Andy's Glasses

Cabinet Office, yesterday morning…

Boris: Look, this damnable shit-storm about last year’s Christmas party just won’t go away, its proving to be worse than bloody Covid. The public feel cheated, that oik Starmer is banging on about ‘one rule for them and one for us’ like he’s an extra from an Orwell novel and most importantly, my ratings are plummeting like the fucking Belgrano. So we need to do something. Something to show the public how sorry we are and how our actual ‘crime’ was not a major incident at all.

Cabinet Minister: Yes, Prime Minister, we do. Do you think a really sincere apology, coming clean with all the facts and then implementation of a regulatory and disciplinary committee to oversee all of Number 10 would be appropriate?

Boris: Yes, it probably would be appropriate but I’m actually thinking more along the lines of a cover-up, excessive mitigation, making a big storm about something else to deflect interest, and throwing someone under a bus to take the heat. I’ve already taken the pre-emotive measure of having everyone’s names in a hat here, so, Sajid, if you would do the honours… (holds out the hat)

Sajid Javid: oh… errrr… well, I’m not totally comfortable with this, Prime Minister, I think that morally, ethically and properly, you should be the one to take responsibility and present the correct face to the public.

Boris: pick a fucking name, Javid, or I’ll find another lackey to fill the ‘diversity’ quotient in cabinet.

Sajid, picking a name: It’s ‘Allegra Stratton’… Sir.

Boris: Ok, well that was a very productive meeting. Would you see that the bitch is well and truly hung out to dry and I’ll get back to putting on a hard hat and hi-viz jacket to save the nation’s economy. Good day everybody.

You could almost feel sorry for Allegra Stratton. She was in genuine, real tears as she made her statement from her front door. And she was credible. She really did feel so sad and sorry for cheating the public out of their Christmas whilst she was enjoying hers. She was socialising whilst so many were lonely. They were partying in a pandemic whilst other were dying. And she was desperately mortified by it all.

So desperate that it took an entire year for this genuine sorrow to manifest. In fact, as ever in politics, what actually triggered that immensely emotional remorse was getting caught. That’s what took the year. Then the floodgates opened.

I’m almost at the point as recommending the assassination of Boris, for the good of the nation. Almost.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I gave you my heart, but the very next day…

You had a massive, drink-fueled party for 55 people gyrating masklessly inside Number 10, with uninhibited shouting, rubbing, groping, the usual works party hi-jinks, as ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ boomed in the background… and the rest of the nation sat in lonely solitude, darkness and silence, as per your specific, legally-enforced instructions.

…I can’t believe, what a fool I’ve been…

Boris hasn’t denied the party happened. Even though we were in ‘lockdown’ with groups of more than 1 banned. Or some such draconian bollocks we all reluctantly endured at the time. He can’t deny it. Nor that he is, if nothing else, a fool. A tosser, by any other name. Though he wasn’t personally at the… ‘not-a-party’, as he is calling it. Just a ‘small gathering where all covid advice was strictly adhered to’. Wasn’t there but KNOWS with all certainty that everyone wore masks, kept 6 metres apart, in the garden, groups of 3, with no singing, shouting or any other emission or exchange of bodily fluids. The karaoke is a bit an issue so we’ll say that never happened.

This is otherwise known as ‘digging a hole’. Because just as the fake press conference has suddenly materialised, there will inevitably, eventually, appear videos of the night. Drunken number tenners pissing on Maggie Thatcher’s portrait. The under-secretary’s 3rd assistant in a clinch with the cabinet minister’s rather ample portfolio. Naughty things. Bad things. Not covidy things at all. And then Boris will seem even more out of control and hopeless than he already is.

So stop digging and move on. To the next in the continuing line of governmental disasters, fuck-ups and catastrophes. Quite frankly, they’re all that’s keeping the nation going at the moment.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I went to football yesterday, to see my beloved Tottenham Hotspurs in the best football stadium in the world, in the shittiest region of London. As ya do. I went with Tory Boy, as you can see, because some geezer bestowed upon him a bunch’a tickets for the Norwich match. Probably another Tory, definitely an Uber-capitalist, venture-capitalist, denture-capitalist (like the previous one but with less teeth) or some other captain of industry, because these ‘throw-away’ seats were of the fuck-off, best-in-house, full executive package, prawn-sandwich-eating, don’t-rush-back-after-half-time-the-beers-are-free’ variety. These were ‘corporate’ seats. We even had free cookies! You don’t get them in the stands at Barnet FC.

Having only been a few times to Stadium Nouveau, that moment when you leave whichever squalid, sordid, dirty, low-life back-street the Uber driver deposits you, and emerge onto the High Road to view its sheer immense magnificence, it quite literally takes your breath away. Our stadium. Our home. Fortunately ‘we’ didn’t have to pay for it. And because this was the executive version, you actually go in the front door. Rather than the side, rear or any of the other hundreds of ‘ways in’ to the ground. And the stewards treat you with more respect, knowing you be a dirty free-loading hitch-hiker having a jolly at someone else’s expense.

Norwich came out firing on all cylinders. As you have to when you’re bottom of the table. But what keeps you bottom is the ability to squander really good chances in front of goal. Which, thank the Lord, they did a few times before Lucas Moura, bless his saintly, Brazilian soul, scored the goal of the season. It was a goal of such wonder and spectacle and brilliance that a few people in the executive section actually paid attention, fleetingly, to the football, to see what was going on. Some even put their drinks down, it was that good a goal. I was still screaming. It was that feeling of having been there for something truly amazing.

Spurs played well. They were allowed to. We look better under Conte’s non-stop, passionate, side-line ranting. He cares. Like we do. The only difference, he gets paid about 5 million quid a year to care, we do it for nothing.

Moura was magnificent, Hojbjerg so solid, Sanchez actually looked in control of things and Sonny was his normal troublesome self. The whole team were great. But Harry Skipp, our new Harry, the third one, was immediately promoted to First Harry by virtue of an almost perfect performance in the middle. The other two Harrys need a bit more time. As Winks didn’t play and Kane did. Read what you want into that.

Meanwhile for me, its going to be a

Very Happy Monday

A xxxx

I love a bit of controversy. As long as it doesn’t involve my football club. So when it happens to none more horrible than Arsenal!!!! it’s like my stars have all aligned. Because no football team in the entire history of the entire game in the entire world, has elevated itself onto the moral high ground more assuredly than Arsenal. Ok, maybe not the players, they’re as scummy as all the rest, they wouldn’t know the ‘moral high ground’ if it fell on them, but the fans. Who like to view themselves as the guardians of propriety for all of football. The ones who ensure correct values at all times. Who do things as they should be done. Thus creating the perfect environment for a sense of not merely entitlement, but an entitlement borne as a justification of their quest for perfection to which no other club can even attempt to aspire.

And then, just when all is going so perfectly, they go to Old Trafford and create…
Cheat-gate! Scum-gate!! Here’s what happened. I make no judgments, just present the facts in a clear and impartial manner so you can decide for yourself the precise level of hatefulness and contempt we need to employ.

Arsenal take a corner. In the goalmouth melee the United keeper, David de Gea, received a horrible blow to his Achilles and went to ground, clutching the wounded part, in the time honoured manner, the rules of which state: “however innocuous and insignificant the contact, and wherever it is, fall to the ground as if shot with a Magnum and clutch your head”. The ball bounced out to Emile Smith Rowe who volleyed it into the net. With the goalie still writhing on the ground.

Foul! Cheat! Bad Sportmanship! Disgusting! Evil! Not in the spirit of Chanukah!! screamed the masses, both at the ground and at their TVs.

But it wasn’t a foul. De Gea was floored by his team-mate in an accidental collision. The referee was watching the ball and was unaware of the goalie’s plight. Smith Rowe did what any footballer should, would, MUST do and try (successfully in this case, rather unfortunately) to score. And score he did.

But… but… BUT… that can’t be a goal, the goalie’s injured. The ball should have been kicked into touch. Yeah, but it wasn’t. It all happened too quickly. The ref should have blown his whistle to stop play for treatment to the injured man. Again, the ball was in the net before the ref blew up. Never mind, we have VAR, which can always find ways to disallow goals, even apparently perfectly good ones. Yet it could find no possible reason within the rules to take the goal away.

The only possible recourse Arsenal could have taken would have been to take the ball to their own goal and kick it in their own net. And who the fuck is ever going to do that? Certainly not Arsenal. ‘Good sportsmanship’ is suspended when the Goons enter Old Trafford anyway.

So we have a genuine ‘accidental goal’. Or, as Arsenal fans call it: ‘a goal’.

And can we hate Arsenal just a little bit more for circumstances almost completely out of their hands? Yes, I not only think we can, but are duty-bound to try.

Yours impartially,

A xxxx

I actually feel sorry for Ghislaine Maxwell. Because whatever comes out in the trial, it ain’t gonna be good. I’d say her current popularity levels are worse than Boris’s. In fact they’re closer to Gary Glitter’s. Approaching Omicron levels of unpopularity.

Firstly she’s rich and we all hate rich people and love to see them fall.
Secondly she’s the daughter of a scumbag so is accordingly tainted by association.
Thirdly, and possibly most importantly, she probably did it.

Yet even if she didn’t actively ‘groom’ and ‘seduce’ young women for Jeffrey Epstein to abuse, she was definitely there at the time. And at very least, did nothing. Itself, in the circumstances (of child abuse) a serious crime.

So why do I feel sorry for her? Because she can’t possibly get a fair trial. She possibly could in North Korea where no-one would have heard of her, but not in New York.

Worse still, with Epstein taking ‘the coward’s way out’ and topping himself, Ghislaine now bears the full and exclusive burden of all his guilt. Unless she has a prince in shining armour (or an Aston Martin) come and rescue her. Not likely with that prince. And even more worserer, although this is a criminal trial, there’s a lot of people, most of them lawyers, rubbing their hands in anticipation of the immense lottery wins which will ensue following a successful prosecution of La Maxwell as it will open the litigation floodgates for compensation claims. I’m not saying that will necessarily create false witnesses to enhance, embellish or even fabricate stories… I’m just sayin’.

Because stories from 25 years ago are always an issue. I can’t remember what I had for dinner on Monday, let alone who was seducing me in 1998.

Boris Johnson believes in Santa Claus. There’s no doubt. No question. Why else would he be so obsessed with ‘Christmas must go on!’? The health advisers have advised limiting gatherings once more and being prudent, which Boris passed on with his own version of ‘Chinese whispers’ (we’re not allowed to call it that in the post-Alexa era) as ‘GO WILD, PARTY LIKE ITS… 2021, AND FUCK THE PANDEMIC!!’ Well, almost.

On Christmas morning we’re due to be heading to Tenerife with Joey and Lila and a few others. Is that going to happen? Or will we face having to spend 14 nights locked in a Travelodge in Hounslow??? Appealing prospect…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Weddings are like number 15 buses; you wait six months and then two come along together. In fact so much like number 15 buses, they had two of those at the wedding too. Just to emphasise the point. Alright, and to take the guests to the reception venue. But I’ll take the symbolism over the pragmatism any day. Or night. Cos it was night. Itself a very unusual time for a Jewish wedding. They normally start around lunchtime and then go on til after midnight. Just to get the most… the most… value for the dress? Because it’ll never be worn again? The most… enjoyment for your guests. That’s it. Or the most activities. So the marching band and trapeze artists won’t interrupt the firework display; the Red Arrows fly past won’t spill the champagne; the arrival of Adele, Beyoncé and Taylor Swift won’t interrupt my eating.

So as this one was on Saturday it started at 6. Because Saturday is the Sabbath and you can’t get married until its over. Because there’s lots of things you can’t do on the Sabbath, like ‘doing work’, like ‘causing a spark’, like… probably playing tennis. So in case, when the bride arrives on the scene, sparks might fly, or she might spontaneously combust, you have to wait til the Sabbath ends. Then you can do, as the bible says, whatever ya fucking want! Hence weddings normally on Sundays.

The nuptials were special, conducted by Mr and Mrs Rabbi. A husband and wife team, the Mrs of which is the groom’s sister. Oh, that’s unusual. In so many ways. But all good. Personal. Real. Then afterwards we went to a fab bar in Farringdon for the party. And that’s where the number 15 buses came in. Because they took us from Belsize Park to the City. In that fantastic, rumbly, rattly, 20-mph whizz of open-doored (hence Omicron safe?) lumbering. I love the old Routemaster buses. I may have to get one.

And there didst we parteeeee. As it is written. And a wonderfully happy parteee it was too. Eating, drinking, dancing, more drinking, then more drinking. Which was all fine because we came home by tube!!! Yes, me in my glad-rags and Princess Mel in all her finery, on the post-midnight Northern Line with all the vomiting homeless and tattooed pub closers. Actually it was in no way unpleasant and got us home far quicker than the non-available Uber could have. I was possibly the most drunk person on the carriage.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I like playing tennis in the ‘elements’. Not the ‘elements’ of the periodic table, because lead would be a bit of an issue, helium leads to strange voices and you just never wanna do uranium. I mean the other elements. Because I just played tennis in Storm Arwen. And it was great. Hurricane winds, driven rain, sleet, hailstones and fucking locusts. Perfect tennis conditions. If you’re a true hero (read: FIRST DEGREE DICKHEAD) like me and Spurs Paul, you don’t just put up with playing in slightly adverse conditions, you embrace your inner schmuck, you realise that its windy, rainy tennis or no tennis, and you (as our esteemed and on the verge of a total breakdown Prime Minister would say:) you get the job done. So now, like those imbeciles who follow tornadoes around America, we are going to search out the storms as they start and play tennis in the middle of them.

A job that is made infinitely easier by global warming and the climate disaster. Because before Greta Thunberg was born, it never rained heavily. Oh, right, of course it did. Well, there were never droughts in India and Africa. Oh, but there were? We never had storms. Only… errrr… every year. Or so. Lots of them. Ahhhhh, but here’s the thing; before global warming, they were just storms. The absolute proof of climate disaster and emissions-related clusterfuck is that the storms we now get are in ALPHABETICAL ORDER!!!! And that could NEVER happen without global warming. So bring on Storm Brunhilda, Storm Boris, Storm Bohemian Rhapsody; WE’RE READY FOR YA!!!

In fact the only thing that will stop us playing tennis is ‘variants’. You really need no longer state ‘variants of what?’ because everybody knows. And variants get names too now. Strange ones. Greek ones. Which don’t necessarily translate. Because why would you bother with terms like ‘Kent’, and ‘India’ and ‘South Africa’ just because they are where the variants started? When you can use the far more explanatory ‘alpha’, ‘delta’ and (FFS) ‘omicron’, the only letter of the Greek alphabet I’ve never heard of because it is not used as a mathematical constant. So I suppose its about time it had some proper recognition. Let’s use it to re-name THE CARRIER OF DEATH!!!!

And to the very mention of the word ‘variant’ there is immediate reaction along the lines “there goes that fucking holiday then”, or “we’ll reschedule the wedding for next year”, or “you know when we said ‘Christmas will be ok’, well…”

Happy shitty, rainy, stormy, varianty Saturday

A xxxx

We’re getting a regulator. Not just me; everyone. Every football fan is getting regulated. Well, not so much for us fans (though certain fans, of certain clubs, could indeed do with more than a little ‘regulation’; you know who you are) but the new regulator, for all of English football, is to be appointed following a ‘fan-led’ review of the (once) beautiful game (until the money ruined it). And by a ‘fan-led review’, I don’t just mean that they were singing ‘one regulator, we need one regulator; one regulaaaaaa-tor, we need just one regul..’ all the time, but that the points raised in the review were done so by the fans. Not the players, not the managers, certainly not by the owners or boards who I would barely trust with a dirty nappy, let alone the national game, but ‘us’ fans. Because when you think about it, we ARE the clubs. Everyone else is subject to a revolving door of different periods of revolution. Players come and go, managers certainly come and go, particularly at Spurs and owners, if left to their own devices, will sell anything for a fast buck, including, as recent events have shown, their own league.

The review was conducted under the leadership of Tracey Crouch (no relation), an MP. And she decided that the Premier League clubs must be answerable to a regulator. And although there is a big noise coming from all the owners about their clubs paying a ‘transfer tax’ to support lower league football, and other restrictions, which will be argued by the immense teams of lawyers at these clubs’ disposal, Tracey can trump them all. Because she can get it sorted through parliament. In which respect, this humble MP for Chatham and Aylesford carries more clout than all those mercenary billionaires combined. And part of this regulation will see a ‘test of integrity’ by anyone or any state (as happened at Newcastle, at Manchester City in real terms) trying to buy a football club.

I’m hoping this might be applicable retrospectively. The integrity of current owners too. In which case, we might have a Black Friday sale of Chelsea, Arsenal, Manchester City, Newcastle, Tottenham, Manchester United, Liverpool and Everton. West Ham might pass some vague ‘integrity’ criteria but would fail on morality grounds due the pornographic history of one of their owners.

So well done Tracey. Something has to change, FFS.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Covid’s back. Ok, it never went away, in any form of reality, however depressing that may be. Worse still ITS NEVVVEEERRRRR going away. So any ‘going away’ is purely an act of attitude, of consciousness, of… delusion. Which is, really, what I’m best at. Which is why I can say with assurance: “I’m over it!!!” Completely. Its done. It is an ex-virus (in my mind) and I’m on to the next one. Which is a rather pesky cold. Which looks like Covid, sounds like covid, is viewed by all my fellow tube-travellers as covid but, according to the lateral flow tests I take every (fucking) day, it is emphatically NOT covid.

Though new cases are still at 40,000 a day in England. That’s 1.2 million a week. Which is odd, when life appears so ‘back to normal’. Yet hospitalisations and ‘deaths’ remain quite low. There are many theories as to why this is so. Because the whole purpose of vaccinations is to stop the spread. And we’re all vaccinated, but its still spreading. Ok, the vaccines protect us from symptoms of a death-like nature, but really, they’re supposed to stop us getting it altogether, so we can’t share it.

Yet in many parts of Northern Europe, it is indeed back. With a vengeance. Austria is locking down properly (remember lockdowns, he says with something approaching nostalgia, ahhhh) much to the displeasure of the vast masses of Austrians who are opposed. Germany has introduced new measures. The Belgians are revolting and as for the Dutch!! Holy shit there’s been riots in Rotterdam, anger in Amsterdam, havoc in the Hague… ya get the idea. Basically because uptake rates of vaccinations are relatively low across that whole ‘low countries and other Germans’ area, they’re enjoying their 4th wave. Possibly 3rd. Maybe 5th. Who gives a shit, a wave’s a wave.

I’m vaccinated. So many times. Against so many things. And here’s what that’s taught me:

Vaccinations are not part of a global capitalist conspiracy
Vaccinations are not a way of culling the population, arguably the opposite.
Vaccinations don’t make you sterile, impotent, dyslexic, autistic, misogynistic or impressionistic.
Though NOT having a vaccination DOES make you a dipstick.

Lesson over. Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Boris has lost it. Assuming he ever ‘had it’ in the first place. He has descended into even more shambolic imbecility than was previously thought possible. He is giddy from so many u-turns. And he’s about to perform another. Has to. The ridiculous ‘social care plan’ which he threw together in a fit of mania with apparently neither thought nor consultation, because a social care plan was desperately needed, particularly in wake of the ongoing sleaze fiasco.

So here’s how it works, according to Boris. Who, pretty much for the first time for any Tory PM, has a mass of seats in the previously staunch Labour, northern working lands. The so-called ‘red wall’, a term I shy away from because it brings to mind Arsenal and free kicks. So anyone entering care will be responsible for the first £86,000, taken from the value of the home they’re leaving. Not a percentage of that home’s value, not a sliding scale of homes valued from £87k (Burnley) to £8.7mil (Richmond), but just a neat, flat, 86K!!!! And all in the interest of ‘fairness’. Holy shit. So Mrs Burnley leaves 10k to her 14 children, whilst Lord Richmond bequeaths shit-loads to whom he wants because the government are paying the rest of his way. Speaking as a Londoner fast on my way to senility, I think this is a great plan. Well done, Boris.

Then yesterday, whilst addressing a group of business leaders, Boris lost his place. Just stopped. Froze. Fumbled with his script. Couldn’t find his place. Possibly in the world. The seemingly endless stream of consciousness for which the PM is famous, seemingly ended.

So he started talking about Peppa Pig World and how great it is. He stopped short of telling this high-powered bunch of CEOs and COOs and other similar acronyms which particular ride he’d strongly recommend, but really. Really Boris? Peppa Pig World???

Although Joey was, for possibly the first time in his young life, suddenly engaged in politics. He loves Peppa Pig and, like Mr Johnson, had the ‘best time ever’ at PPWorld. So maybe this is the new plan: engage the next generation! Because current generations think he’s a tosser, previous generations loathe him (the northerners) or love him (those from the South East). So he’s going for the nappy vote. Or, in Joey’s case, the just out of nappy vote. Maybe he’s not a stupid as he looks. No-one is a stupid as he looks.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx