Andy's Glasses

So sang… Maria?, possibly Tony, maybe both, in West Side Story. Neither were Spurs fans. And therefore knew absolutely NOTHING!!! about pain, suffering and uncertainty of the future. That movie did come in 1961, however, when Spurs won the double. So maybe that song was a premonition… of TONIGHT. When we’ll learn the fate of my beloved football team. Whether they can, probably undeservedly, manage to cling on to the Premiership by the skin of their neck tattoos, or if they’ll tumble into the Championship with all the shame and suffering that we, the fans, will have to endure as a consequence. A consequence of events totally outside our sphere of influence. We remain impotent to the whims and fancies of a bunch of tossers unable to manage OUR football team, despite all those millions and millions of pounds available to them.

I’m not bitter, as the beer ad. says, no. I’m fucking furious.

So at 4pm today our agony starts. Watching Spurs, praying, whilst keeping 70% of our attention on events at the London Stadium, where West Ham play Leeds. And West Ham fans will have probably similar feelings to ours, but quite frankly, they’re a scummy bunch and in all likelihood are more concerned with the price of beer in Aldi and whether they can beat any northerners up, than the fate of their sorry club. Which endures this same agony most years. They’re hardened to ‘final day frenzy’ in a way us fans of such an ‘elite’ club (phah!!!) simply can hardly imagine.

But there are parallels everywhere. Symbolism. As Spurs play Everton. The club beloved by Andy Burnham, the ex-mayor of Manchester and quite possibly our next Prime MInister. If he wins the by-election at Makerfield. His ‘local’ area. Well if he’s a man of greater Manchester, why does he support a team from Liverpool? Probably because much of his ‘local working class lad’ persona is a sham. A skin he dons to be ‘one’a the people’. In reality he’s a middle-class, university educated posh boy from a leafy suburb in the Greater Manc. Rain belt. But that doesn’t fit his narrative. He’s northern, that’s half the battle, but his poshness must be secreted away along with Angela Rayner’s houses and Kier Starmer’s clothes sponsorship deals. He’s no better than Zack Polanski whose own personal story changes by the day, with the only consistencies being the totally undeniable; that he’s Jewish (a Jew-hating Jew, in fact) and that he’s a poof. Probably hates gays too, if he was consistent in his hypocrisy. Anyway; we need to beat Everton, for the SAKE OF THE FUTURE OF OUR COUNTRY.

So tonight. We learn our fate. We just need to draw. A win would be super, take that awful pressure off. But if West Ham should take the lead against Leeds… then panic would ensue. Thankfully our players respond well to pressure. Oh, sorry, must have been thinking about some other players.

GOD HELP US. PLEAEAEASEEEEE…

A xxxx

I’m standing outside the toilets in Debenhams, simply ‘bustin’ for a piss. I’ve been waiting here for 14 months, for the equality guidance report to be finished, so I know which toilet I can go in. None are currently marked ‘super-heroic, totally manly, testicles essential, boys-only, condoms sold here, geezers-with-nobs’ or anything vaguely alluding to what I might find inside. Then, YESSSSSSS!!!! The report is finished! Brilliant!! I can go!!! Ahh, gotta read it first; 300 pages long. Ooooohhhhhh…

So what it says is…

Basically, boys in boys toilets and changing rooms, girls in girl’s ones. Oh, thanks for that. Well worth the time and millions spending on that. Producing 300 pages? Just for a few guidelines which are fairly ‘loose’ anyway.

Actually; its BIRTH gender that tells you which toilet you MUST use. A problem for trans people. And although these are the ‘rules’, you shouldn’t actually ‘ask’. Because if I say to an ugly bird “‘ere! Are you a bloke????”, it could cause upset. As would “are you a poof???” So the rules aren’t really rules, but ‘guidelines’ for companies and institutions. Gives the HR people something else to obsess about, and the ‘inclusivity lawyers’ new basement conversions on their mansions.

Will it stop, (and it has to be stated in this way, for which I apologise), people in possession of dicks going into the ‘ladies’ toilets? To have ‘birth women’ roaming around in the ‘Gents’ is really not a problem, not for me anyway. But ‘blokes in dresses’ in women’s changing rooms is the real issue. The feminist issue. The one fought by JK Rowling in support of ‘women’ and their rights to be spared penises at moments of non-consensual visuality.

Trans people have the right to use the toilet too. Apparently you don’t stop weeing just because you’ve had your… bits removed. And they need spaces too. Yet, obviously, not quite so many spaces. Because, roughly, 49.9% of the population are men, 49.9% are women and 0.2%… aren’t. But what will they do? Wait around for the ‘recommended’ ‘gender neutral’ stalls to be built?

Or they can do what I’m about to do. Piss against your car tyres. I just can’t wait any longer.

Happy relieved Friday

A xxxx

Not only my football team are ‘on the brink’ of DESTRUCTION!!!, but this morning my beloved car presented me with this message! That car to me is like a third grandchild; a second wife (possibly first!!!). I would say a third daughter but this is the first time it’s given me any trouble so it’s not an appropriate comparison. Every time I drive my car I grin like… like… ok, like some kind of simpleton, I’ll give you that, but it makes me happy. This morning I got in, smiling, took the roof down, still smiling, then pulled away and got this message. Then I looked like the ‘shocked’ emoji with an open mouth and hands on the sides of my face. But I wasn’t yellow. Amazingly. And the car handled like a 1967 Ford Anglia. Clunky gear changes. Sluggish. Awful. Because my car uses a PDK gearbox. Oh. Well, to give it the full title: Porsche Doppelkupplungsgetriebe, is just one ‘vorgsprung Dorsche technique’ too far, for my liking. And the PDK is simply the best thing ever. Until this morning when it became the worst thing ever. I’ve booked it in. This is emotionally and, I feel, financially, very distressing. My poor babe!!!! (Gushing tears emoji).

So I wondered, as it’s Lila/Joey day and they’re at school, what the best way to relax and chill might be after such a trauma. And I decided that the best thing you can ever do to find your karma, to pull the yin back from the yang, is to phone a massive company. And in fact I decided to phone two. First British Airways and then Santander. Why? Because their on-hold music, which you’re guaranteed to hear for at least 20 minutes, MINIMUM!!, is so great. About 3 hours later and I’m ready to end it all. I will never phone either again. Ever!

And that’s where we are now. Do I feel better? Have I achieved anything? Was it worth the (massive) bother? Possibly. Next Thursday I’m going to spend three hours abusing myself with a claw hammer, see if that feels any better afterwards.

Though I’ve decided I’m going to stand in the Makerfield by-election on June 18. Why not? Everyone else is. Though not necessarily because they give a shit about Makerfield or the fine inhabitants thereof. They all have ‘agendas’. Andy Burnham; we know his. The short-cut to No.10 lies in that Wigan suburb. Nigel Farage reckons by using a local plumber (again; there’s a pattern here) as his candidate he can further humiliate Kier Starmer. And Andy Burnham. And although Burnham is (horribly, catastrophically, disastrously) Northern, ironically, it’s a future in London SW1 that he craves more than Eccles cakes and flat caps and the fucking Gallagher brothers. So I figured, me… Wigan… why not? I could patronise the local people with tales of Shoreditch, with lists of restaurants, with speed cameras in your own driveways and the magic of tube trains. I would pledge allegiance to their pot-holes (everyone’s local obsession), claim Britain to be ever-Europe-free and summon their inner Zionists.

How hard would it be?

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

You’re driving along the motorway, maybe listening to The Eagles, when two tyres simultaneously blow out, the car rolls, smashes into a wall. But miraculously… you’re OK!! You manage to climb out of the wreckage, shaken but not broken, feeling so lucky to be alive. And a dog comes by and bites you on the leg. Then it starts pouring with rain. You slip on the pavement and break your leg. When you get to hospital you learn that your mother-in-law has won a Nobel peace prize and Zack Polanski is prime minister.

As metaphors go, I’ll admit, that’s excessive. But mere words cannot describe the total disaster, the abject catastrophe, the sheer brutality of the agony caused by the series of events in last night’s footballing shit-show.

We needed just one point from last night’s match at Chelsea. One measly, fucking point. But, obviously, failed to get it. Spurs apparent tactic of sleeping for 80 minutes then suddenly waking up to reality in a total “WTF? Holy Shiiiiiitttt!!!” moment and starting to play something approaching ‘football’, failed yet again. Too little too late. We were already 2nil down. Could’a been different. If Madison’s late shot hadn’t been amazingly, fantastically (I have to admit) blocked by the Chelsea defender, then who knows. But it was blocked. Though the recent ‘late game awakening’ by Spurs does seem to coincide with Madison’s introduction to any match. I say ‘play him’! I know he’s not 100% fit but if his injury returns he has the whole summer to get over it. Or we’ll buy another one for next year.

But by the end of the match we already knew that the ‘worst case scenario’ had happened. All the way down on the south coast, in Bournemouth. Where Man City failed to win. And thus Arsenal became… (I hate to write the words…) League Champions!

On the same evening that Spurs took one foot off the ladder which MAY keep them up, Arsenal won the fucking league. There is no God, there is no hope. There is just pain.

Its all about Sunday. Just one point. Well, at least its at home. Where we never ever win games and play them just to show that magnificent stadia do NOT automatically generate magnificent football. Quite the opposite. Oddly, Everton are aware of that too.

Happy fucking Wednesday

A xxxx

(This pic is for Lulu)

Mel loves Peonies. We all have problems. But like, she REALLY loves them. And they’re only around for a short season. So the cynical, demand-driven, bastard flower-sellers make them expensive. But not so expensive that if you love them you won’t buy them anyway. You’ll just eat less in peony season. I like them too. Possibly because its such an easy way to make my wife happy (I am the BEST fucking husband ever created), but also because they are one of the greatest inventions of the gods. (Along with peanuts, bananas, eggs and locking wheel nuts). You can watch them transform. The buds ‘open’ within hours. Ok, yeah, they’re on their way to death; I get that. But what a fab journey they have. Well, we have, on their behalf.

So when Mel heard of a farm where you actually go around cutting your own peonies, it was simply a ‘must’. Especially when I learned that they don’t have these sort of farms in, like, Elephant & Castle or Islington. No. They’re miles away. In that green bit. The countryside. This particular bit was just in Cambridgeshire, on the Hertfordshire border. So far ‘up north’ you can almost smell Andy Burnham. Basically, drop the roof on the car, get on the A1 and relive every car chase you’ve ever seen, every F1 you’ve ever watched and harness your inner ‘Fast and Furious’. Mel enjoys this sort of ride. And even lets me deploy the ‘sport button!!!’, as long as I do it without her seeing.

You arrive, in the middle of fucking nowhere and there’s the farm. With a massive, 500 car car-park, almost full. Ok, lots of people go there for the super looking cafe or to visit the ‘farm shop’. Which, like all ‘farm shops’, doesn’t sell farms. Nor really do they sell much of what grows on farms. Ok, bit’a cheese, few pork pies to upset the vegans, otherwise its just overpriced kitchenware, barbecues, wooden toys and crockery.

We cut loads of peonies, some other… errrr… flowers, and it only cost 15 quid for the lot. What price happiness. And both in the literal and metaphorical senses, ‘it was all about the journey’. Great afternoon out.

Which took my mind off the football, although by the time we arrived home, West Ham were 2-nil down, which is just brilliant.

Now, ‘all we need’ is 1 point from 2 games. ‘All’ we need… shoot me now.

Happy Monday,

A xxxx

The last time a team won the Scottish football league, OTHER THAN CELTIC OR RANGERS, was in 1984. Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen. Yesterday, in a ‘knock-out’ final match, Celtic played Herts in a (almost) winner takes all match. If they had drawn, Herts would have claimed the title. But alas and with an inevitability greater than the power of gravity, Celtic scored two late goals, won the game, won the league. Again. Which is a tragedy on so many levels. Not least of which is the number of Palestine flags flying at Celtic Park, but their almost totally Catholic fan base is closely allied to the Irish and we don’t even mention them in decent society. They used to fly IRA flags there, ‘back in the day’, even though they were banned. So we have the terrorists of Celtic and we have Rangers. And, apparently, no team from outside Glasgow is ever allowed to win. Making the Scottish League, the working definition of a ‘Mickey Mouse League’. Or, ‘Mickey Moose’ as they’d call it. Even the Spanish league allows another team to win now and again, otherwise it’s just Barcelona or Real Madrid with predictable boredom. Not Scotland. Old Firm or no firm. Its dull, its stupid and its wrong.

But, like the Spanish league, it’s all about money. The rich teams buy the best players and win the leagues. Simps. But then they get the money which comes with winning. The tv money, the European entry money, which then just increases the ‘gap’ exponentially. Leaving it, quite obviously, unclosable. There is, ‘quite literally’, no chance of other teams winning.

Our league is dominated by money too. Chelsea are a bunch of mid-table rabble for decades until Roman Abramovich decided to launder his billions in the club. Then suddenly, they are the champions of England. Buying every player they could, ruining so many careers, by getting people just so their opponents couldn’t. They out-spent everyone else and would worry about ‘financial rules’, if they actually exist in football, later. After they’ve lifted all the trophies they could. And they did.

Until Manchester City, even more ‘mid table garbage’ for half a century, get acquired by the nation of Abu Dhabi. Who have even more money than Abramovich. And ‘amazingly’ they suddenly become the best team in the world!!!! Incredible what just ‘new ownership’ can do. Especially if that ‘new ownership’ comes with a blank cheque book and teams of lawyers working to defend their monetary excesses. (115 cases pending).

Manchester United weren’t so lucky. They acquired ‘billionaire owners’ who managed to suck money out of the club instead of pumping it in. Which, although quite amusing at the time, was really quite appalling. Now Jim Ratcliffe is at the helm and he’s way more stable than the Glazers and is not only a Manchester United fan but unlike the previous owners, understands the offside rule.

So we are dominated by forrin money in our football league. Arsenal are owned by a rich American, Liverpool too. They run their business models more carefully than the others but still; more money; better results.

And those teams dominate our league. Well, your league, my league might be a different one next year.

And then… Leicester happened. In 2015 Leicester City broke the ‘monopoly’ of the super-rich clubs and won the title here. With no money, a second hand team coach, darned socks. But they won it. So it can be done. It just doesn’t happen very often. And it NEVER happens in Scotland.

COME ON NEWCASTLE!!!!!

(Then it would be a very-)

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

You know me. I love a protest. A march. A rally. Get any three people together and I’ll pitch up with some relevant banners, flags or placards and lead the march, make a speech, jeer and boo, whatever. It’s a compulsion. Marchamania. I’m a protestaphile.

But I’m not marching today. No. When possibly the 2 biggest marches of the year are planned, simultaneously, across non-contacting paths in central London.

We have Tommy Robinson’s ‘Unite the Kingdom’ march. That’s a euphemism. ‘Unite the Kingdom’, in this context means ‘get the Pakis out’. It’s what right wing marches have been about since the National Front back in the 1970s. ‘Britain for the British’, emphatically does NOT include any 3rd generation Brits with brown skin. To be ‘British’ you have to trace your lineage back to the Normans, the Saxons, maybe the Celts. Proper ‘Brits’. Filthy people with rotten teeth, living in caves and eating mud. BRI-TISHSHSHSH PEOPLE! The ones who evolved into skinheads, Mods, and eventually, Reform voters. And the hatred of ‘brown skinned people’ (because they’re so easily identified), has been refined to a literal Islamophobia, as opposed to how the word is normally banded about, like the word ‘genocide’. Often and wrongly and out of any context. But here, on a Tommy R. march, they fucking hate Muslims. All of them. Ok, specifically the minority who arrive on boats and rape women, the Pakistani grooming gangs (who must never be mentioned in any police station or court of law) and the Islamist extremists. Tommy is currently an Israel fan. Because it suits his anti-Muslim position to support a nation attacking lots of Muslims and suffering from extremist Muslim attacks. Although it must be remembered, HARD RIGHT GROUPS MAY TOLERATE JEWS TEMPORARILY BUT THEY ARE NO TRUE FRIENDS OF THE CHOSEN PEOPLE. (What, precisely, we’re ‘chosen’ for is under revision, but generally, historically, its not for good things).

The other march is a Nakba day pro-Palestinian rally. ‘Nakba’ is ‘tragedy’ and this day is the anniversary of Israel’s independence, in 1948. When Arabs ‘were chased out of the promised land’. Which is odd as millions still live there quite happily and with complete inclusion and a level of freedom they would never enjoy in Gaza. However, the assembled band of morons who were marching against Israel the day after 7th October, rather than offering any sympathy for the 1200 people murdered, the women who were raped and the 500 hostages kidnapped, long before Israel started its attacks, have no real knowledge of Israel, or Gaza, or the history of the region. They just jumped on a left-wing bandwagon and chose to make Israel, the victim, into some kind of perpetrator. And that’s where they’ve remained. Spurred on by the Green Party and its head poof, the one who lies all the time, the anti-Israel narrative has been extended to anti-Zionism and as most Jews are some degree of ‘zionist’, they include all Jews in their blaming as part of ‘the problem’, which most of these marchers have no idea about. They just fly the flag, shout for a ‘Free Palestine’, which doesn’t exist, and adopt battle cries which, unbeknown to them, call for the death of Jews.

So you know the expression: ‘why is it always about me???’ Well that’s today’s marches. All about me. Not in a good way. Which is why I’m staying at home. Cutting some more trees down because they drop blossom on my lovely clean car, FFS! And going to see Lila ‘star’ in ‘Oliver’ with her drama group. They’ll just have to march without me.

Oh, and fuck the lot of ‘em. Both groups intent on division and unrest. I only do peaceful, huggy, kibbitzing type marches.

Happy Marching Day

A xxxx

This promises to be the best weekend ever! It’s like the carnival has come to town! Not only is it the Eurovision Song Contest final!!!, which is the world’s finest exhibition of diversity, inclusivity and various degrees of abject poofery, but now we have the Labour leadership competition AT THE SAME TIME!!!! Totally brilliant. Though unfortunately I have to turn the tv OFF for the Eurovision because Israel are involved and I’m part of the BDS movement so feel I have to make a stand. And when Benjamin Netanyahu hears I’m not watching, in my bedsit in Dalston, he’ll think again about all these bombs!!! I used to be a Labour supporter but then The Lord, Jeremy Corbyn, was kicked out so I had to go Green to keep up with the levels of antisemitism I’d grown used to.

But the leadership campaign for the Labour party is just sooooo brilliant. Even though it hasn’t really started yet. Because no-one’s actually made ‘the challenge’. Because it involves getting 81 MPs behind you and currently, if you can find 6 Labour MPs to agree on anything, you’re beating the odds. But it’ll happen!

Wes Streeting appeared to ‘throw down the gauntlet’ when he resigned heroically from his job as Health Secretary. He lauded his own massive achievement in massive improvements in the massive service provided by the massive NHS under his stewardship. Numbers don’t lie. But he found that rather than get more doctors, it was cheaper and much quicker to get different accountants. Who could perform different statistics which showed INCONTROVERTIBLY!!! that waiting lists had come down and operations gone up.

But the main contender is Andy Burnham. The man who invented radicalised toxic Northernism. He’s resigning as Mayor of Manchester to become Mayor of All England. And he’ll make the whole country… NORTHERN! No more divide, no more ‘Westminster bubbles’, we’ll all be ‘northern’, from London to Exeter, Norwich to Brighton. And all he has to do is win a ‘safe seat’. Hmmmm.

It was ‘safe’ at the last election. Labour stronghold, 5,000 majority, blah, blah, blah. Then last week, all 22 council seats at the local election there went to Reform. Oh. So, possibly, not quite as ‘safe’ as it once was. If Burnham gives up Manchester, as he has to, and loses the by-election, he’ll be driving an Uber for 2 years waiting for a new seat to fight.

Or Angela Rayner. The thinking man’s slag. I say that in all proper correctness. Big, brash, northern and NOT a tax avoider in any way, other than avoiding tax. Which they then made her pay. But no fine!!! You’d have been fined. I’d have been fined. Ange; no fine. Thus perfect to run the country.

So you can see how exiting this all is. Eurovision, Labour, I’m glued to the tv all weekend, except during my protest time.

Very happy Friday,

Zack. xxxx

I live in a conservation area. Rule 1. You MUST have a hedge. No little brick walls, no iron gates with attack dogs, but a hedge. And for about 8 months of the year we have a kind of ‘apology’ for a hedge. Because it’s not ‘normal’ hedge stuff, but beech trees. And they’re deciduous (oh, look it up, FFS) so they drop their leaves in… they do it slowly, we spend most of those 8 months picking up/blowing/sucking/raking fucking beech leaves. And then… and then…

In May: this happens. It’s like the ugly duckling. It becomes the bestest, greenest, loveliest hedge in the world. Of course, by June it’s infested with aphids and greenfly and all manner of little fuckers, but I’m ready with my spray gun and my shotgun.

And by July the local trust, or the council, the ones who ‘insist on a hedge with the full power of the law!!!’, come to tell me it’s too thick. Encroaching on the pavement. Makes it hard for the dog walkers to let horrible pooches crap underneath it. “You have too much hedge”, they tell me. And rather than just tell them to fuck right off, we have to have it ‘trimmed’. Which takes 3 men a whole day. Lazy men. Who sleep a lot. Coffee breaks. Long lunch. But a whole day.

A few years ago I decided I wanted the two sides to meet and create an arch. Andy’s Arch. So I groomed it. In a strictly non-Epstein way. I like hacking.

Anyway, thought I’d ‘share’ (you can join me in a little bit of ‘sick’ at that phrase). Because I just spent 20 minutes opening up the sides otherwise if we get any fat people coming round they have to enter by the driveway. Might scratch the cars.

And I especially liked hacking this morning because I’m bored to fuck with Kier Starmer and Wes Streeting and took my aggression out on the greenery. The dullard and the pre-pubescent numbskull with delusions of grandeur. And much as I hate Starmer with more than mere passion, Streeting is a nob. The nob’s nob. And even if he is ‘a bit better’ than Starmer, is it really worth the entire country with all its current woes being put on hold for the 4 or 5 months it will take to endure the leadership protocols and all the boxes being ticked by each and every member of each and every trade union in the country, in accordance with the laws on Diversity, Equality and Inclusivity? Just for a change of plonker? Starmer is dull but at least you know he has a fully functional brain under there somewhere. Streeting? Not so sure. Running the country?? I am sure: he’s not fit for purpose.

But he resigned as health minister this morning. The first (of many, many) towards taking over in number 10.

I feel a bit bad having slagged off Starmer relentlessly ever since he became leader of the opposition, now offering him my unconditional support, but that’s politics. If Angela Rayner or Ed Miliband or even, God forbid, Andy Burnham enter the fray, I’ll be Wes Streeting’s poster boy. Until then, fuck off Wes, let’s get on with running the country. Especially as we ‘enjoyed’ a ‘growth’ this quarter of 0.6%!!!! Wow. The way Rachel Reeves was banging on this morning, you’d think it was 60%. But no, 0.6%. If my pension pot grew by 0.6% in a quarter I’d sack the fund manager.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So I was listening to LBC phone-in radio this morning. Because I like winding myself up into full angry mode before I eat my peanut butter on toast. Its just the way I am. But I truly deeply madly love Nick Ferrari because he manages to call people total moronic assholes in a lovely, charming way. I’ve never mastered that. I’ve never tried.

This morning they were talking about Eurovision. The most irrelevant song contest in the world. And latterly, the foremost platform for antisemites who ‘boycott that horrible, apartheid state’, by withdrawing a tone-deaf, cross-dressing hermaphrodite in gold lamee with bad breath from the competition. In protest!!! Against Israel being always included. A tragic loss to the music industry. Yet Israel is there, into the final. Yaaaay, go Israel.

A… thing came on the radio to speak to Nick. Name was ‘Crystal’, his/her/its stage name, or ‘Mr Seymour’, ‘their’ given name. He is a drag queen. So, obviously, overly qualified to discuss international politics. And he was just sooooo pro-Palestine, he ‘quite literally’ can’t sleep until Palestine is free, that he is doing his own ‘boycott’. He’s not going to be hosting his/her normal Eurovision night in some dodgy bar in Shoreditch. And nor are loads of his mates!! Another tragic loss to our national culture.

He demands Palestine to be free. Whatever the fuck that means. So Nick pushed him, as he does. And; no, he doesn’t really want a 2 state solution. He just wants Free Palestine. Ok, said Nick, but what about Israel. Silence. Do you see a future for Israel in this. More silence, a few uhms and ahhs, but basically, this tosser(ess?) is a ‘from the river to the sea’ literalist. Jews out. Gone.

And then, the sweetest irony of all for such people. The essence of their moronic misunderstanding of all their virtue-signalling nonsense. If Palestine was ‘free’ and ‘Crystal’ bowled in there, the conquering, freedom-fighting, boycotting, media hero of the cause… they’d throw him off a rooftop or stone him to death. Sorry Crystal, facts are facts, they don’t tolerate pooftahs, even ones dressed in Chanel.

Because if ever ‘Palestine is free’ (whatever the fuck that even means) it would not look like Amsterdam or Berlin. It would look like Iran or Afghanistan.

Can’t wait for the song contest; highlight of my year.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx