Andy's Glasses

My life is ruined. My head is awash with doom, gloom and has no room for stupid alliterations, or anything else. I don’t care that Donald Trump is going to blockade the Straits of Hormuz to prevent Iran from blockading the Straits of Hormuz. I have no interest in Viktor Orban being deposed after 16 years of his almost dictatorship in Hungary. Even Zendaya is the furthest thing from my mind. Grandchildren? Nyeh; no enthusiasm. Its all gone to shit.

Because Spurs managed to lose yesterday. Again. And for losing we get… nil point (say that the French way. For effect.)

Whereas our contestants in the ‘avoid relegation stakes’, both managed to increase their respective point holdings. Making it just that much harder for us to avoid the drop. Which every Spurs fan now sees as inevitable.

But heh; let’s try to be optimistic! Let’s look at the ‘pos-i-tives’, steer towards the ‘bright side’ (from the deep, most solid, DAAAAARRKNESS).

We only lost one player to injury in the whole game. And even though he’s our captain and a World Cup winner, and he’s very pretty, HE’S A FUCKING LIABILITY AS SOON AS HE WALKS ON THE PITCH!!! So Romero injured means we stand more chance of finishing our remaining games with 11 players on the pitch. That’s a ‘plus’.

We didn’t sack the manager. Yet. He survived his first match. Lost it, like all his predecessors, though remains in his job. Well done Roberto. I’m not sure whether we’re going to ‘love you’ yet, or just haven’t built up sufficient hatred, but you’re here, that’s the main thing.

And this ‘little issue’ may cure us of our arrogant, gloaty, horrible, ‘best stadium in the world’, ‘big-team’ mentality which, if I’m honest, makes us a rather unappealing bunch. When Arsenal lose to Bournemouth and appear to be losing their grip on the title which had seemed to be ‘theirs’ for virtually all the season, we should be offering sympathy to them. We should be consoling their fans, who are our friends, our neighbours, our brothers and sisters under the Lord Jesus Christ. Not sniggering. Not high-fiving. Not enjoying it!!! in any way.

The time for humility is now. Compassion. Understanding.

Ok, we’ll delay all that until after the City match next Sunday. Then we’ll become ‘nice’.

Miserable Monday

A xxxx

I can be subject to accusations of occasional exaggeration. Which in turn could be described as hyperbole. Particularly when football is concerned. Because, quite frankly, every match is ‘the most important game of the seaon’, otherwise it’s not worth playing. Ok, that rules out England friendlies because they’re shit and no one cares about the result except the manager. And I have been known, on occasion, to describe a match as ‘the most important ever played anywhere in the entire known, and unknown, universe’.

Well today’s match at Sunderland has become just that. No more hyperbole, not a hint of exaggeration, THIS IS IT. The game to decide Spurs’ future. And for the purposes of this debate; ‘future’ starts in August. And may be once more, at the ‘top table’, sharing the glory with the elite of the game. Or it may be consigned to the ‘lower leagues’ of hoofers, hackers, butchers, bankrupts and has-beens, ‘down there’ in the Championship.

Because West Ham’s win on Friday elevated them. Not just in league position but in confidence, in belief in themselves, in the hope that it is within their own power to avoid relegation. Something our new manager needs to instil into my team of the dire, the depressed, the injured and those with ‘mental health issues’ which have prevented us achieving our goals this year. Prevented scoring our goals this year. In any meaningful way.

So we are, at the moment of writing this, in ‘the drop zone’. If the league ended today, we’d be relegated. Worse still, Arsenal would be crowned champions. So, fortunately on all counts, the season is not ending today. So we still have time, theoretically, to ‘pull ourselves out of the mire’. Arsenal still have time to ‘properly bottle it’, a process that started a few weeks ago and burst into new life yesterday as they lost at home to Bournemouth. Both of these events are now inextricably linked in the minds of all the fans of both clubs. ‘Compassion’ is low on the scale of feelings when football rivalry is concerned. Whereas gloating is high. Schadenfreude stays in top position. For some, it’s the only enjoyment we get.

So there may be future games, as there have been in the past, which have been ‘the most important game ever played anywhere in the universe’, but none will surpass today’s game at Sunderland. I want you to remember that.

GOD HELP US!!!! Sunday

A xxxx

Power corrupts. Unless its at Battersea Power Station because they don’t make it there any more. They used to. Then they abandoned it. Forever. But if 24 hours is a long time in politics, ‘forever’ is a very short term in property development. (I’m going to mix in a few more metaphors to create a proper stew of them. Make it even more confusing.)

So the power station was empty and they were going to knock it down but… it was probably listed. Which it should be because its a fabulous building and those 2 chimneys are totally iconic, even though it looks like one is growing out of my head, like a mal-formed unicorn. They can’t knock it down, even though it sits right on the river, in about 5 acres of primo-valuable residential space. So they left it standing and developed the whole area around it and did an internal re-fit to convert the upper parts into expensive flats. The lower parts became a shopping mall.

Which is why, even though they opened it about 5 years ago, I’ve never been there. And they not only re-opened it, they built 2 new tube stations to extend the Northern Line right into its plug-hole. So people can start their shopping as they’re getting off the tube!

Its a very very upmarket shopping mall. Not an Asda, Aldi or Primark in sight. They don’t do Greggs nor KFC. What they do is… poncey. Its a bit like walking through Terminal 5 ‘duty free’ at Heathrow. With the Louis Vuittons and Watches of Switzerland and upmarket eateries and coffee fraps for 6 quid, and a candle for £65, but its nicer than Heathrow. They should say that on their advertising. ‘Nicer than Heathrow Airport’. ‘And just as unaffordable’.

Its essentially: everything I hate. Basically: shops. And if that’s not bad enough, add a few thousand tourists into the mix. There was a Levis shop, so obviously I bought a pair, otherwise its all about being on the outside. The fab building, the River right there, the open spaces and lovely little boulevards. And coffee shops. The acceptable face of shops.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As you know: I’m possibly the most perfect specimen of male-not-as-young-as-he-once-was-but-still-FUCKING-AWESOME!!! Possibly. But it involves a lot of work. Not ‘work’, haven’t done that YET. But I will. Lips pumped up like my bike tyres; waist sucked dry of anything remotely ‘lipid’, eyes lifted, boob-job, nose-job, bum-lift,EVERYTHING!!! But first comes health. And I adhere to a rigorous health and fitness regime which involves not just walking a bit but eating chocolate when I get there. Maybe a croissant. Look; I’ll decide when we get there, alright??

So all is peak… everything. Perfect. Other than the things which aren’t; and they’re medicated. Ok, I do spend quite a lot more time inside an MRI than I did when I was 31, but mainly because I don’t think they’d been invented yet. But to remain healthy you have to have check-ups. You can’t just assume that being really, really impressed by the reflection coming back from the mirror, singing ‘don’t go changin’, that all is fine.

Thus I had a Neko Scan. Oh! You haven’t heard of that? Well, you should live with my wife, then you would. You’d know about every single bit of health advice, test, check, vitamin, supplement, regime and theory anyone has ever even thought of.

Neko is a Swedish company. So you know it’s good. (???) It is a full-body scan, heart check, blood check, all sorts of stuff. It costs 300 quid and takes an hour. And is so successful that the wait list is months. So you apply and, if you’re older than 27, you forget all about it. And then, 3 months later, it comes! The invitation. “Come book your scan!!!” There are 4 centres in London and I went to Shoreditch.

And it is fucking spectacular. Very very hi-tech, very very Sci-fi, filled with babes in cos-play. Ok, nurses. They give you horrible rubber shoes to wear. Errrr… ok. Then you strip and put on one of those hospital gowns, but a nice one. Soft. Swedish. And it’s not a ‘scan’ scan, but a full skin scan. I later learned that I have 1,553 moles on my body. Four of which they want to re-examine. OMG!!! Last time someone said that they cut an inch out of my belly. But then they do your bloods, full work-out, results in 10 minutes. Ooooooh. Sophie, my nurse, strapped me to a bed with four blood pressure cuffs, one each arm, one each ankle. And I lie there helpless and vulnerable, at Sophie’s mercy!!! But before it got too Barbara Windsor she told me my BP was a bit high. Oh, that’s new. It’s never high. Possibly, good-looking nurse strapping me to a bed was some kind of ‘trigger’?

Anyway, you get dressed and go into a little lounge with the doctor who goes through everything on a display screen. Showed me the 1553 moles. I didn’t count them all. Got as far as 17 before she changed the slide. Bloods, blah, blah, everything. Very thorough. And for the blood pressure, she told me to check it twice a day and log it, then send to my GP.

Which is now my new hobby. Its great. Go on Amazon, get an ‘Omron’ and it’s just magic. Twice a day? I take it ALL day. Every 5 minutes. And it’s come down again. Assuming it was ‘up’. But they checked it 3 times with some serious (probably Swedish, but doubtless made in China) equipment.

Everyone should have the scan. Not for the health stuff, but just because it’s such a brilliant experience.

Happy healthy Thursday (131/82)

A xxxx

There’s a ceasefire. In Iran. Donald Trump has announced that there will be a 2 week ‘pause’ in the bombing of Persia. Then he’ll ’eliminate a civilisation’. Possibly. Probably. Depending on how the Straits of Hormuz goes. It’s open now, as part of the ceasefire deal, but partly closed. A bit more open than it was. Under strict Iranian supervision. Basically, it’ll be a brave captain who sails his 500 million pound tanker through the waters.

But there’s peace for now. Phew. And it must be quite a strong peace because our heroic leader, Sir Kier, has come out of the bunker he’s been hiding in for 5 weeks, and is flying to ‘the middle east’ to… errrr… well, to be Kier Starmer.
Who was described this morning on the radio as ‘leaden-footed’, ‘slow to react’, ‘tosser’, by none other than the deputy leader of his own political party!!! James Cleverly basically slagged off his boss, rather brutally, demonstrating the loyalty and devotion which abounds in governmental Labour. The whole sorry crew are positioning themselves for a takeover.

Kier Starmer may have gone to ‘the middle east’ to repair HMS Dragon. The boat which is basically ‘The UK Navy’, the one which wasn’t ready for ‘war’, and crawled across the Med, taking 3 weeks to get to Cyprus, to ‘defend it’, has had to go into dock for ‘repairs’. Maybe Kier has ‘The Royal Navy’s Official Spanner’ and is taking his overalls to Bahrain or Dubai or Qatar so he can fix our boat. He has many talents.

But decision-making isn’t one of them. Not in any kind’a hurry. He prefers to deliberate… take advice… take more advice… check the lawyers… procrastinate… ponder… go back to the lawyers… then do nothing.

Donald Trump is the most ridiculous man ever to have lived in the White House. And there’s some competition there for that title. But no-one has ever been more totally unpredictable that Don. For the main reason that he has no clue what he’s doing from day to day. From ‘total obliteration’ to ‘peace’ in a moment. From ‘stop the nukes’ to ‘regime change’ to ‘open the Straits’ in 4 days. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He never has. But in Pete Hegseth and Marco Rubio, he has two people who spend their lives trying to justify the Presidents ever-changing dictates.

The only thing Trump has got right is his contempt for our Prime Minister.

Happy, peaceful Wednesday

A xxxx

Before the pandemic, (remember the pandemic? Everyone had covid; no-one went to work; we walked round the Heath every day otherwise we’d have been arrested; Boris had some parties; we banged saucepans together every Thursday night to save people from dying in hospitals; I built a new shed; you MUST remember!), we were regular cinema-goers. At least 2 or 3 visits a month to the Picturehouse in Crouch End. I was a ‘member’!!! There’s virtually nothing I wouldn’t do to get 10% off popcorn. I actually asked if I could instead pay the right price and get 10% more popcorn but…

Since Covid, we’ve probably been to see 10 movies in 5 years. Its odd. I still look at all the reviews and study the ‘coming soon’s but other than a few notables, very little has exited me. Did covid somehow affect creativity? Like it did taste and smell? I don’t know. But movies come, movies go and I just think; ‘nah’, can’t be bothered. It’ll be on tv next week. And I won’t watch it there either. I never watch movies on tv. Other than Top Gun, obviously, Terminator…

But last night… WE WENT TO SEE A MOVIE!!! Which unfortunately only went to enhance my new-found filmaphobia.

I love the ‘process’. I like booking the tickets. Well, I know, how exited can you get with that, right? I like going there. I like parking. Which sounds stupid but it’s true. I like going to Crouch End because you can just park without fear of tickets, tow trucks or earthquakes. Strolling in, saying ‘hi’ to everyone as if I’m still a regular, even though no staff have been there more than 5 weeks. Buy my popcorn, ‘to share’. Yet because of my somewhat monopolistic approach to ‘sharing’ food, we always get an extra carton, an empty one, and I decant some (not too much, obviously) for Mel. Otherwise by the time she’s finished chewing her first ‘piece’, I’ve eaten the rest. Sorry. Then we go to our ‘sofa’, make ourselves really comfortable and sprawly, and munch noisily. Just enough so the man in front keeps turning round and tutting.

Then the movie started. ‘The Drama’, it’s called. And it’s new and it’s a kind of rom-com-car-crash. With Robert Pattison as ‘the bloke’ and the amazingly gorgeous Zendaya as ‘the bird’. The redeeming feature because whatever shit was happening with the plot, I was happy just watching her. It started well, had good intentions and had a wonderful ‘watershed’ moment when ‘everything changed’, just before their wedding. At which point, the shit hit the fan, everything went downhill. But everything. Which you noticed most by Pattison turning into Hugh Grant in 4 Weddings and hitting the ‘sport button’ in slapstick mode. (Note: anything ‘Hugh Grant’ is never a testament to good acting).

‘The Drama’ was reviewed really well in The Times, which is why I booked it. But it really is not a great movie. I don’t mind a bit of ‘cringe’ but this was excessive and the plotline sort of floundered and meandered towards the rather spurious, curious ending.

But there ya go. Ignore the fucking critics, they know NOTHING. So you can only see for yourself and decide.

And I decided. Its not good. Other than Zendaya. She’s fab.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

All last week they were saying: weather on the bank holiday weekend is gonna be shit. Dave’s coming, bringing winds, rain, snow (no joke there was a blizzard in the Herts game yesterday) and generally, weather not fit for tennis. And yet it’s been fab. Every day’s had sunny spells, warmth (almost) and loveliness. Ok, it did rain on me on Saturday morning and I had to put the top on the car at the traffic lights, but otherwise, beautiful. None more so than today. It’s so fab I did the morning, ‘zoom’ t’ai chi session in the garden. Ok, it was fucking freezing, but it looks great out there. That’s the main thing. And it’s uplifting. Its wonderful. Makes you feel so good that you simply have to wonder why so many wars are going on in places where it’s always sunny. Or maybe, always Sunni. Though Iran, obviously, isn’t. It’s the world’s biggest Shia population. But heh, it’s not all about Iran.

Because I can’t tell you how exited that Kanye West is coming to perform at the Wireless Festival this summer. Just down the road in Finsbury Park!!! And although it is geographically just ‘down the road’, conceptually, philosophically and ideologically, it is a truly different world. Firstly; it’s right by Arsenal stadium. That’s a black mark all on its own. It’s also where the country’s most controversial mosque is situated. Where Abu ‘the hook’ Hamza used to preach hate and bile before they imprisoned him and deported him. And thirdly, it’s just a bad place. The karma is wrong in Finsbury Park.

Making it the perfect venue for the artist now known as ‘Ye’. And if you’re wondering what ‘Ye’ means, it means ‘asshole’. Possibly ‘tosser’. As do all recently and often changed names. Anyone who prefaces his name with ‘the artist formerly known as…’ is a nob. John Lennon was only ever ‘John Lennon’.

But that’s not sufficient to ban the man from performing. Whereas proclaiming your own love and support of the nazis and all their ideology, including the elimination of Jews, that’s slightly more significant. Ok, Kanye (I just can’t do that fucking ‘Ye’ thing) apologised. After 3 years of overt antisemitism including a clothing range with swastikas, he profusely apologised. He’s ‘bi-polar’. Ohhhhhh, that’s ok then. Men-taw helf ishoos. That explains EVERYTHING. What we used to call ‘manic-depressive’. Virtually two different people in the same body.

So which one is coming to perform in Finsbury Park? Nice Kanye or Ye-the-total-c**t? Jekyll or Hyde? Bruce Banner or The Hulk?

The sponsors of the Wireless aren’t taking chances, Pepsi and Diageo have already withdrawn their money. Others are following. But being Finsbury Park, they won’t be cowed. They’ll defend an antisemite to the bitter end.

Kier Starmer has said that Kanye shouldn’t be allowed to perform. Possibly not even allowed in the country. I wonder if Kier Starmer knows anyone who could arrange the refusal of entry for this scumbag? If only he was someone like… the man in charge of the whole fucking country!!!, then he could actually, for just once, practice what he preaches, get off his fucking fence and stop ‘Ye’ from stepping off the plane.

On an even bigger level; if you’re too big a scumbag for Kim Kardashian, there’s surely nothing redeemable in your character whatsoever.

Happy sunny Monday

A xxxx

Joey’s in Miami. And is trying his hardest to out-gorgeous his grandfather in the battle of the balcony poseurs. Well, Jo-jo; YOU’VE GOT A LONG WAY TO GO!!! He’s not even holding a cigarette, FFS. I blame the parents. And with everything I do for that child…

Back home, my favourite politician, Zack Polanski, continues in his apparent personal vendetta against ME. Whatever I hold sacred, he wants to rip apart. First was tax. Anyone with any money at all, however hard they’ve worked for it, for however long, will get it taken away to fund wind-farms in Gaza and solar panels in Manchester. (The sun never shines in Manchester). Because ‘the rich’ must be ‘taxed to the bollocks AND BEYOND’, to fund all the wonderful social measures the Greens have planned to provide mansion style living for boat people and other asylum seekers.

Then came Palestine. Zionism = racism!! And must be made illegal. Israel ‘abolished’ to make way for a single, Palestinian, Arab-only state where it once stood. Abolishing a state is quite a difficult thing to do, but only for ‘normal’ people, whereas ugly Jewish poofs have no trouble getting the abolition past the UN whatsoever. It’s a special clause.

And now it’s driving. Because driving is a privilege, not a right. According to Zack. So the Greens will make driving “slower, more expensive and in many cases, impossible”. That’ll keep the country going, Zack. He’d reduced the motorway speed limit to 55. I don’t care about that, I drive at 95 on all motorways, on principle. But there’ll be so many people in my way. And what kind of a nob wants to cause motorists even more misery than they’re suffering now?

What next, Zack? A new tax on supporting Spurs? New charges every time you listen to old rock tracks? Or fines for enjoying grandchildren? How about tennis? There surely must be a way of screwing tennis players over?

Zack’s parents actually stated that if their son ever became (God forbidddd!!!) Prime Minister, they would leave the country. Well, I’m going with them. And taking my car with me. And my tennis racquets. And grandchildren.

Happy Easter Sunday

A xxxx

Ali-G, God bless his immortal soul (as the actual ‘character’ is long dead even though its creator is alive and well), would always speak of ‘me mate Dave’. Invariably followed by some really stupid words, thoughts or actions. It was brilliant. Because we all have a ‘mate Dave’. Even if half insist on remaining Davids. Like they’re going to defeat a Goliath or stand naked on the streets of Florence. Or even curl in a free-kick from 40 yards. But because I loved the concept of ‘me mate Dave’, I promoted all my ‘mates’ called David into ‘me mate Dave’s. Which they hate. As I would. Because ‘David’ is indeed the name of Kings (albeit Kings of Israel, but there you are), it’s a name to be taken seriously, to command respect. Whereas ‘Dave’ is his low-IQ cousin. Educationally subnormal, struggles with numbers, can’t tie his shoe-laces properly. Oh, yeah, Dave. Right.

And they’ve named the latest storm to arrive on our shores, sometime tomorrow, Storm Dave. A name lacking in the sheer power required of a proper storm. Storm names should be bold, powerful, resplendent. Storm Ethelred! Storm Muthafucka! Not, fucking Dave. And I hate to make a Dave in a teacup about this, but really those naming people at the Met office (who dun it) have a lot to answer for.

From tea cups we move to egg cups. Big ones. For chocolate eggs. And the big question is: WHERE THE FUCK ARE THEY???

Some of us ‘live’ for Easter Eggs. They only emerge for about 3 or 4 weeks a year, during which we have to panic buy, load up and fill the spare room with them before they go off to spawn or whatever they do for the other 11 months of the year when you can’t buy them.

And they are available, but not ‘the good ones’. Not… the Cadbury ones! Because I don’t want a Marks & Sparks chocolate eggs. I don’t want Lindt, I don’t want Hotel Chocolat, (pretentious fuckers), I want lovely, humble, amazing Cadburys. And no-one seems to have them. I went into an Iceland to get these two. Having lucked out in three other major supermarkets. Are Cadbury’s no longer making them in any quantity? And any variety? Or do the supermarkets just not stock them? The two I bought were relatively expensive. Otherwise the photo would show 10 of them. So maybe they’re making them ‘rare’ to increase the price. Like with diamonds.

Chocolate is all about the texture. That’s what makes the same chocolate taste so different. Its form and density. And in Easter eggs, that’s the formula that hits my buttons. Especially the ‘more!’ button. And they’re re-defining an ‘Easter Egg Hunt’. I’m going to write to the King. Not King David, Charlie.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I spend a lot of time… ok, 3 minutes a night, but according to Mel it’s ‘FOREVER!!!!’, flicking through 862 tv channels to see what’s on. FOMO. Which, in the world of streaming, is probably particularly annoying. But the thing is, streaming is great if you know what you want to watch. Yet is way more confusing than it is inspiring if you don’t. You go on, you watch what you wanted, you leave. Whereas channel surfing shows what’s on. Ok, you get QVC, and how many gold plated bracelets does anyone really need? You get religious channels, fucking darts, snooker, golf, you know, the ‘sort-of sports’ for people who prefer beer to exercise, and you get loads of re-runs of programmes which were shit when they came out but have the redeeming quality of being dirt cheap for tv companies to show. But now and again, you find…

Top Gun.

Which, along with Terminator, Pretty Woman, Kill Bill, Fast and Furious (only part 1) and a few, select others, are simply compulsory viewing. And thus, at 10.30 at night, just out the bath, in my dressing gown, I ‘felt the need for speed’.

But even among the select few movies mentioned, Top Gun is extra unique. The acting is absolutely terrible. Awful. Dire. Wooden. And yet, the story is so good, even if 100% predictable and runs as if Tony Scott had read a handbook about how to put every cliche in known fiction into one single movie, it just works. You know that the amazingly gorgeous Kelly McGillis is ‘falling for…’ Tom (her actual words), before she says it. Because you’ve already ‘fallen for’ both of them. And Val Kilmer’s script was headed: ‘start sneering now and don’t stop til the credits roll’. Because that’s how ‘good baddies’ need to look. It got late. Went to bed. Just stopped for one little moment to press ‘record’ before I went. Even though I’ve seen it 100 times and I’m fairly sure I know how it ends. I had to check to ensure they hadn’t changed it.

It was the perfect movie for Passover. With Tom Cruise as Moses. A short Moses. Leading his ‘tribe’ out of… trouble. Vladimir Putin, who sent the Mig fighter planes, played Pharoah (not Joey, as above) and they parted the seas. Ok, even Paramount couldn’t get the sea to actually ‘part’ in any meaningful manner, so they stuck a massive aircraft carrier on it instead. Same difference. Allegorical. Innit. Don’t be so bloody literal! It was the Passover story and done very well. Except the sex scenes. They’re not normally part of that story. But heh, that’s life, right?

Happy Easter, Happy Passover, Happy Friday

A xxxx