Andy's Glasses

I grew up in a different world. Kids were allowed to have fun, and most unusual for anyone born after 1970 to understand, we were allowed freedom. Jeffrey Epstein wasn’t invented until 2013, Jimmy Savile was still a national (vomit) treasure, even though there was not one person in the entire nation to whom he didn’t ‘give the creeps’, and Rolph Harris played with his (own) didgeridoo. The clergy at that time were (apparently?, superficially?) still more engaged in worship and community work than in fiddling with little boys and Harvey Weinstein was thinking about a career in movies. Even Harrods was just ‘the best department store in the world’, before devolving into the London Sexual Abuse and Rape Centre under Mohammed Fayed’s later stewardship.

Basically, all this shit was happening in the early 60s but it was either ‘not talked about’ in decent society, mainly because a high proportion of ‘decent society’ were engaged as perpetrators of what would later become crimes; or no-one believed it was occurring.

So children played on the streets. Without minders, carers, nannies or armed guards. We just ran around, dodging the cars (most of the time), running down alleyways to our mates’ houses and, essentially ‘running wild’. My parents were good people. Caring, loving, devoted to their family. But in 1963 that apparently included operating on the ‘enough rope to hang themselves’ ethos. Ok, my brother was 3 years older than me and, unlike me, he was pretty much ‘born sensible’. You could trust Rich in any situation. He was blessed with the common sense that, genetically speaking, he should have shared with me. Genetics just doesn’t really work that way though. But if we were together, my parents knew he would do the right thing, even at 10 years old.

And the most fun we had, the best of all ‘freedoms’ was going out on our bikes. Because at 7/8 years old, with that wonderfully ‘limited world view’ which stretched all the way from Gants Hill Roundabout to Valentines Park, as boundaries of the ‘known world’, we could go ‘anywhere’. Long as we avoided the main roads. And long as I LISTEN TO RICHARD!!!! Yeah, good luck, Richard. But we went down to the Roading River, to ride around the densely wooded banks (known as ‘the race track’) and our other favourite was ‘the dump’. Which was a dump. Literally. But we found amazing stuff there. Though ‘amazing when you’re 7 has a slightly different meaning from the adult interpretation.

Bikes gave us freedom. A feeling I still get every time I get on a bike now. Electric, ‘normal’, someone else’s, doesn’t matter. You get on, you can ‘go anywhere’!

So we’re always keen on Lila and Joey riding bikes. We bought them bikes a couple of years ago, we got them lessons to ride them and we love them on them. Even though Joey has issues with the process. As he does with any process which involves listening to people. But he’ll get there. Lila is proficient. And they’ve now outgrown their bikes. So this afternoon we’re all going to Halfords for new bikes. It’s Lila’s birthday on Wednesday and Joey’s next month, so we’re getting biked up. I promised Lila that she could have… ‘gears’!!! Because I remember how big a deal that was for me. So Joey will have gears too, obviously.

And I reckon I’m more exited than either of the kids about this.

Happy bike day

A xxxx

The foot is fine. Thanks for asking. So fine, I’ve forgotten about it. And I forgot today when I played tennis. In the glorious sunshine (good thing) and the howling winds (bad thing). The arctic temperatures we can cope with (indifferent thing, but shrivelled testicles is a bad thing).

And feeling young and fit and fabulous (DON’T LOOK IN THE MIRROR!!! EVERRRR!!!), I opened the mail to find my driving license renewal application. From HIS Majesty’s government, no less. I’ve had my license for almost 53 years. Same one, other than when they did the photo thing. Why do I need another one? Because when you get to 70, the driving authorities in our fine nation start to think along the lines of: “is it in any way possible that the person who passed his driving test at 17 may have, in some small way, changed at all, by the time he reaches 70? Like, physically, mentally, healthwise? Is he now prone to blackouts, have both his legs been removed surgically, can he still count backwards from 10 without dribbling down his shirt?? Has he died?? Can’t go allowing dead people to drive. Vampires and undead have to answer special section: DVLA 14.6.293G, only available in the hours of darknesss.”

Yet rather than actually call you in, check your eyesight, maybe a brief physical, ensure that your mobile oxygen tank can fit into your car along with your nurse and carer, they just ask you. “Can you see OK?”, great, we’ll tick that then. “Do you suffer more than three epileptic episodes between home and Brent Cross?”, no, great. “Do you drive a car with hundreds of horse-powers even though your speed of reaction is now measured in glacial time?”, no problem. “Do you remember what a car is?”, well, mental health seems great too then. It’s what we call ‘self assessment’. You just ‘do-it-yourself’. Or guess. Or just lie. No difference.

The entire process takes approximately 4 minutes on the online portal.

The process of proving your identity to allow this to happen, takes 14 hours, 3 apps, 14 photo downloads, half a dozen ‘selfies’ and scanning the mole patterns of your left calf.

As you know, I am in the peak of physical health and vitality. In fact, I have been described by some (me, mainly, possibly Mel if she needs something really badly) as ‘perfect’. The only difference between me now and me at 17 is that I know more. And forget more. And ache more. And… forgotten. But I hate old people driving. They wear hats. In the car, FFS. And they adhere to speed limits. Which is quite frankly ludicrous, obstructive and a waste of time.

They should be calling people in at 60 for an eye test. Just a visual scan if nothing else. 20 seconds. To avoid having the roads filled with blind septuagenarians wearing their wife’s glasses to reverse. Check mental health. Speed of reflex. but they don’t. They’d rather develop really ridiculous and difficult tests just to prove you are who you say you are, then let you drive in any condition whatsoever, just because you say you’re ok.

And they wonder why driving standards are dropping.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Meta and Google have been found guilty of making kids addicted to ‘social media’. So fuck Meta and Google. They can afford the law suit which surely won’t amount to much more than… 5 million quid times… every kid in America plus… lawyer’s fees… errrrr… about 537 billion dollars. Plus change. Because the floodgates are open. The ‘Bill-Gates’ as they’ll now be known in this context. The American legal profession will be at every school in the land signing up kids for the class action suits, know here as either ‘Class 4B action’ or ‘Giraffe Class Action’, depending on the State concerned. In Mississippi it’s the Martin Luther King Class Action.

Firstly, for the defence. How do you apportion the fuck-uppage-ness of a kids mental state? Into what would normally occur in any teenager, and what is the ‘sole responsibility’ of social media input? How do you work that out? And much as I’m no fan of social media channels… other than WhatsApp which IS THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN MY LIFE!!!, kids are desperate to get on them. To ‘follow’ the same fucking imbeciles on Insta as everyone else does. To ‘conform’ as kids ALWAYS want to do. If these kids overdo their exposure, is that down to Mark Zuckerberg? Or their parents? More difficult is the ‘addiction’ bit. Which really is the key word here; the case was not about the evils of social media, that would be longest case ever, but specifically, that ‘they go out of their way to get kids addicted’. And definitions of ‘addiction’ aside, this is where I have to switch and make the case for the plaintiff.

Firstly, Meta and Google KNOW that kids under 13 are using their platforms. But do nothing about it. They get paid for high numbers of users, why would they reduce that willingly? But worse still, much more cynical, is Big Tech’s use of algorithms. Its ability to ‘know’, based on past usage, exactly what pushes each kid’s buttons and presenting them with precisely what they love seeing. Gambling sites use the same thing. Give the users exactly what they want, time and again, to keep them coming back. And whether that is ‘clever marketing’ or ‘cynical exploitation leading to addiction’ is the valid question of our times. But gambling sites are legally prevented from dealing with kids, whereas the Tech dudes are given much more leeway. They can only ‘try’ to detect underage users. And they obviously don’t try very hard. Much as they don’t with self harm issues, Manosphere promotions, suicide assistance, toxic pornography and a host of other ‘lovelies’.

The question then comes as to how much screen time should your kids have? The kids’ answer would be ‘as much as I could possibly get’ whereas grownups feel differently. And yet…

Often don’t exactly ‘lead by example’. If parents seem less obsessed with their phones, perhaps the kids wouldn’t become excessive users themselves. Possibly if parents left phones aside when reading to kids, doing homework with them, picking them up from school, playing with them, maybe the kids wouldn’t be constantly turning this ‘wonderful thing’ into something iconic and magical. Just maybe.

Or, we can fuck up the kids and get 5 mil each from Zuckerberg? What do ya reckon?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’ve changed. Don’t worry, I’m still gorgeous and fabulous and magnificent in every way, but I’ve changed. From being a professional optician, a football fan, political critic and devotee of all the arts (as long as its not ballet, opera or… or art), who happened to be Jewish; I’m now a professional Jew who works, likes football and tolerates politics. Got no fucking time left for arts; being Jewish takes up too many hours. Its a big commitment. And that’s without ever opening a prayer book. God forbid. What a fabulously ironic phrase.

So, hot on the trail of venting my dismay, disgust and disappointment about ambulance-gate, (for which, I’m glad to say, 2 arrests have now been made. I’m not so glad that the police have refused my request for just 10 minutes in the cell with them, just me and my baseball bat), last night I attended a lecture. Which wasn’t really a lecture, more a ‘conversation’. With Natasha Hausdorff. She’s the head of UK Lawyers for Israel and wonderfully outspoken protector of the Jews from people talking rubbish. Because she’s an international law barrister and just tells all the stupid, BBC-inspired sheep, what the words they band about really mean and how the ‘occupied territories’ are actually Israel, according to not just laws, but British laws. And how the police have the power to stop genocidal chants like ‘from the River to the Sea’ but are restrained by a government in fear of losing its not insubstantial left wing from doing so.

Did I say she’s clever? Might have missed that. But most importantly, she is, like me, exceptionally beautiful. And ‘we’ (there were 200 people there) spoke about antisemitism. Because it affects everything. Particularly now.

And, as if to illustrate that very point, the event was held at JW3. The Jewish community centre on the Finchley Road in Hampstead. A fabulous, purpose-built facility and a great ‘space’. They have lectures, concerts, comedians, movies; they have lessons in everything from Spanish to Spanish Omelettes, French to French cuisine, all sorts of things, especially relating to food.

And outside were guards. Several of them. Metal detectors in hand, handbag searches mandatory, 24 hours a day. The centre spends £600,000 a year on security. How much more entertainment could be had for that money? How many more courses, or mobility sessions for people a bit older than me, or cookery classes, FFS, if they could save that vast sum?

But its simply not an option. As proven on Sunday night just up the road in Golders Green. You simply can’t be too vigilant. There is so much ‘hate’, and just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

As political statements go, this was a doozy. As a protest, it kind’a lacked direction. Even as an act of terrorism, it had all the logic of blowing up your own car. It was ‘shitting on your own doorstep’.

Because these 3 total fuckwits decided to blow up 4 ambulances. The very vehicles which may save their (totally worthless) lives, or those of their mothers, grandmothers, cousins. These were not ‘IDF’ vehicles. They weren’t tanks. They were just ambulances, whose only crime was to have hebrew lettering on the side and… horror of horrors… a Star of David!!! Though in fact even that’s now been ‘stylised’ or even ‘disguised’ because of the inflammatory nature of such a sign in antisemite circles.

Hatzalah are a truly brilliant organisation. They are like the NHS ambulance service, but they arrive within about 10 minutes. You call them; they come. They don’t ask your religion, nor race, nor football team, nor anything. They help everybody. Even Chartered Accountants. They come quickly, have highly trained paramedics and liaise with the NHS directly as they take the ailing to hospital. When my poor, dying brother was in his nursing home, they called Hatzolah to take him to the Royal Free for emergency treatment. 5 times they did that. They don’t charge. The don’t ask anything. They just come. Day or night. All the staff are volunteers. Their only funding is by donation. So, generally, we, ‘the community’ fund Hatzolah so it can help everyone, both in and out of ‘the community’. That’s what Jews do when we’re not harvesting the organs of babies for Passover ceremonies and drinking the blood of blond people because it pairs nicely with beef. We’re charitable.

Mel’s dad had a fall when he was living alone. Mel found him on the floor in a pool of blood. 999 offered ‘about 4 hours’ for an ambulance, Hatzolah were there in 5 minutes. It was a Saturday morning. The 2 guys who came in were ‘religious’. Skull caps, tsitsit (a tasseled vest which God apparently likes in his fashionista mode), the lot. Yet it was Saturday morning. The Sabbath. When the religious won’t drive, won’t work, won’t use electric devices. But helping others and saving lives trumps even the Sabbath rules as they patched him up and whizzed him to the Hospital.

That’s what Hatzalah does.

And so three total imbeciles decide to blow them up. Why? Because Hatzalah is Jewish. These dickheads may have been ‘pro-Palestine’ lobby, taken to the ‘we hate Israel AND ALL JEWS’ level. They may have been an Iranian ‘cell’, as Iran has been organising many terrorist ‘events’ around Europe. There were even calls that Israel did it so others would get blamed. Yeah, right.

The government immediately pledged 500k for new vehicles. A move which would be like a lead weight on the massed anti-semites of the Labour back benches, the Corbynites and the hard lefties. But Starmer had to do something for enabling ‘the hate’. By allowing the ‘Gaza’ marches degenerate into ‘gas the Jews’ marches, week in, week out. Too afraid of his own awful MPs to actually halt the rising tide of virulent antisemitism in the country. Which has now reached the point where its apparently open fucking season.

Just out of interest, I made a donation to Hatzalah yesterday. Gerald Ronson gave £200,000 to them. (Mine was a bit less, just a bit.) The Community came up with half a million. In one morning. Not because (other than Ronson), they’re rich, or there’s millions of people, but because we care. Deeply. And have to stand up to the fuckwits. Who, ironically and tragically, also stand to benefit from such a brilliant organisation.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So life is good. Unless you’re a Spurs fan. Or an Arsenal fan. Or a West Ham fan. (Wolves and Burnley fans don’t count; they don’t live round here). And if you just ‘put yesterday’s match’ into the deepest, furthest reaches of your mind; where you never look. When you force those thoughts away into those hiding places in your head where you keep the lists of things to do that your wife gives you every week; never to be considered again, then the world can seem bright, like the sunshine all around us.

Except the Middle East. That’s never happy. And I don’t get it. Not that they’re not happy, I really get that. Bombs and missiles and running in and out of shelters all day would make clown rip his hair out in anguish. Ok, rip his silly curly wig off, same difference. But what I don’t get is how they started a war with undefined goals. Or defined goals which changed daily. Or goals with shifting goal-posts. And without doing their due diligence..

Essentially, war is scientific. Not the fightin’, that’s just the mechanics. You plan a war. You know what your enemy has in his ‘arsenal’ (not ‘that’ Arsenal, bunch’a losers, the proper one) and you know what it is prepared to do to stop you and how you can overcome such events. And you work out the probabilities and so are prepared.

So the plan seemed to be: we’ll attack Iran to depose the regime/prevent nuclear threat/because they’re smelly Iranians. And once we’ve sent a few missiles over, the ‘masses’ (non-regimists) will just rise up, overthrow the IRCG and raise the flag of old Persia. What could go wrong?

No-one seemed to plan for the ‘regime’ to not just roll over and give up at the first whiff of missile fuel. The projected possibilities never seemed to include closing the Straits of Hormuz, which Lila and Joey could have told them was way more inevitability than possibility. But Lila and Joey don’t have the teams of war strategists that America has and Israel certainly has. Nor the ‘war games’ computer models. Even though Joey wants one for his birthday.

So Trump has now said that if they don’t open the Straight, he’s gonna bomb the entire energy supply network for all of Iran. To which Iran replied that the Strait is not actually closed, for traffic from its friendly, nasty horrible, allied nations, but only to ‘the enemy’ nations, like us. But if Trump bombs, the Straight will be totally closed.

Meaning shipments of oil, mainly, but also food, fertiliser and a million essentials, will become scarce and unavailable. Like petrol. Farmers can’t farm. Heating can’t work. Lights go out.

This is Trump’s ‘are you feeling lucky, punk?’ moment. Who blinks first.

Happy Monday (long as you hide all the shit)

A xxxx

The miracle of the mangled foot continues to the point where people are going to be coming round with their sick, their ailing, their dying and get me to ‘lay hands’ upon them to ‘heal’ them. Or maybe lay my foot on them. It’ll be like Lourdes, but in north-west London. Because I played tennis this morning and it hardly bothered me at all. I just got out of the wheelchair and hit the ball. Ok, exaggerating, obviously, but it was fine. I don’t get it, but I’m happy. Therefore the world is happy.

Well, it was until the football started.

This was the ultimate ‘6-pointer’. Spurs, 5th from bottom, against Nottingham Forest, 4th from bottom. We WERE one point ahead. West Ham are 1 point below. And they lost today, so stay there; one point below us. So this was THE game to win. It’s not going to be ‘easier’, because they’re not 4th from bottom because they’re playing consistently wonderful and winning football. They’re there because, like us, they’re shit and can’t even find the ‘barn door’ to miss from three yards. So it was an opportunity to play just that little bit better than a pretty crappy team.

And yet there’s always the matter of momentum, driven by confidence. And both Spurs and Forest won European matches this week, which creates a massive ‘feel good’. Or so you’d like to think.

It was all square for the first half. Well, til right at the end of the first half. When Forest scored. According to footballing psychology ‘that’s a terrible time to concede a goal’. What these boffins don’t tell you is when is a ‘good time’ to concede might be. Because the answer is ‘never’, obviously. But heh, there’s 45 minutes to play, let’s get out there, let’s justify the truly ridiculous salaries we get paid every week, let’s play like the ‘superstars’ we strut around all week pretending to be as we decide whether to go to training in the Range Rover or the Ferrari. Let’s, for the first time in 2026, WIN A FUCKING LEAGUE MATCH IN OUR MAGNIFICENT, BILLION POUND HOME!!! And can I add: FFS!!!

For my own part; I called upon the gods. All of them. One’s not enough so I tried all the 3,000 Hindu ones, all the Ancient Greek and Roman ones, especially the more obscure gods for shiny hair and fishing and healthy sheep. Then I started on the demi-gods, the Bhuddas and Donald Trumps and my left foot and everyone I could think of. (Spurs fans have lists of Gods with them for every match). And it must be said that, collectively, they were fuck all use. Because we only managed to concede another 2 goals. Maybe if I hadn’t prayed it would have been more?

This was ‘doomsday’. The day’s over, so it’s only the doom left. With an abundance of gloom.

Worst Sunday ever

A xxxx

I had an ‘incident’ on my bike yesterday, coming home from work. I turned a corner, ‘banking’ as you do on a bike, and my left foot hit the road and my motion yanked the foot under the pedal, pulling it under like they do to bind feet, in Old China. But I wasn’t in China. I was in Kings Cross. And it fucking hurt. I managed to stay upright on the bike and although my foot and ankle hurt a bit, pedalling wasn’t painful. So I pedalled home.

By bedtime there was swelling, there was some icing (not ‘on the cake’, more ‘on the foot’) and it was fucking agony. After going upstairs to bed on all fours, I messaged Spurs Paul to cancel tennis for this morning. In fact as I lay in bed with my really painful foot/heel/ankle, my only thoughts were ‘X-ray’; I need an x-ray. So I kept Mel awake pondering the merits of Finchley Memorial Hospital against the Royal Free and the St John & Elizabeth.

This morning it was ‘fine. Ok, still swollen, feels bruised and tender, but there’s no hobbling, no apparent ‘disability’ that I could claim benefits for. Shame. I’d sacrifice my left foot for a blue badge so I could park in Golders Green. I’m right footed. But anyway, it seems to be healing by the sheer force and power of my immaculate body and exceptional masculinity. Not the toxic type, more the self-healing, superpower, superHERO type masculinity. So no need to come rushing round with chicken soup, ibuprofen or to just have, like a vigil of love on the front garden. You’ll spoil my lawn.

We’re up to 37 cases of meningitis in Kent. I blame the students. They’ve come up with 29 ways that students, basically, exchange bodily fluids by merely attending a night club. And that’s not counting having sex or kissing. So I think this little epidemic is punishment by the gods for basically acting in a grossly unhygienic way. They should take all those students, University of Kent, Canterbury, Folkestone Polytechnic, and move them into the army to fight Iran, who are going to attack us now for allowing US bombers to take off from our little island, on their way to the Straits of Hormuz to protect the oil tankers. Which won’t go anywhere, no matter how many planes and boats they send. Because the owners of oil tankers are not stupid. They wouldn’t exchange bodily fluids in a nightclub.

Spurs are playing tomorrow in what is possibly the biggest and mostest importantest game ever played in the entire history of the game since some poncey, upper class twat at Rugby put a ball on the floor and kicked it. In 1726. That’s how important it is.

Happy, healing Saturday,

A xxxx

I feel sorry for Muslims. Because Islamophobia is real and it’s common. And like all phobias, it’s not particularly rational. Britain, along with all ‘patriotic’ nations, especially ones filled with white people, houses more than its fair share of xenophobes. And you can’t do anything about it. Its inbred, its ‘hereditary’, its learned and its so deeply entrenched that you really can do very little to change it. Which is why the Farages and the Tommy Robinsons play on this in ‘middle Britain’ because we always need scapegoats and forriners present the easiest target. Can’t get yer kid into a school? Blame the immigrants. NHS waiting lists? Boat people, innit, all with sprained ankles from jumpin’ off the boats, cloggin’ up the A&E. But that’s all ‘people of colour’, whereas Muslims present a special case.

In my mind there are two types of Muslims. There’s the rotten, evil Islamist terrorists, intent on death, destruction, intent on taking over the entire world into a Muslim state, something like Iran. And then there’s the vast majority who are just Muslims because they were born Muslim and adhere to some or all of their cultural or religious customs. A bit like me being a Jew. I do the bits I like. Ok, which doesn’t involve praying very much, but does involve chopped liver and haimishe cucumbers (they’re pickled, but the Polish way; buy them, they’re life-changing, made by Mrs Elswood and available on this site!!!, just send cash).

So these Muslims are the people you work with, the ones who’s kids go to your kids’ school, the ones who give up their seat for you on the tube because they think YOU’RE OLD!! They’re just normal people who happen to be Muslims. And their lives have been tainted by the actions of the ‘other lot’, the jihadi lunatics. What the Farages and Robinsons of this world do is blur the boundaries. A Muslim’s a Muslim, make the presumption of terrorism unless they prove otherwise. Whereas I, naively, possibly stupidly, just like Jesus Christ himself(!!), believe in the good in all men. Except the total motherfuckers, obviously.

And the other night, they had a ‘pray-in’ at Trafalgar Square. Mainly for the decent Muslims but they let Sadiq Kahn in so obviously tossers were allowed too. And they prayed. What else would you do at a Pray-in? Well, actually, it was Iftar, the prayers at the end on Ramadan days, so there’s food given out; that’s ’what else’. So all in good spirit. And the ‘believers’ all threw themselves on the floor as they do, facing Mecca, which happens to be the same direction as the London Stadium, so maybe they’re West Ham fans too. Then they got up, brushed off, and gave out food, even to the non-believers who were standing around the Square, probably thinking: free food!! WTF?

Nick Timothy, the shadow justice minister, then said, on Twitter (the go-to vehicle for out of line political comment) that such a thing is ‘an act of domination… and division’. Then he said its not appropriate to have a ‘male only thing’ going on publicly. Has he never been on a stag night? Or worse, a hen night. And really, I think Nick was seriously over-reacting there on the Square. People lying on the floor in vast numbers just doesn’t bother me. Its when they get up that I start to worry.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Don’t panic. And don’t go to Kent. Then you should be fine. Ok, don’t talk to anyone who has been to Kent in the last 5 days. Or anyone who’s been to Club Chemistry, in Kent, ever. In fact, be careful of people who know people from Kent. Or those who knows someone who knows someone who once went there.

Meningitis B is a real fucker. I realise that anything that starts with the word ‘meningitis’ is something to be avoided, but that B is for ‘bummer’. Because it can kill you. And it did kill two kids last weekend. Its a very invasive infection around the brain, leading to septicaemia and other fun things.

Of course, you can vaccinate, as they do to babies now. But anyone who was a baby before 2015 is… basically… fucked. Especially if you’re a teenager, and even more so if you’re at the University of Kent. Or thereabouts. Going to clubs, exchanging bodily fluids, snogging, clubbing, passing joints around, any kind of close proximity fondling. Though its hard to fondle from afar. So if a student down there tells you ‘he got fucked last night’, you’ll need a clarification. Whether to call Andrew Tate or an undertaker.

The government could then have rolled out a vaccination plan for those pre-2015-ers, but… didn’t. Nah. Not a big problem. Not now. Expensive. Don’t need it.

Because you never need something until you do. The you REALLY need it. And it would have been nice, because if this thing spreads we’re all doomed. This is like Covid with a vengeance. This is ‘bring out yer dead’ all over again. The second time since 1665.

John the Postman (lovely geezer… red jacket… green van… all round the City) watches ‘GB News’. Well someone has to. Nigel Farage and Tommy Robinson and Steve Banon can’t keep it going by themselves, ya know! And he learned that the meningitis was probably brought over by immigrant boat-people. Possibly. Which is why its in Kent. Where they land.

Oh, that’s ok then. Cos Covid was local. Well, China. Pretty local. And look how that turned out.

GOD HELP USSSSSSSS…

A xxxx