Andy's Glasses

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

I heard a great point last night on the radio. I was waiting for my father-in-law to come out of the hospital after his short stay which became a slightly longer stay because someone on the ward had covid. He was ‘being sent home’ by ‘hospital transport’, because ‘we can’t allow normal people, or taxis, to drive patients home’, at 4 o’clock. By 9 o’clock, the rules changed and we were allowed to collect him. Either that or Mel’s car was declared an ‘honorary ambulance’, I don’t know the details but otherwise it was to be at least another 2 hours if they took him. And as I waited in the car (ambulance bay, thought it best to stay in case they didn’t know about Mel’s car’s new status) I heard a woman talking about last year’s Number-10-gate issues. Specifically the second one, in which during the lockdown, gatherings more than 3 people banned, there were 7 people, including Boris, and Carrie, in the garden at Number 10 drinking wine and having fun.

Oh, that wasn’t a party, that was ‘a work meeting’. Ahh, the ‘work meeting’ escape clause. Except…

Why were they drinking wine whilst working? Lawyers can’t do it, accountants not permitted, virtually no-one is allowed to do it. But running the country (that’s what Number 10 meetings do) is something people can do whilst pissed. Not like there were any problems at that time, I s’pose. And furthermore, why the F*** was Carrie there? At a ‘work meeting’? She is not part of government, she just sleeps with it. And thus, in the interests of national security, represents a risk. She could be a ‘mole’. Certainly resembles one.

So yet again, its a wonderful ‘out of the frying pan into the fire’ moment for our esteemed PM and his moronic team.

Which is why we’re not having our ‘usual’ pre-Christmas lockdown. Not for scientific reasons, nothing to do with health, the pandemic or infection rates. But because such a demand or request would be laughed off the front pages of the newspapers.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Omicron is serious. Nothing to do with case numbers, airport closures, party restrictions or even deaths. When football stops; its serious. And out of 10 fixtures this weekend, only 4 were played. Most of which didn’t count. The Arsenal match certainly was of no concern to anyone and Newcastle losing the Middle East derby match (Abu Dhabi vs Saudi Arabia) to Manchester City was a surprise to no-one south of Gateshead, east of Riyadh.

But fortunately, for all of football, for all of sport, for ALL OF MANKIND, one of the matches was simply magnificent. Of course, the term ‘magnificent’ is in the eye, the gut, the mind and the sanity, of the beholder. For Northerrners like Gary Neville, he can declare ‘the best football ah’ve sin all yer’, because he’s a semi-literate Mancunian (ie; one of the clever ones) whereas for Spurs fans… well Spurs fan numero uno, it was edge of the seat panic for 90 minutes plus stoppage time. But there was so much to admire. Brilliant play, by both teams, goals, squandered opportunities aplenty (by my team), excitement, passion, commitment and 2 instances of extreme violence. About which, I’d like to set the record straight.

Harry Kane’s yellow-card tackle on Andrew Robertson was perfectly fair and decent and innocent and innocuous. The fact he ‘appeared’ to take the ankle in a somewhat ‘studs up’ manner was just because he happened to be wearing football boots at the time. A coincidence. The referee made the right choice of coloured card. Jurgen Klopp disagreed, so he got one too.

The second incident was rather more sinister. The same Andrew Robertson, this time on the giving end to Emerson Royal. Who was brutally savaged onto the ground in a quite frankly unforgivable tackle. It deserved the red card which was, eventually, given. We simply can’t allow such reckless assault tarnish what was otherwise a truly beautiful game. Unless its perpetrated by my team.

The game did indeed live up to Gary N’s hyperbole. If you were a ‘neutral’, rather than an ‘ulcer grower’, it was just excitement and action, end-to-end, non-stop.

But what made me really happy and proud was that we were never ‘in awe’ of Liverpool, never put out of our stride, even when the pressure was on.

Antonio Conte is growing on me. Much like all our new managers do. For a while. But, as they sing in Cabaret, ‘maybe this time, he’ll stay’!!! (Pause for tears).

Very happy Monday

A xxxx

By Christmas Day there will be (an estimated, always fucking estimated) 55,000 NHS employees at home with Covid. Oh. My. Gooooooooodddd…

Will any of them be ill, dying, ready for hospitalisation, at death’s door or ready for euthanising? No. Will they be ‘ill’, feel poorly, a bit under the weather? Yeah, a few, for about 3/4 days. Then they’re just sitting there, feeling fine, asymptomatic and probably no longer capable of transmitting it to others. But for another 5 days, its Netflix, Big Mac deliveries and as much booze as they’re poor livers can absorb. Oh, and boredom and guilt. There’s always balance in life.

Thus, is the problem ‘omicron’? Or is the problem the stupidly over-cautious 10-day arbitrary isolation period?

Because if the NHS is affected, so are schools, rail and bus services, ambulances, police, fire departments…

And here’s the best bit: ITS ALL A LOAD OF BOLLOCKS! We’ve been duped, again and again, by our misguided, misled, mistimed, underperforming, over-exaggerating government. Without wishing to sound all Piers Corbyn about this, the current reaction to ‘the pandemic’ is stupid. And cobbled together from the early ‘bits’ when we knew nothing about the virus, and various add-ons as conditions changed. Without anyone taking a proper, objective, bottom-up view and re-wiring our Covid rules. And we need it now.

We were told ‘the vaccination is the answer’!!! And it was. Unfortunately, they got the question wrong. Then it was ‘second vaccinations’, followed by ‘boosters’!!! All of which I’ve had and I’m ready for more. Soon to be an addict. Yet oddly, people are still getting Covid, in their hundreds of thousands. Yet, praise be, none are going to hospital and none are dying. So someone in government has to look at this and think: WTF???

It’s not working. The economy is dying, the pubs closing down, businesses doomed, not because of the pandemic but because of the government’s response to the pandemic. And the panic about ‘overloading the NHS’ which really is not going to happen. Other than with all the other operations and procedures which aren’t being done due to covid-paranoia.

Chris Witty can fuck off, Boris can go to hell (it’s only a matter of time anyway), we need some new blood in there. Someone who can think outside of the ‘box’. That ‘box’ currently constructed using panic, paranoia, overreaction, ignorance and lack of logic.

I’ve ‘ad enough.

A xxxx

There was a tragedy on Thursday. Not the one in Leicester when the Spurs match was cancelled for covid. The one in Shropshire (no idea either, I’m guessing ‘up north somewhere’). In which the Conservatives were… ‘mullered’ barely covers it, ‘hammered‘ lacks the potency of the reality, ‘thrashed’, ‘defeated’ and ‘decimated’ all pitifully inadequate. I think, possibly, ‘castrated’ has the impact required to evoke the true nature of the defeat. Because the Tories had held that seat for over 200 years. They had a majority of 34,000. Or, as that number is now known, ‘a third of an omicron’ (yesterday’s infection rate rising to over 90k). And yet they managed to lose the seat by a 6,000 majority. Boris Johnson said ‘he accepted responsibility for the loss’. No shit, Boris.

And now the Conservatives have issued threats. Boris has 3 months to get his act together or face a leadership challenge. 90 days to become a better person. An honest, trustworthy, reliable leader of the nation. Rather than the hapless fuck-wit he is currently perceived to be. How hard can that be?

Well, on the face of it, shouldn’t be a problem. Just stop fucking things up. But unfortunately, Boris has such a vast history of fuckage, it really is almost inconsequential if he does indeed ‘knuckle down and run the country’. Because most of his ‘crimes’ are historical anyway. The Paterson sleaze row was current. And stupid. And in fact resulted in the bye-election. But the parties? They were a year ago. The flat renovation? 18 months. And who knows how many ridiculously extravagant gestures were made to Boris, un-noted, for various other ridiculously extravagant personal expenditures? How many more little illegitimate blond babies will be born in and around the capital? How many more covid cock-ups will surface? How many misjudgments of public opinion can Boris avoid before the end of March?

It’s a big ask to expect Boris to suddenly stop being a liability. It’s even bigger to expect there’s no more skeletons waiting to fall out of his closet.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx