he did. The God that is Harry. If the first goal was good, and it really was, the second was the very essence of the purest distillation of every facet of the ‘perfect strike’. And he made it look easy. As brilliantly gifted people always do. Well, there were only 4 defenders on top of him, to make his job easy. I won’t go on. Ok, I’ve already gone on. If you haven’t seen it, you’re not living in England. If you have; you will see a thing of magnificence, worthy of any deity.

I don’t know what’ll happen on Sunday night in Mexico City. 88 games have been held at the Azteca and Mexico have lost only 2. Because it’s intimidating? Because Mexico are great? Or because normal people can’t breathe properly at the high altitude, let alone run around for 90 minutes plus. I suffered altitude sickness in Bogotá. It’s horrible and totally debilitating. You think you have flu. I thought I had flu. Until our plane landed on the coast and I was instantly ‘cured’.

Anyway, England, football, I’m in!

Yet part of my engagement with the tournament was later last night. When I looked to see Belgium 2 nil down to Senegal, 77 minutes played. Oh dear. Goodbye Belgium, the team which has the most superstars but always fails. So I watched the news. And turned back to see it was 2-all and in extra time. That was a wow in itself. But then, just one minute away from penalties, Belgium were awarded a penalty. Holy shit. The VAR didn’t want the responsibility so told the poor ref to look himself and use the judgment of Solomon. He did what he absolutely had to and gave the pen.

Senegal have a bit of form with late penalties. After the one awarded against them in the African Nations final this year, the whole team walked off in protest. Anyway, Youri Tielemans scored, and the Belges won 3-2. Amazing. Exiting. What football should be about.

COME ON ENGLAND!!!!

A xxxx

I went to the Albert Hall last night. Went to see Jeff Goldblum and his ‘jazz ensemble’. Which weren’t really that ‘jazzy’, but were definitely an ensemble. Loads of ’em. And they were really superb. Whilst Jeff walked around, mainly chatting, joking, laughing, generally… just being Jeff Goldblum. But with a bit of singing and a tinkle or two on the massive piano which I think was a collaboration between Steinway and Winnebago. It was great in that Jeff’s brief was just to have some fun, which we all did.

And I was in a box. I don’t mean wrapped up in the corner brought by DPD and dumped in the rose bushes, I mean ‘a BOX’ at the Albert Hall! Of course I was. Man in my position wouldn’t sit in a mere chair!!! And here’ a pic of my mates in our box. Ahhhhh. BUT!!!!…

If you look on my pic, past the Wolf-man, beyond Scouse-Shazza, there’s just a little white-haired head poking out in the adjacent box. Whatever device your using; zoom in.

Yes, it was an ‘OMG!!!!! moment’. Dustin Hoffman, real and live and in person sitting next to us. Holeeeeeee shitttt! A God of the screen.

I didn’t talk to him. Which is odd as, according to my permanently embarrassed daughters, I’ll fucking speak to anybody. But Dustin gave off a really strong vibe. Which emanated as “keep away or FUCK OFF, whichever you prefer”. He was sitting with his wife and Twiggy!! and her husband. And Dustin didn’t say much to them either.

At least I didn’t have to watch the tennis. Where, at Wimbledon, 10 British players got beaten on Monday and another 6 yesterday. All the (relatively) ‘big ones’ have gone, with Raducanu and Draper not even starting due to injuries or not being bothered to play. Out of the 16 who went out, I could possibly name 1. And only because I find Katie Boulter rather attractive in that fit, lean, blonde… kind’a way. The good news is we still have about 6 players still remaining in the Wimbledon tournament.

Tomorrow will doubtless be a different conversation.

Where’s Andy Murray when you need him?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Today’s heading was intended as word play. Between incense, the smelly wooden things which hippies used to burn in order to commune with their inner yogis, and incense, the feeling of extreme anger following some form of tragic, possibly catastrophic, injustice, like getting a parking ticket. Then I realised that my odd and low-level dyslexia prevents me from knowing how to spell either, or even copy the fucking word from google without mixing up the ‘c’s and ‘s’s. So we’ll just skip straight to the PISSED OFFFFF without worrying.

The United Nations (all spit. We used to ‘all bow’, but they’re not what they were…) have a ‘special rapporteur’ for women’s issues. Mainly, abuse and rape. But also ‘climate control’, as specific to women. And before you say the inevitable ‘WTF?’, remember, any woman with a climate control will set it higher. So she’s there, by the self-appointed ‘highest court in the fucking world!!!!’, with a brief to care for women’s rights. And following her inquiry, she concluded that on October 7th 2023, “no rape took place”. The ‘evidence’ she had was, essentially, the videos that Hamas posted, live on the day, on their own site, of women being raped, beaten, mutilated and murdered. Some of them pregnant. But Reem Alsalem simply wasn’t convinced it was anything to make a fuss about. Nyah; was only a few hundred people, whass’all the noise about? Nothing against women happening there.

So I’d just like to say a quick: FUCK YOU!!! NEEM ALSALEM. And FUCK YOU!!! THE UNITED NATIONS. You are clueless, worthless and I have to agree with Donald Trump, you are not worth the money. If you promote yourselves as ‘the ultimate judges of world morality, unbiased and impartially’, you should be sued for misrepresentation. Oh, and I HATE YOU!!!!

Well, glad that’s off my chest. Note to self: don’t read newspapers; they raise your blood pressure. And at your age…

And so to football. The World Cup!, no less. Currently gracing screens worldwide. And everyone will be positively glued to their tvs on Wednesday night as England take on the Democratic Republic of Congo. A team ranked so lowly that they almost drop off the list. And we need to beat them. But properly. Not 1-nil, not 2-nil, but 7-nil, maybe 8. That’s how you make a statement. Like France do. Even the Swiss notched up a few goals on their path through. We need to start the second half first. I know that sounds tricky, but it can be done. It needs to be done as we apparently take 45 minutes to get started. Except the Ghana match when we never got started at all. Some kind of rest day.

And that’s it. Play better or I’ll become a Brazilian. Again.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

When you get old, there’s only the past. The future is… uncertain. In length and quality. But the thing is; the future is completely unknown and the past so full of rich and wonderful memories. Hence the business of nostalgia. Which sounds like it’s a rheumatic condition affecting the… errrr… nostrils, but is in fact the sheer enjoyment of some facet of long-ago.

Like this 1967 Alpha Romeo Spyder. For aficionados, its the original ‘boat tail’ model, before Alpha applied some horrendously ruinous ‘modernism’ a few years later. And after watching The Graduate movie, which starred Dustin Hoffman, Anne Bancroft, a totally ‘fuck off’ soundtrack by Simon & Garfunkel and in top billing, a red Alpha Spyder. I wanted this car more than I wanted oxygen to breathe. Never mind I was only about 15 and 2 years away from driving. Or that my car fund was about £2 16s 9d, and a new one of these cost about £10k. I just wanted it. Because to have such a car was the sure fire path to acquiring Katherine Ross, who also starred in the film. And I desperately wanted her too.

So imagine my joy 3 years ago when my favourite brother-in-law told me he’d bought one. Holy Shittttt! I thought. And flew round to take it for a spin. Only to find it arrived in about 14 boxes. Engine in one box. Camshaft in another. Doors. Windscreen. Seats. Wheels. All in boxes. The body was bare. And paintless, other than a few patches of colours past. Being a 1960s Italian car meant it was rusty before the 1970s started. The Italians used only recycled steel for their motor industry back then.

Oh.

I’d have packed it all up and returned it to Amazon, or wherever, for a refund. But the brother-in-law is made of different stuff. He wanted ‘the project’. I wanted ‘the car’. So I let him take the welding course, buy an arc welder (the most after-dinner fun since Trivial Pursuit) and spend the next year cutting massive steel panels into shape and replacing virtually all the underside of the car. Then he had it sprayed and got it back to ‘finish’. Like putting every single part back on. Another year or so. Nothing’s easy. Except my part in the program. Which was go round every now and again and tell him how well he’s doing and replying positively to all the photos and videos he sent me. Even though it was miles away from looking like a car.

But now he’s got this. Sorry, WE have got this. Suddenly it’s a collective thing. And it drives fantastically. It’s noisy, relatively powerful and the most beautiful thing ever. And as I was rounding a corner (the speedo is possibly the only thing not working, which is brilliant, you’re never speeding!!) he put the track ‘Mrs Robinson’ on the system. Jesus loves me more than you will know. Woh, woh, woh. And I cried with nostalgic joy. Which blurred my vision on the next curve, which wasn’t ideal, but hey ho.

I still want one. But without all that sweat. Though my car fund has now increased to £27 12s 9d, so I’m getting closer.

Happy driving

A xxxx

Andy Burnham hasn’t even started the leadership contest for his own political party yet. He’s only been an MP for 2 weeks. And yet is fast becoming burnt out, before he’s even started. The cynical way he was boosted onto the path to Noombah 10 (as he calls it; before he moves it to Manchester, which he’s already planned) has led to the almost universal presumption that ‘he IS the next Prime Minister’. Of MY fucking country. Which, in all likelihood, he will, sadly, become before the heat-wave dies off. Probably why he wants to stay in Manchester. Where it’s always cold and rainy. There is no northern expression for ‘heat-wave’. They don’t have them. Oop thah’re.

He wants to send our money north. To the devolved mayoralties where a bunch of no goods can apparently ‘tackle welfare dependency, deliver social housing and improve 16+ education’. Yet we know that no-one builds houses. Not previous governments, not current ones and certainly not OUR mayor here in London, Sir Sadiq Fuckface. Half the money sent up north will end up in Gaza, run by Hamas, who’ll use it to improve their missiles. The other half will be squandered on meaningless projects, consultancies and quangos on the take. It’s what happens when you send money north of Watford.

But Andy, the socialist, sees ‘the South East’ as some bottomless pot of cash. “We take too much tax from work and not enough from assets”. Setting out his stall. “We need to increase Capital Gains Tax in line with income tax and charge ‘building tax’ on valuable homes.

None of which will raise one extra penny for the exchequer; tax hikes never do. What they do is send all the job creators looking elsewhere. And I’m not talking about Sheffield. They be on the first boat to Dubai, Monaco, Spain, any place where their invaluable talents are appreciated. But Andy has never done a day’s work in his life outside the political arena. He knows nothing about the people who create work; he just sees them as a target for his ‘student-lefty ideology’ and his ‘just world hypothesis’. In short: he’s a tosser. And he’s got a funny face.

In my mind; whatever the problem is, Andy Burnham is never the solution. And then you have to imagine him on the international stage. He’ll need subtitles for the English speakers. Somehow, the socially awkward Keir Starmer managed to get on the right side of Donald Trump. Burnham doing so is simply inconceivable. With his current act as ‘Mr Normal’, ‘Mr Down-to-Earth’. He acts like the leader of the student union.

I’m so unhappy about all this, I may have to watch England play football tonight. At least the temperature in New York should be more tolerable than my tennis was this morning.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This pic is the Jewish Museum in Warsaw. Just because I like it.

I simply have to talk about the football. Its been on, seemingly forever, at odd times of the… well, of the night and even more nighter. Not in the day at all, really. I’ve just become used to the fact that whenever I turn on the tv (and I watch no daytime tv ever, outside the football season, obvious exception), there’s footy on. And I like that. I like that a lot. Even though the World Cup didn’t excite me, its definitely ‘growing’. And I specifically need to write about football for my mate, Sparkle. Who, just last night, told me how he loves to read my (shit?) stuff, except the football. But the thing is; he SHOULD like the football. Even if you don’t watch one ball kicked the entire season; THIS IS THE FUCKING WORLD CUP!!!! and its an event. Which gathers momentum with each passing day. Until even I start to care about Cape Verde, Curacao are lost, Ecuador beat the Germans, FFS, life gets no better than that!!! You just need to embrace your inner Gary Lineker (if I had one, I’d go see an exorcist tomorrow) and join the ride.

In my heart, I’m Brazilian. They are the benchmark for my kind of football. They first and foremost play for fun. A trend which runs right across South America, and to a slightly lesser degree, across the African nations too. They basically put 11 total show-offs on the pitch and let them show off. Which at times leads to immense frustration, but at other times, to amazed wonder and excitement at the flow, the deftness, the skill and sheer artistry of these guys.

In the northern Hemisphere, we’re more serious about things. We stress more. Hence in the Scotland vs Brazil match, those dour Scots (not as dour as the Poles but on the same page) decided that a dour approach was the way to inhibit and frustrate the Brazilian superstars. No place for fun; too serious. So they ‘stayed back’ and tried to defend their allotted 90 minutes away, but… but… conceded three goals trying. Because Brazil were just more fun.

The 9 o’clock games (4 o’clock, ‘over there’) are great because they end about 11 our time and I’ve watched the final 20 minutes of about 26 matches in the last weeks. A much better use of time that watching the first 70 minutes of those games. The end’s always the good bit. Like last night. The sheer pleasure of seeing Germany beaten, even though they’re far from ‘out’, sent me to bed with a smile on my face and in my heart.

England started fairly well, then played Ghana and descended to the usual England shit, dross and disappointment, so unless things change in the upcoming Panama match, I’m Brazilian. Possibly Colombian.

Basically, despite my initial lack of enthusiasm, I’m hooked. And it can only get better!!

Happy Friday, Sparkle (if you’ve read this far).

A xxxx