Andy's Glasses

That weekend was so restful, so relaxing, so peaceful and quiet that I need to get back to work for a rest.

It started as usual, 8.15 tai chi class, stretching, bending, flexing, punching, kicking, throwing and other mindFUL violence. We don’t do the ‘mindless’ variety, though I could see how an onlooker might not quite get that. Followed as always by tennis at 11. Then rush home, shower, lunch and into a tuxedo(!!!! And yes I looked fucking gorgeous in penguin mode even though its been a while without practice. The full James Bond), and off to the countryside. Beyond the countryside. Into the forests and fields and trees and shit of deepest Hertfordshire for the nuptials of the niece. Which was indeed splendid and Lila was a ‘flower girl’ and performed better than any flower girl in the history of such things. She was outstanding. And didn’t fall over.

And whilst totally engaged and committed to the bride and groom and events of a marital nature, it did not completely pass me by that elsewhere in our green and sceptred isle, certain football matches were producing some interesting results. The family of the bride (aka: my in laws) are Watford fans. And their team thrashed Manchester United as if they too were fellow celebrants making all efforts to make the ‘happy couple’ even happier. Then Liverpool annihilated Arsenal, making everyone else (who counts) even happier. After the meal there was a minute’s silence held in contemplation of Ole Gunner Solskjaer’s career.

Having left home at about 1.45, we arrived back at half past midnight.

And then it was tennis at 10 as usual on Sunday, but with the Berliner daughter this week. A rare treat. For her. From there it was more showers, more changing, then pick up the father/grandfather/great-grandfather for his ‘birthday lunch’. A bit of an institution. Not like the one in which he lives, but in the same restaurant we always go for his birthday. And it was wonderful. Not just the roast beef, not even the amazing Yorkshire Puddings, but the 13 of us, dad’s nearest and dearest. Truly wonderful. Keeping Joey from doing too much damage to a place that has stood for about 40 years. Wasn’t easy. At least nothing structural was destroyed.

Home just in time for Spurs playing Leeds. In the interests of the team, I decided to sleep through the entire first half, because it was so bad. Then woke up to the daughter’s goal celebration and enjoyed the rest of the match. The ‘good bit’. Our bit.

Busy busy.

Happy quiet Monday

A xxxx

I think we need to talk about Azeem. The whistle-blower at Yorkshire Cricket Club, the most racially abused man in cricketing history (not counting pre-1990 South Africa, obvs), the man who drew the line between what others considered ‘banter’ and what he considered ‘institutional racism’, because HE WAS A VICTIM!!!!

All of which I’m in full agreement with. Yet it appears that Azeem himself isn’t. In agreement with it. Which may seem strange, but in regards the post-woke, hyper-cancellation, extreme end of the PC spectrum no-where does it state that you have to be consistent with your own views, nor that your personal views and actions should in any way be in accord. Hypocrisy apparently rules among the twittering classes.

Because Azeem, for so long the recipient of ‘racism-veiled-as-banter’, himself, whilst bantering with a mate 10 years ago, racially abused a bunch of Jews. Well, in fact, all of them. All of us. Because when you invoke a facile and pathetic stereotypical trope, you are always offending everyone to whom that trope refers.

The timing of this new revelation, just as the cricketing world has gone into flagellation overdrove due to Azeem’s testimony, is revealing. I’m just not precisely sure what exactly it reveals. Other than ‘boys will be boys’, all of whom are pretty stupid.

His apology was heartfelt and sincere. But “I was only 19” is simply not an excuse. If you’re spouting anti-Semitic banter at 19, trust me, it rarely eases with age. Nor do the internalised thought processes which formulate those connections go away as you hit 24. Or 29. Or whatever age this magic is supposed to occur. Which obviously is at a slightly different time to Pakistani-driven racism, because Azeem’s abusers were a bit older. Thus were old enough to be totally responsible for their words and actions, whereas 19 is for some reason a bit more excusable. Because if ‘he’s a different man now’, why aren’t they? 10 years down the line.

The tragedy in all this is that, in my mind, it totally dilutes Azeem’s claims. Makes them a bit ‘one rule for us and a different one for them’. And his claims are totally genuine and do indeed indicate a massive need for cricket to ‘clean up its act’. It’s just as if the whistle-blower’s whistle has lost its pea.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Tory government embroiled in sleaze row. Hardly an original headline. If its not David Mellor dressing his mistress up in football kit, or John Major being naughty with Edwina Curry (eeeeuuuwwww), then its claiming ‘repairs to my moat’ as parliamentary expenses, or indeed, providing ‘consultation’ to private companies at massive personal gain in strict contradiction of Westminster rules.

Tory sleaze goes back to the very first Conservative; Sir Harrald Poncenby-Smyth-Hunstanley-Whittenshaw, OBE. He was offered a goat by a farmer in his constituency, so that he might then represent the farm’s interests in government matters. This was before Westminster days, so ‘government’ sat in a swamp in Lincolnshire. On Tuesdays. Harrald took the goat, later married it, then after a domestic squabble had it butchered and sold the meat at a local market, destroying the evidence. He raised many issues for the farmer, always maintaining, in the absence of the goat, that ‘he had no external interest in the matter’. But his larder was always full of eggs, milk and pork.

We underpay MPs greatly and yet expect them to be of a ‘certain calibre’. So the Rushi Sunaks of this world leave highly paid employment with banks, take an 80% pay cut for the privilege of applying his wonderful economic skill to an unappreciative nation. We expect our Attorney Generals to leave their millions-a-year legal jobs to earn 120k as cabinet ministers. And then, when they do a bit of car-washing on a Sunday afternoon to supplement their meagre incomes, they get hauled before committees of unemployable Labourites and accused of all manner of immorality.

That may be a touch simplistic. Even by my own exacting standards of simplicity. But what we can’t have is ‘sponsored MPs’. Government ministers, duty-bound to act always and only in the best interest of the nation, yet paid £200k a year by private companies vying for government contracts. Like Owen Paterson.

So we can either pay them more and ban them from outside ‘consultancy’ work (such a vague and grey word its almost like a license to abuse) or just enjoy the divide and jealousy created by an opposition who would find it difficult to get shift-work at McDonalds.

Just for the record, I like the Labour Party. Just not this particular one. The last version was vile, this one is just horrible mediocre (Kier Starmer’s middle name), or bolshy (Anglela Rayner’s full name) or dull.

Boris Johnson is currently a moron.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

It’s my daddy’s birthday today. He’s 97. I mean… ninety-seven! His mate Lou phoned him last week. Lou is 106. And can still hold a phone. There’s a woman in my dad’s care home who is 105. These people send telegrams to the Queen wishing HER a happy birthday.

The secret of my father’s longevity? A lifelong (and continuing) passion for chocolate. When told by a doctor years ago that his cholesterol level was a touch high and suggested my dad cuts out chocolate, my father asked him why. Because you might live a few years longer. To which my dad replied, ‘yes, but it’ll feel like much much longer’. A pragmatist.

Morris, or ‘Moish’ as we all call him, was born in Whitechapel in 1924. To a poor family. All families were poor back then, otherwise he’d have been born in Finchley or Edinburgh. So you can’t attribute his long life to healthy eating, nor to balanced diet or anything else they try to suggest to us on a daily basis. When he joined the army, in 1942, the thing he most often talks about is the food they had. He loved it. Big meals every day and puddings. He loved those puddings.

As the years have gone on, his physicality has obviously become more frail. He no longer plays tennis. Nor football. His eyesight is terrible, almost non-existent, yet he reads the ‘paper’ every day. On his iPad, ‘stretched’ as big as it can be, and through a high-powered magnifying glass. Until about 5 years ago he was a regular caller to LBC phone-in radio station. Normally moaning that the Tories are just not Tory enough, but over 90 you hit that right-wing buffer and there’s no turning back. Particularly when the only paper available in the correct format for him is The Mail. Poor man has no chance.

His legs are weak, his back is bad, his heart underperforming and he falls asleep a lot. But his mind is razor sharp. He misses nothing. And he laughs a lot. He loves people. When the aged were allowed on the streets, back before 2020, he always talked to people on buses and trains. And his memory is excellent.

And today, his granddaughters are going round to surprise him with a birthday cake. Because they love him dearly. Not because he’s old. Not because he’s ancient. Not because he was the best grandfather anyone could ever wish for. But because he is a truly lovely old man.

Many happy returns, Moish, may you live another 97 years (that’s just an expression)

A xxxx

I had another scan on Saturday. My 17th this year. All things considered. I’ve had MRIs, I’ve had various CTs and now it was an ultrasound scan. On my Aorta. To check for aneurisms. Because when you reach 65 they send you an invitation. No reception with canapés or Bucks Fizz, just pitch up, pull up your t-shirt and have a bunch of slippery slime spread over your abdomen with an ice cold metal… thing. All mothers will appreciate the process. Sadly, I’m not pregnant. Nor do I have an aneurism, not so sadly. And I don’t need to do it again. Ever. If you don’t have it at 65, you’re good to go (on).

They do this. The NHS. Full of checks and scans and tests and things. At 60 they send you a ‘shit-on-a-stick’ home use kit. Its the best fun ever. And its free. Apparently they check for bowel cancer whilst your playing the game. Then they haul me in every couple years to check my lungs. Though that was for ‘nhs research’ so they gave me a 20 quid Tesco voucher for my trouble. Who knew? I’d have gladly done it for nothing but took the voucher and exchanged it immediately for (most of) a bottle of my favourite single malt whisky. Just what the NHS would recommend, I’m sure.

No wonder we’re all living so long that everything else they don’t or can’t test for is becoming a massive drain and strain on resources.

All they really need to do is feed you some ‘erbs and you’ll live forever. Because according to a new study, just a couple tea spoons of black pepper, turmeric, parsley, coriander or several others can reduce blood pressure ‘significantly’. And it was done on Americans who just added the herbs to their usual, 3 supersized Big Macs, giant chips with cheese, chilli and lard, three milkshakes, a gallon of fat coke and 3 kilos of Rocky Road. Their diets were not changed, just ‘erbs added in one group, not in the other. And the blood pressure came (some of the) way down. Pizza’s got lots of herbs on it. Make sure you eat at least one a week. (Pepperoni’s a herb, innit?)

Healthy Monday

A xxxx

As this wonderful little ‘story’ shows us, we have become a people, all of us, the entire population of the world, who, when given any small, pointed object, without questioning, just ram it into our nostrils til it hurts. We’ve become preconditioned to nasal swabbing at every opportunity.

But now we learn that some rather… unscrupulous? Possibly just opportunistic covid testing labs, not content with the billions of pounds they’ve made since the pandemic started, by flogging PCR tests for 150 quid, 120 quid, down to 85 quid, back up to 110, then finally down to the final resting place of about 60 sovs. Not content with that, testees were presented with a tick box about their ‘data’, something else we’re all bored shitless with. If the box isn’t ticked, you don’t get your test, so that pretty well ensures compliance. Because you have to agree with them sharing it with government, with the NHS, with track’n’trace, so you just think ‘yeah, whateverrrrr…’ and tick the box.

Unless you have too much time on your hands or are such a total and absolute dweeb (and that is not purely a bad thing) that you read the massive ‘what we do with your data’ terms and conditions, and then, follow a link to more information of what they might or can or should do with your data. Including ‘further scientific research’. Sounds fair enough. Anything in the fight against Covid, that’s gotta be good, right?

Whereas what they’re really going to do is sell your dna. Amazing how the currency changes. If you stuck something up your nose 30 years ago, all you’d ‘harvest’ was snot. Now you get dna. Which, in the vast numbers involved here, is a bit more valuable. And for which, if anyone other than the reporter actually read that far, ‘they may receive compensation’.

So now, like the diva I was always meant to be, like the princess to which I aspired: I ain’t stickin’ nuffink up me nose wivout getting paid.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx


The first time I set foot in an Indian restaurant my life changed. Forever!!!! It was 1973, the Star of India, in Gants Hill. And it was mind-blowing. Ok, and stomach blowing too, but isn’t that now a considerable benefit? When I returned from California and got myself a flat, it was a 3-minute walk to my nearest Injun. That was the primary criterion I gave the estate agents. The Rose of India. If a restaurant didn’t have the word ‘India’ in the title, it wasn’t Indian. So thought the Indians who opened them anyway. Although as we all know, over 90% of Indian restaurants are owned and run by Pakistanis and Bangladeshis. Which is absolutely fine by me. Because for me, as for most Brits, they create the ‘authentic’ taste of Indian food. As we learn it and know it. It’s only when you go to a ‘real’ Indian restaurant, catering mainly for ‘real Indians’, or even if you go to India itself, that you realise what ‘they’ eat is not exactly ‘chicken tikka masala and chips please, go heavy on the chilli, an’ a pint of whatever Gandhi would have’.

Not sure if Gandhi was a big boozer, but he was certainly a vegetarian. In common with a very high majority of Hindu Indian people. Hence all the Pakistanis and Bangladeshis catering to our South Asian requirements. And doing a great job of it, I must say.

Now, of course, the world has moved on. Not just the prerequisite for one of the words: Indian, Tandoori, Balti to appear in the eaterie’s name, that’s gone. ‘Dishoom’, ‘Gymkhana’, ‘Naan’a That’, they all allude to the cuisine rather than paint it in day-glo colours. And many Indian restaurants have ‘upped their game’, have achieved Michelin stardom, have out-priced the Savoy Grill. And I don’t mind that at all. You have choice. You pay £8.95 for chicken jalfreizi or you can pay £39.50 for the same thing but described in more detail on the menu.

We go to our local version. For no other reason than: as much as I love curry, Mel doesn’t. She spent 3 weeks in India eating pizza. And our little local place she considers ‘safe’. They won’t add a bucket of chilli to her meal. Whereas they will to mine if I beg them to. And I do. Furthermore, as their Google page shows: however expensive, however many Michelin stars, there is NO Indian in the entire UK that can promise a better view of Golders Green bus station.

We went the other night. Spectacular meal. As always. It’s the New Balti Tandoori for us every time. Even the name’s right.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Another person has been ‘cancelled’, this time an art historian who upset the Cambridge University Union. That hotbed of wokiness, right-on-ism, complete humour withdrawal and (if they weren’t so fucking clever to have arrived there in the first place), rank stupidity.

Andrew Graham Dixon chose to illustrate his side of the debate ‘this house believes there is no such thing as good taste’ with an impersonation of Hitler. And Hitler impersonations, unless perpetrated by Oswald Moseley or anyone wearing a white robe and pointed hat, are always mockery. Always. I’m sure the bright souls at Cambridge realise that Hitler himself didn’t speak in English with a joke German accent. That should be the first giveaway. The views expressed thereafter were blatant caricaturisation of the fucked-up little Austrian. Used to make a point. But alas the Hitlerisation was some kind of red line to the assembled band of those who always state their preferred pronouns and so the art dude was henceforth ‘cancelled’.

Other notables have since stated their support of the cancelled man and requested their own ‘cancellation’ in solidarity.

You’d kind’a hope that a bunch of fairly bright kids could work out what is a ‘piss-take’ and what is blatant naziism. You’d hope. You’d also like to think that the place that spawned Monty Python and the Goons and Derek & Clive would be receptive to wit in even some small way, rather than this ridiculous woke reactionary insanity which effectively precludes anyone from ever making fun in their collective presence.

Surely the whole point of a debate is to listen to at least one side of an argument with which you completely disagree? Innit?

I fear that these institutions, previously renowned for their free spirit and creativity, will be reduced to sterile and dull adherence to the politically correct zeitgeist. The alternative way of saying that is: what a bunch of tossers!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

“Why can’t you take your car into the garage, have the petrol engine ripped out and stick an electric motor in there instead?” Makes sense. Logical. Instant fix to the emissions problem. How hard can it be? I’d do it myself. Here’s what you do:

Open the bonnet. Always a good start. Remove the engine and… all the ‘bits’ attached to it. Like exhaust pipes, gearbox… other things. And put it to one side.

Buy an electric motor. On Amazon, they probably sell them. Put the motor into the engine compartment. Wire it up to the wheels. Insert 47 AA batteries and off you bloody go.

No congestion charge, no road tax and no emissions. When the batteries die, about half way down your road, just replace them.

I spoke to a guy last week who is having his camper van ‘converted’. It will henceforth be known as ‘Shlomo the Van’ as removal of exhaust pipes counts as circumcision. Sorry, conversion joke. He actually converted it to electric. It cost £30k. I hope he’s very happy with it.

This problem basically polarises the market in new electric cars.

It is very challenging to take an existing car; body, chassis, frame, and ‘make it electric’. Though most manufacturers, in their panic to jump on the holiest of holy bandwagons (electric ones) have done precisely that. Take a Volvo X40 body, put a couple of electric motors in and jam all the batteries you can in every space you can find. Mercedes have done the same with their EQA. Hyundai have done the same, Kia, lots of them.

The way to build electric cars is to start from scratch. Then you can be clever. Like Tesla. Like the BMW I3. Like the VW ID3. Then you can put the batteries in the floor. This keeps them out of the way and gives the car a very low centre of gravity, which makes it handle like… like an electric car. And you actually design the thing with all the empty spaces in mind, extending the size of the interior because there is no engine block and gearbox. Using existing bodies does not allow this.

The problem is that some of the ‘old’ type electric cars, made with existing parts, are very pretty. The new ones have a space-age look. Which I love, but Mel doesn’t. And its her car. Apparently.

So do you go with old-tech-re-vamp? Or drive a space ship to Brent Cross?

First world problems.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

If someone offers to give you money, no strings, nothing illegal, and, say, you’re an overstretched educational body or an impoverished college desperate for funds, do you just accept it with outstretched arms with a big ‘thank you very much’ and an even bigger smile? Or do you check the provenance of the cash first and make a moral judgment on how that money was acquired, from whence it came, how it was produced? Even though you’re broke and desperate. This is the dilemma faced by Imperial College Oxford and University College London.

They’ve been given money, lots of it, by the estate of horrible sleazy little late Formula One dude and ALLEGED sexual deviant of a ‘let’s dress up 5 hookers in Nazi regalia and see what happens’ nature, to fill their empty coffers.

But wait! Before we start spending the cash, don’t forget that we now live in Wokeland. A horrible country where any comment, gesture or historical action can be brought up completely out of context and thrust back at the family, heirs, descendants with a J’ACCUSE!!!! and demands for action and compensation because someone’s human rights have been damaged somewhere along the way, or possibly some previously unheard-of gender-configuration has been neglected or offended.

In Moseley’s case though you really don’t need to dig too far. His father was a fucking Nazi. Not just an admirer of Hitler, almost an impersonator. So they cry ‘HOW CAN YOU TAKE THE MONEY WHICH HAS A NAZI HISTORY?!?!’ Yet Oswald Moseley didn’t make that money by selling Jewish body parts, though he probably wouldn’t have minded. He inherited the money. It is ‘old money’, as we do so well in England. The money long pre-dates the boss of the blackshirts by several generations.

One academic (and you can see why he’s an academic because philosophy trumps pragmatism in his world) has stated that this money should not go to Oxford but to Jews and Black groups who were given such a rough ride by the father. But its not on offer to them. And its legal money held in trust. You can’t just steal it and send compensation packages all over the Windrushees and Stamford Hill. Though Imperial College could make ‘donations’ with it if they chose, rather than just refuse acceptance.

It’s the same as the ‘slavery’ issues with ‘philanthropists’ of their day making their fortunes selling human flesh stolen from Africa. They were bad people, as we now know to judge them, but their money is useful. Take it and use it wisely. Don’t build them statues, don’t praise and extol them, but take their money. Call it ‘compensation’ if you like. ‘Bad money’ can help just as many people as ‘good money’. Just send it to me if you don’t want it and we can upgrade Mel’s new car by 100 miles a charge!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx