Andy's Glasses

Watched a movie last night. And the night before really. Couldn’t do it in one go. Because…

Before Xmas the movie ‘The Lost Daughter’ came out to universal, hyperbolic, ecstatic reviews. Olivia Coleman, Oscar tipped. Dakota Johnson… well, gorgeous, what else? Directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal, who wrote the screenplay. Monumental. Outstanding. Earth-shattering. Life-changing. Meteor-avoiding. Pandemic-resistant! Ed Harris was in it. Holy moly, I didn’t know he was still alive either. But he is. And he’s good.

I totally adore Maggie Gyllenhaal. Always have. Ever since The Secretary. I love her brother Jake. And I love the fact that women directors are allowed to find meaningful work in the last industry that avoids any kind of significant diversity. And I seriously ‘do chick flick’. I like Terminator and Saving Private Ryan and anything Tarantino but I also have a more genteel appreciation side. I like rom-coms, I like kid films, I like Bridesmaids, FFS.

La Coleman is brilliant, obviously. She is as stellar as usual and performing like… like Christiano Ronaldo in the snooker team. Like Anthony Joshua in ballet.

Because the movie is dark. Literally dark, with only a few scenes in daylight, the rest, for some reason, dark. Which, for a Greek island setting in summertime, takes effort. Yet I could almost forgive the darkness if it wasn’t so opaque.

But excited we were as we got our popcorn and sat back for a Netflix ‘spectacular’. Because unlike the cinema, we have a much more lax ‘mask rule’ at home. And you can’t shove popcorn through a mask. And we watched…

For half an hour. On the first night. Nothing happened. Nothing that anyone would understand as ‘happening’. So we gave up. Must be our mood, the lighting, too much popcorn. But we didn’t give up. Oh no, not on this baby, not with all those 5-star reviews. So last night we (braced ourselves and) went for the remaining hour-and-a-half. When, it must be said, many things did indeed happen. But you (the viewer) were not privy to their meaning or context. That would be cheating. I initially presumed that this flick was so chick that I simply lacked the oestrogen to appreciate it. No ovaries; no movie, kind’a thing. But Mel was in the dark too. Even with all that femininity bouncing around… femininely.

In short, it was 2 hours of my life I’ll never get back again. Though the popcorn was really good. Whether all those reviewers understood what a sad man missed, or whether it was ‘emporer’s new clothes’ syndrome, I’m not prepared to say. But even Mel was prepared to watch Match of the Day 2 after that.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Ok, so I got the date wrong. I yesterday wrote of my love for the day’s (supposed) date and got it wrong. Just one number but some of you felt the need to correct this flagrant error. Can you just hold that posting and get it out on the 2nd of Feb, the date which I inadvertently decided should be yesterday.

And I’m not saying its not due to stupidity, nor senility, I’m sure both play a part. But much as I love number, and I really do, and I’m not too shabby at maths of geometry or calculus or algebraic nature, my kind of ‘low grade dyslexia’ has always had its greatest effect with numbers. Words are ok, I just can’t spell certain classes of them (ones with letters in being the biggest problem). But numbers I transpose. I do it with phone numbers as I’m writing them down, I do it with credit card numbers as I’m reading them out. It says ‘3791’ but I’ll read it as ‘3971’. Possibly the other way round. I’m not sure which way round I wrote that, they both look the same? Joking.

I was never diagnosed with dyslexia, it wasn’t invented until 1994. Well it was, but nobody claimed it, used it or got extra time in exams for having it. Pre ‘94 your were just labelled as ‘thick’, ‘dense’ or ‘daft’ and got to sit with the other ‘special’ children in the class. And the only ‘spellchecker’ we had was Mr Kennedy, our English teacher, who also used a red underline, like Word does, but his grew progressively more violent as the essay went on. Unfortunately his alcohol intake also increased progressively so you always wanted your essays marked in the morning.

So was that the cause of yesterday’s ‘slip’? I have no idea. Somewhere along the line I’d decided it was ‘02-02-2022’ because it looks so lovely and wish fulfilment did the rest. Dates are such arbitrary things anyway, does it really matter? There used to be 10 months and then they invented 2 more? Yet still they’re arbitrary. A day represents a rotation of our planet. A year represents one revolution of the Earth around the sun. The rest is just made up shit to make you feel bad if you’re late for a meeting. Or post the wrong date.

And furthermore I sincerely hope that absolutely nothing I ever write matters to absolutely anyone. Other than the football, which is important. Essential, even. The rest: total bollocks. That’s the whole point(lessness).

Happy Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

I love a number. And I think today’s date is possibly my favourite. Certainly the best so far this year. So I think we need to read something into it. Because Numerologists have done this sort of thing for years. Rabbis often read a sentence, add up the numbers that the letters represent (a=1, b=2, kind’a thing) and then make all sorts of observations and predictions based upon it. So the sentence ‘My little Jojo is possibly the most destructive terrorist under 3 in the whole world’, might add up to 672, which, divided by the number of words, might make 23.7, which, amazingly, is the number of commandments (errrr… that’ll be 10 then) plus 13.7, which was the precise number of years it took to construct the Western Wall of the great temple in Jerusalem!!!! Thus Joey is NOT the killer and wrecking ball he might appear but is blessed by the Lord and will be a scholar and a prophet! I’m still going to enrol him in hit-man school, just in case they got the numbers wrong. Hedging.

But 02-02-2022 has a wonderful look and an even better sound. Never better than when you say: ‘Desmond 2-2 died just before 02-02-2022’. And if you translate the numeric value of that sentence and transpose it back to letters, it becomes: ‘Tottenham are going to finish in the top four this year’!!! Which is amazing! There is one other alternative transposition which reads: ‘My pet hedgehog Nigel was sexually abused by Prince Andrew’. Not sure whether that in itself is sufficient ‘evidence’ to join the law-suit. Especially as I don’t have a pet hedgehog. And if I did, he wouldn’t be called Nigel.

But I came home yesterday to a positive shit-storm in the football. Spurs and Arsenal both played and both games were won, or lost, in the dying seconds of injury time. Spurs, fortunately, won their match at Watford in the 96th minute. But as they deserved to win, on the grounds that they’re my favourite team, no one complained. Whereas at Arsenal, Manchester City beat them in the 93rd minute after masses of contentious incidents and events, the likes of which haven’t been seen since VAR last fucked everything up, which was… Wednesday. But that was Spurs so the ‘big fuss’ didn’t materialise. We have no sense of entitlement like our north London neighbours. So when a few ambiguous decisions went against them it all went through the roof. Even though there isn’t a roof at the Emirates. Apparently the indignation and upset from the Arsenal fans exploded into the rarest thing to be found at that stadium: atmosphere.

“Sing when you’re cheated, you only sing when you’re cheated, by VA ARRRRR-ARRRR, by VA ARRRRR-ARRRRRR…”

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Another airport. We’re coming home. And I’m going to miss Tenerife. Madly. Deeply. Truly. Miss the sunshine. Miss the free booze from breakfast (or earlier) and availability of all food and facilities all day and night. Cappuccino heaven. And most of all, miss all the morbidly obese people with tattoos. They’ve become part of my life. An important part. Not just so I can feel infinitely superior (which I do, arrogant, smug piece’a shit that I am) but because I like thinking, 427 times a day: “what the fuck were you thinking???” Either for carrying 22 stone surplus around their waists or for having The full Genesis line up (the Mike Rutherford years) inked on her back. Including the roadies. And a few groupies, loitering by the limo. Though even that could be forgiven to a degree, presuming that Genesis played a big part in his/her life. As opposed to the Sanskrit/Arabic/Hebrew/Hindi words scrawled meaninglessly down a ribcage or having a piece of Māori cave-art drawn down an arm and half a torso. I make no judgements.

Because I’m sitting in a airport lounge. Using their WiFi, drinking their cappuccinos, eating their food. It’s not a ‘proper’ lounge to which you have access for just the 3 grand extra your ticket cost, but the ‘other’ type of lounge. The one you normally have to pay for to get in. But due to a historic quirk in a Barclays Bank account, we get ‘endless benefits’ (overselling suit to follow) which includes access for a limited number of times per year, to ‘other lounges’ in virtually every airport in the world. The only exception to this, generally, is the airport you’re actually in when you try to use it. But not today. Today it worked fine. As long as you choose to ignore the ‘lounge full’ sign outside, which I did, and so did the lady on the desk. And at aeropuerto Tenerife South they actually have… outside space!!! I mean, airports don’t offer windows or daylight anywhere, other than a very quick, hermetically sealed, aircraft view in some of the departure gates. But to sit in a lounge with actual air in it?? When the fuck did that last happen? And it didn’t happen totally here either because if you have ‘air’ that apparently is an invitation to pollute it in a non-Thunberg, more-Marlboro kind of way.

And you can spend your last moments in Tenerife watching just a few more morbidly obese people (tattoos optional), drinking beer and sucking on fags as if, ironically, they’re lives depended on it. And one last “what are you thinking???” before take-off.

Happy Landings

A xxxx

I’m not saying Tenerife is perfect, I’m not saying the resort is the ultimate, I’m just saying its rather lovely, aided and abetted by the glorious sunshine. But it is faaaaaarrrrrrkkkkin noisy. Due to the almost infinite level of childage around the place. Which becomes so much ‘white noise’ (a scientific term, not a racist one) which you hardly even notice. Until it gets too hot, too steamy, too sweaty and you just dive into a swimming pool (there are many), between the kids and the inflatable sharks, crocodiles, Paw Patrol rings, Spiderman shit and unicorns, and… and…

Enjoy that Graduate moment. Cool, calm, underwater and, best of all, silence. From the immense decibelage that you’d stopped registering. And it is magical. Like a total sensory blast of karma making everything just perfect. Limited only by the capacity of your lungs.

And every time I do it, I am in ‘the Graduate’. The best film ever (almost), the scene when young Benjamin is being assaulted by all his parents’ obnoxious friends, shouting at where they think his future, as the recent eponymous ‘graduate’, might be best placed. So he, aka Dustin Hoffman, just plunges into the swimming pool and all goes so silent and peaceful that they actually play ‘the sound of silence’ from Simon & Garfunkel’s incredible soundtrack to the movie. For Americans. In case they don’t know what silence means. And, in that wonderful irony-vacuum which they live, need noise to tell them what the absence of noise really is.

That movie is a masterpiece. And thrust Dustin into the limelight he stayed in for the next 40 years, almost unchallenged as the absolute master of character. Only Al Pacino ever came close to a challenge but then he’d start shouting and he dropped back to number 2.

We have our own version of the sound of silence anyway, as Lila & Joey left for the airport. I’ll miss them terribly. Once the relief has worn off. You don’t have to be a grandparent to reconcile those two seemingly contradictory sentences. Any parent will get it too.

The younger daughter returned to Berlin yesterday so its Mel & I who will have to drink for 7 people at tonight’s New Year’s Eve ‘gala’. Which, experience tells us, means we’ll be in bed by 10.30.

Happy New Years

A xxxx

The great thing about ‘child friendly resorts’ is that there’s loads’a kids, running round, shouting, crying, eating ice creams, jumping into swimming pools, having lots of fun and games around their parents who find comfort in the presence of fellow sufferers. The bad thing about ‘child friendly resorts’ is that there’s loads’a kids, running round, shouting…

I suppose really I want a resort that is ‘Lila and Joey friendly’ and those other kids can go somewhere else. It’s a big island. So I’ve been told. We haven’t left the resort and to be honest, we have no intention of doing so. There’s a big volcano here. I like volcanos. Possibly not the one on neighbouring La Palma which has been erupting constantly for about 6 months, bit too close for comfort, but the one here is lovely. Tame. At the moment of writing. But I’ve seen volcanoes. Loads of them. A humongous one in Ecuador. We visited the immense one in Iceland three days before it exploded, shutting the world’s air traffic down for weeks, in 2010 (Mel’s… ‘significant’ birthday turned out to be significant for everyone stuck on holiday. I place no blame, just sayin’).

But I haven’t come to see volcanos. Nor rock formations, Aztec ruins, ancient mosques, the tree Lord Buddha would have sat under for a few years if he’d take a package to Tenerife nor Adolph Hitler’s ‘other’ bunker. I’m here for the sun, the all-inclusiveness and to be child friendly. But only to Lila and Joey for reasons obvious to anyone who reads about ‘historic friendliness’ in the papers.

The all-inclusiveness is a bit of a problem for people like me. People who adhere to the maxim: show me a buffet and I’ll show you a pig. But its not all buffet. There’s a million things to eat here, in a million different ways in a hundred different places. And a zillion places to drink. If you’re so inclined. As so many are. So to compensate, we swim our lengths before breakfast. Mel does her 40 lengths of a 30 metre pool, but she fucking would, wouldn’t she. Rachie does 10 or 12, and I do as many as the shoulder allows. Yesterday that was almost 3, today I made the P.B. of 10. And haven’t attempted to move the right arm since.

Yesterday we went to the gym. I hate gyms. Never ever go but I thought… I thought… well, due to the increased intake (about 20,000 calories of ‘increase’ a day) I should make the effort. And I found a punch bag. But, like, in the literal sense, rather than just some Spanish pool boy I dislike intensely. And that was sheer joy. Punching, but that got a bit dull, then I realised I could kick the shit out of it too, and no-one would mind. So I practiced all my kicks, punches, blows and combinations, and it was cathartic. Like meditation, but more violent. I sweated so much I needed 4 pints of lager and a double bacon cheeseburger just to feel normal before dinner.

There is an ‘adults only’ section here. Lila and Joey have instructed a lawyer about discrimination, their human rights and the general ethics of the adult population.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So what comes first: the desire to have a specific image, one so important, profound and meaningful that you need to have it inked permanently across your tricep, for all eternity, or the simple appreciation of the aesthetic of body-colouring of a certain form and dimension, regardless of its content?

Basically, do you have a burning need for a swastika somewhere on your body or do you just feel compelled to modify your body’s appearance to enhance the natural beauty it was born with?

Personally speaking, it was a combination. When I was 8 I had a Tottenham cockerel inked down my calf. Sitting on a football. The cockerel, not me, I was lying on a bed screaming. Then I had my o’level results tattooed on my foot. Only the passes, obviously, so I actually only needed one toe once I was told that ‘F’ wasn’t a pass at all. Turned out to be a great conversation piece as people on the beach ask me ‘why do have ‘woodwork: D’ on your big toe?

I then had the names of all my sexual conquests (consensual only, for future legal reasons), down the outside of my right leg. Then continuing up the inside for the later years. Extending up round to my hip and onwards to the shoulder. Those whose names are unknown were listed as ‘Princess Caroline’ because I always wanted to but felt a certain inevitability about the failure. Those who changed their names (you know who you are, KEVIN!!!) were listed as they names I was told (Kerry).

But then, after all those meaningful things, I decided I just wanted more space filled with ink. A lot more ink. More ink in fact that I then had body space for. So I decided to increase this significantly. I consulted a tattoo therapist who created the 5-point plan. Beer, loads of shit food, more beer, more food, more beer, more beer. And within a year I had doubled my effective surface area. Shaving my head obviously created another little ‘canvas’ and I was ready for some serious inkage. At which point the content was less important than space filling. Just like a newspaper.

And I went for whatever the artist suggested. Hence Christ the Redeemer across my shoulders, Elvis on my head and an Eiffel Tower on each testicle. Bruce Lee adorns my left shoulder and Lady Diana my right. Mother Theresa sits between them. With the Dalia Lama. Sitting in a 1960 Chevrolet Corvette.

And that’s the real reason I’ve come to Tenerife. It is the spiritual home of all shaven-headed fat bastards covered in tattoos.

Happy Holidays

A xxxx

So now, if I’m ‘reading’ this situation clearly (do I EVER do otherwise????), it is thus:

We’re contracting Omicron so fast that it can defy the speed of light and infect people BEFORE they come into contact with it. Half the world’s population will have Omicron by… the time you read this, if not, by next Tuesday. And yet, only 3 people out of every 22 million actually have symptoms worse than a runny nose and sore throat. 1 person out of 9 billion will end up in hospital and that person is called Nigel Watson and he’s a fanatical anti-vaxxer, thus reaping what he sews. Half a person out of 13 trillion will die!!!! And his name is Kevin Watson and he will be fondly remembered as a dipstick who believed all the shit his stupid brother spouted.

However, despite the relative lack of seriousness of Omicron, it is so amazingly contagious that we need to stop its spread by finding as many ways as possible to make our lives miserable. Omicron dies in the face of the misery and suffering of its hosts. So mask wearing will continue, lockdowns may follow but as we rename everything with each new variant, we’ll call them ‘circuit-breakers’ this time. And, of course, anyone getting the virus will remove him/herself from society and isolate.

So basically, we’re facing (for most people), getting a cold. And to avoid that, we’re quite prepared to make sure that, as Omicron numbers continue to rise, society gradually grinds to a complete halt due to the sheer number of those ‘in isolation’.

There’ll be no-one to drive the tubes, collect the rubbish, wait tables in restaurants, kick footballs on pitches, drive ambulances, lorries, buses; serve in shops, fly planes or, most important of all, deliver pizzas! They’re all at home with runny noses. Waiting for their 9th vaccine. As everything gradually closes down. Other than the hospitals, but the doctors and nurses are all isolating. At least they’re not ‘overwhelmed’ as people don’t turn up to the hospital for a cold. They go to Boots and buy tissues. Sadly, Boots hasn’t opened due to staff shortages.

That’s the story as we fly off to Tenerife, as long as the flight crew turn up.

Happy Christmas Day, as long as Santa turns up.

A xxxx

I ran round to the shops. As I left I called out for Alexa to guard and protect the house with her fucking LIFE!! Well, play Smooth Radio so that any would be burglars would be duped to thinking the home was occupied. Hah. Fooled them! Then I came back, no burglars around, and realised why I never listen to Smooth when I’m inside the house. White Christmas came on. Bing Crosby. The greatest Christmas song ever written, which no man should ever have to listen to twice. Let alone 63 times every day, every fucking year, from October 17th to January the bloody 9th!!!! I screamed at Alexa to change to Absolute Classic Rock. Phew. Bing went. Steve Tyler was singing about how a Dude looks like a lady. I immediately went online and ‘cancelled’ Aerosmith. Transphobic bunch of misogynistic, non-PC gorillas!!

The world order is changing. There’s no use of the word ‘Manchester’ in the Carabao Cup semi-finals. ‘Carabao Cup???’ I hear you ponder, ‘who gives a shit about the Carabao Cup?’ The answer to which is: the teams still in it. That’s why it represents the absolute ‘perfect’ Cup. If you lose you just claim it was a ‘distraction’ and now you can concentrate on really cementing 14th place in the league. But if you win, it suddenly takes on a new importance, less of an irrelevance. Which is why those last 4 places are now occupied by ‘the big 3’ and Arsenal. (For definitions and terms and conditions to entry into ‘big 3’, or ‘big 4’ status, please contact me personally to make something up for you. Arsenal fans need not bother, there is no appeal, my word is final. It ain’t gonna happen.)

Spurs beat West Ham last night in the quarter final. West Ham have always been really horrible, but now they’re horrible with aspirations way above their natural position (about 16th in the table). So it was nice to take them down a notch. Rabble.

But the Liverpool Leicester match was special. Leicester take a 3-1 lead, at bloody Anfield!!! Then, with the inevitability of a covid wave, Liverpool came back and scored the tying goal in injury time. Sending the match into penalties. Which I just had to watch, even though that was inevitable to a degree as well. And Liverpool won. Unfairly (if you’re Leicester fan), totally deservedly (NEVER GIVE UP!!!) if you’re a Liverpool one.

So now, as Spain is today going back to ‘masks to be worn outside’, we have 2 more days to panic that Tenerife might close its borders. I’ve filed tracking forms, I’ve ordered ‘day 2 tests’, and now I continue to panic. As is my right.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Oh my, that ‘poor’ woman, Princess Haya of Jordan, aka Sheikhess Haya of Dubai. A terrible tale of money (ever such a lot), of love (not quite so much), of divorce (quite a big bit) and of corruption and power, the twin horns of the devil.

Because Sheikh Mohammed is the absolute ruler of Dubai, he gets to have as many wives as he wants. Haya was his 6th. And presumably the youngest, certainly the best looking and definitely the most equestrian of them all.

6 wives. Like Henry the VIIIth. Except unlike Henry, Mo can have them all together, without all that messy beheading. Mo does that stuff for fun. So every few years Mo just kind’a ‘adds to his collection’ of wives, has a few more children. It’s like getting a new car every year but keeping all the old ones in the garage. For emergencies.

The kids grow up, run away, Mo sends hit squads round the world to round ‘em up, wheel ‘em in and lock ‘em up. Possibly murder them but that is just an allegation and Sheikha Latifa is live and well… somewhere. He has 16 children. Ok, possibly just 15. Ahhhh, its good to be king.

So, unhappy with her lot, presumably a bit depressed at sharing her husband with 5 others, vying for attention, being ignored, maybe sitting on the bench in their 5-a-side matches, or worse still, playing goalie, she seeks affection elsewhere. One of her (many) bodyguards. Who, and I’m speculating here, are put there by Mo not merely to protect his wives from baddies and kidnappers, but to ‘guard their bodies’ for his exclusive use. So a bit of irony in Dubai as Princess Horsey starts riding the hired help. Who then blackmails her for 7 million quid otherwise he’ll tell the Sheikh. Who, you can sort of imagine, won’t be too thrilled. Heads would, quite literally, roll.

Haya runs off, with the kids, to England. For safety and security. And a divorce. All super-rich want to divorce here, our courts give the best settlements. But Mo, in the interests of fairness and honesty and openness, has her phone hacked and that of her lawyer. Who, according to his team of spies, has double pepperoni on her pizza and couldn’t get an appointment with her hairdresser last Tuesday.

The courts awarded this lowly ‘6th wife’ a mere £554million. Not ‘a year’, but just a one-off payment. I wonder what higher ranking wives might get? Included in that (quite ridiculous) sum was funds for her ‘security’. Basically, he has to pay her so she can hire people to protect her from him.

This story has it all. Except goals. She must be a better goalie than she lets on.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx