Andy's Glasses

So its started, the battle for the ultimate prize of running a nation devastated by a pandemic, riddled with industrial action, impoverished by the greatest cost of living crisis of all time coupled with massive inflation, on the verge of going to war with Russia and… did I miss anything?

Though on the plus side, its the Wimbledon finals this weekend and the sun’s shining. So its not all bad for the incoming new Prime Minister, once we’ve worked out the ‘least of evils’.

And they are evil. Most of them had already organised their campaigns and social media messages whilst still overtly supporting Boris ‘to the end’. So all of them are two-faced. We get that. That’s politics. So you need other criteria to separate the bastards from the self-servers from the megalomaniacs from the no-hopers (Jeremy Hunt).

So we listen to their tales.

Nadhim Zahawi was an Iraqi refugee, arrived penniless, ate gravel, paper bags for shoes, usual story, and amassed a ‘fortune’ in property before going into politics. And that’s where his own dilemma lies, the one which will probably kill him. As a ‘fortune builder’ registering holding companies in offshore tax havens is seen as ‘shrewd’ and ‘clever’ and ‘canny’. Then, as soon as you are in government, those terms all change to ‘conniving’, ‘cheating’, ‘tax-dodging’ and will be the end of unquestionably the mostest, biggest, ultimatest two-faced of them all.

Rishi has a rags to riches story too. These stories are important. They tell us ‘anyone can do it!!! Regardless of upbringing, social status, anything!!!’ Unfortunately, Rishi tells his mum’s story. Came over from Kenya, ate gravel, paper bags for shoes, etc, but became a pharmacist and ‘rose above her humble beginnings’. Alas, she rose so far above them that Rishi’s own story is one of abject privilege. Winchester school, Oxford, Harvard, marry a billionare’s daughter. So although the people of Rochdale may admire Rishi’s mum, as we all now do, they’re gonna fucking hate Rishi, possibly even more than they do simply for being a rich bastard.

And as far as I can see, the only good thing to come out of this ‘race’ will be the levels of nastiness all the candidates will use upon their ‘friends’ and ‘colleagues’, all the character assassinations, the insinuations of impropriety, the outright gossip… just to show us what nice, discerning people they themselves really are.

My Joey’s a nice person. He’s a fireman. So he went yesterday to what he calls the ‘Armayref Museum’ to help out. We call it the RAF museum, but whose to say whose right?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

He’s going, going, gone. It’s quite unbelievable to think that someone who has had such a massive influence on my life has resigned. As the words of his parting speech washed over my ears, I was at times moved, I was gladdened, upset, devastated and relieved. But after our doubts and our anxieties, yesterday it finally happened and he actually resigned. I feel for him in many ways. Because not playing in the semi-finals with the hope of winning his 23rd Grand Slam is indeed a massive sacrifice.

Oh, what, you thought I meant Boris? BORIS??? Couldn’t give a toss about that fat fuck. I’m talking Rafa!!! After watching him win his quarter final, obviously troubled by his injury was a thing of heroic, painful beauty and commitment. For him to pull out of the tournament now does NOT in any way make him a ‘bloody Spanish wimp’, nor anything like. Just because some of us play through agony and turmoil and arthritic shoulders and even dandruff doesn’t mean others are honour-bound to follow. Rafa could have pain-killered it out in the semi, maybe, but at a massive cost to himself and his playing future. He did the right thing. I’m sure Nick Kyrios doesn’t share our pain.

So I went to the doctor yesterday, actually, to see the nurse. Because I like nurses. And she wanted to see The Amazing Shrinking Man!!!, because Mel mentioned I’d lost height (I’m currently 2 foot 7”), and she thought she should check me out. Which meant draining me of blood, as they always do. And then she asked if I wanted a ‘pneumonia vaccine’. I said ‘yes’ before asking what it was because I simply cannot resist any vaccine for anything, ever. I wish I could have been vaccinated against Boris in 2016, just before the Brexit bollocks, but she wasn’t asking about that. And then she ‘sold’ it to me. Even though I was already rolling up my sleeve. She said: ‘no-one in the world ever died from Covid’. Because Covid can’t kill. What it does is fuck up your respiratory system until your heart gives up or you contract pneumonia and die from that.

HO-LEEEE SHI-IIIIIIIT!!!!! That’s so true and logical and, I would say ‘nice’, but obviously its not. That’s why it was always how many people died WITH Covid. Ahhhhhh. Jab me right NOW!!!!

I think they only give it to the seriously aged. Mel (only a BIT younger) wasn’t offered it. But now I’m SUPERMAN. Next week I’m being vaccinated against green Kryptonite and I’m sorted.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The King is dead: long live the King!!! (or Queen!!!… possibly both, neither, a King who identifies as a Queen, a Queen who identifies as ‘Nigel’, whatever).

And Boris is dead. Figuratively. He has resigned (AT FUCKING LAST!!!) So Long Live…
(Enter your option here) and send to:

The biggest bunch of back-stabbers, Judases, suck-ups, self-servers, narcissistic self-obsessives EVERRRRR,
Conservative Party HQ
Westminster
SW1

Should we condemn even those who resigned yesterday? On the not insignificant grounds that they stood by Boris for sooooooo long? Because although this current shit-storm was precipitated by Grope-gate, that was only the last in a long line of Borisisms. And do we believe the 2 stalwart souls who acted as the catalyst; Rishi Sunak (too rich) and Sajid Javid (too Indian), and now proclaim their ‘integrity and honesty’ over and beyond all else, to be back-stabbing ladder-climbers or ‘for the good of the nation-ers’?

And how about the Borises. Those horrible suck-ups who consistently and repeatedly stood up for each and every lie, cheat and fuck-up the prime minister was responsible for? Would we want any of them for PM?

And Michael Gove? The man most suited to the task, by a long way, sacked by the most dishonourable man ever to stand in public office, for being dishonourable. That asks numerous questions about loyalty, about honour, about motivation.

As ever, this is the time when a new prime minister will arrive un-voted for by the general population. This one has to be hand-picked (rubber gloves essential) by the Tories themselves and only themselves. So its really of no concern what you and I think of any of the sorry lot. It’s all about deals, tactics, betrayals, more back-stabbings and promises made, never to be kept. Or, what we know as, same shit, different day.

Rishi at least, being richer than God, is incorruptible. Sajid is a good man. Zahawi is pretty much beyond contempt and Liz Truss is… is Liz Truss.

In an unrelated message I received today: in all the confusion Diane Abbott has resigned. Ya gotta love that.

Happy Day Boris was Terminated Day

A xxxx

The Clash said it so beautifully: “should I stay or should I go”. Yet neither Joe Strummer nor Mick Jones was ever the Prime Minister. Not even close. They had too much integrity, were too honest and, probably, spat a bit too much in public for higher office. And when the Clash fought the law, the law won. Boris had a different outcome. But heh, that was 9 scandals ago. No-one cares about partygate any longer; we have the Pincher debacle. Though as I said yesterday, it followed the exact same script. “I didn’t know nuffink!”, closely followed by “yes, well I knew that bit, of course…”, and eventually, “I’m so sorry for appointing that man, I knew he was trouble but…”

I was busy watching Cam Norrie playing tennis when the shit hit the fan. Rishi Sunak and Sajid Javid both resigned from their senior cabinet jobs. Norrie was just winning the 4th set and preparing to go into the 5th and final one. I flicked over to BBC News to witness the finest hatchet-job ever on Boris by new political head, Chris Mason. “Are you a fucking liar, Prime Minister?” Real hatchet job. “But you said on Friday you had no idea about Pincher’s past but it transpires you knew EVERYTHING!!!!” I put the tennis back on. 5-all in the 5th. Then Norrie broke serve!!! Holy shit. Boris grovellingly apologised, the same apology he’s wheeled out 17 times since January for the same crime in different contexts and it made me cringe to the point of vomiting so I turned back to see Norrie WIN quite amazingly. Boris lost.

And then the balance was all upon Nadhim Zahawi. He entered Number 10. And was it to submit his own resignation? Which would have there and then ended Boris’s hopes of survival. Or to bribe the PM for the job he wanted using the threat of his resignation? A ‘sliding doors moment’ for all concerned. Would Boris make Nadhim the Chancellor or risk losing him and probably his job?

Would Zahawi do the right thing and resign, due to the PM’s continued incompetence, lack of judgment and amorality? Which would be the right thing for the good of the nation. Or would he take the prize he desired and align himself forever with a tainted man, for the good of his career?

No competition, he’s a Tory. Take the money and run. Thus forever tainting himself as a Boris-lackey. A ‘suck-up’ as I call them. Rees-Mog, Liz Truss, Nadine Dorries, Raab and Zahawi. Always defending the indefensible. Nauseatingly.

Ladies and Gentleman, Mr Nadhim Zahawi, Chancellor of the Exchequer. And Tosser.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Ya gotta love Boris. Ok, you don’t. You probably need to hate the man but his bumbling charm takes effect on even the biggest detractors. Which is me. But amidst the various crises which have occurred during his tenure at Number 10, there is a pattern of responses employed by our esteemed PM and his team of spinning, lying, cheating, obfuscating ‘advisors’.

There was a party at Number 10, Boris!

No there wasn’t. (Total denial)

You were there, its on film.

Ah, that. It wasn’t a ‘party’, it was work. I popped in, got papped and pissed off again. (The mitigation)

But it was in your diary, Prime Minister, under ‘events’ and ‘bring a bottle’.

Ok, but it wasn’t actually a ‘party’ as such, more… more… sorry, my phone’s ringing.

And now we have Pincher-gate, the Sex-Pest Redux.

Are you going to remove the whip from Chris Pincher, Prime Minister?

Well, let’s see the facts first, he’s a loyal, honest and trusted member of our team with no history of foul play. (Denial)

He groped a man in 2018, Prime Minister.

Did he????

You had the report from the official complaint and examined it when you offered him the deputy Chief Whip post. You actually said “Pincher by name, Pincher by nature”. His file, which is on your desk, had “SEX OFFENDER!!!!” all over it.

Well… errrr… I tried to give him a chance to… errrr… reform and… sorry, my phone’s ringing.

And here’s Boris, still maintaining the most transparent facade of ‘honesty’.

Whereas Kier Starmer has made a u-turn of rather large, and smartly pragmatic, proportions. He was seen on a protest soon after he took charge, demanding another vote on Brexit and claiming that his Labour would have a re-vote and take us back to Europe!!! However, he’s now possibly been shown the results of the last General Election, without question ‘The Brexit Election’, in which the power of the imbecilic desire to leave the EU out-trumped normal party politics. When Labour safe seats turned blue. People who’s fathers had died on picket lines put their crosses by the double-barrelled names of the privileged elite. (I hate stereotyping). So for Starmer to revert to ‘GET US BACK TO EUROPE’ would probably signal the kiss of death for his loftier political aspirations.

Oh well, same shit, different day.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There are few things in life more scary than a serious and dull and even seriously dull Leader of the Opposition trying to look relaxed and cool and hip and groovy at the Pride march. And his worst crime: smiling. An act which requires the use of various muscle groups that in Kier Starmer’s face, have been inert for a long, long time. Resulting in looking like this. Like you’re constipated and have been for months but something might be about to happen.

Angela Rayner’s style advisers were right on the money when they told her: you look like shit, so the only way you can improve it is to stand next to something worse.

Do you really think me so superficial and nasty that I would mock the serious world of our politicians with jibes at their mere appearance? I hope you do. Then you’re learning how I think. No shot is a cheap shot.

Last night I met my own MP. Mike Freer. In keeping with Pride day, he’s gay. But I met him at our local ‘Proms’. Because I live in a very pretentious area, where everyone is cultured and bourgeoise, we have our own series of summer concert things in a big church which most people would never otherwise get the chance to visit on any kind of religious grounds. The concerts are jazz and light classical and we went to see a great gig by a Joni Mitchell type singer with her accompaniment. Which was, in all honesty, brilliant. And because it was ‘local’, and probably because the whole concert season is to raise money for a hospice, Little Mike came along as a doorman. Not in a: ‘if ya ain’t on da list ya ain’t gettin’ in!!!’, kind’a way, because diminutive gay men might struggle with that, but in a more ‘meet the voters’ because you never know when you’ll need them, way. I told him: ‘it’s nice to meet a Conservative MP NOT embroiled in a sleaze scandal this week’, to which he replied: ‘the week’s not over’. I like Mike Freer. Maybe its about time for a gay PM! Certainly could be no worse than our present incumbent. Nor, heaven forbid, the Leader of the Opposition.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

They say that ‘power is an aphrodisiac’ but it would appear that its ability to increase sexual desires and potency has no effect on those upon whom those desires are directed. Other than revulsion, possibly fear and disgust. Well, it does in the Conservative Party, where in this year alone, no less than 5 ministers have lost their jobs and/or parliamentary seats due to ‘sleaze’, generally, predatory sexual assault in the more specific. All men, obviously, and all abusing their relative position of power to intimidate, intoxicate and sexually harass. Whether they’re gay or straight (or anything else) is pretty irrelevant. The crime is the same. Being posh doesn’t render the crime either harmless or victimless. Being raped by someone with impeccable manners is not much consolation.

So we need to know whether these men, these all-powerful masters of the universe, those who RUN OUR COUNTRY, were predatory abusers before they joined the Conservative Party or whether there is something in the Tory constitution which seems to enable and empower such behaviour. Surely they are not driven by a leadership which implies all the time that ‘whatever you can get away with is fair game’, and that the only crime ever is to get caught. That’s the old ‘correlation, not causation’ effect, I feel. Because offences of this nature predate Boris. Thus there is either something inherent in the very DNA of a Conservative which is corrupt and evil or, once catalysed by a modicum of power, the seeds of perverted monster become manifest. Never womanifest. Must be chromosomal. But its a bit much when your elected representative, all suave and charm and compassion and insight, becomes the Yorkshire Ripper once seated on the blue side of Westminster.

Generally not a great day for England. We lost the rugby in Perth this morning to the Aussies, never a good start to a day. Then Katie Boulder lost at Wimbledon, followed by Liam Broady. All the great white (just their attire, obvs) hopes reduced to dust. Never mind, there’s always Heather Watson and Cameron Norrie. They’re tennis players, if ya don’t know. Bloody good ones. I played against Rachie this morning, she’s over for a bit from Berlin. And if she wins, she’s English, if she loses, she’s an honorary kraut. Look, I don’t make these rules. As we don’t score it always makes ruling ‘the winner’ a bit tricky anyway.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

We’re all used to cabinet ministers ‘resigning’. Normally it is done with a heavy heart and a massive Boris boot-print right in the small of their backs. And we’re also kind of inured to the ‘typical scandals’ which afflict Westminster on a regular basis. Cash for questions, dodgy accounting in the ‘expenses’ department, fathering illegitimate children with a transgender kangaroo from Putney South, its all a bit ‘been there, done that…’ But generally its done following a scandal, a scoop by a red-top newspaper, by someone with a long lens, and there’s excuses, mitigation (it was just a constituency meeting… in her house at 4am with no clothes on and half a pound of coke sitting on the table) and a standard format method of delaying the inevitable.

So last night’s announcement from Chris Pincher, the deputy chief whip, that he had ‘drank too much the night before, caused embarrassment and has to resign’ was a clear indication that this was something catastrophically bad. If the man’s leader can lie, cheat and break the fucking law and get away with it, what could he have done that required immediate retirement??? How bad could it possibly be???

And as the Sun revealed this morning; it was bad. Well, fairly bad. Mr Pincher was blind drunk, in a conservative ‘members only’ club and groped two men. Not one. That would have been bad. But two! I mean, what did the first one think when the dirty two-timer ran off to grope another? How demeaning for poor Number 1. Unworthy of further grope-age.

If this had been two women groped they’d be calling for his head. Even if it happened yesterday and not 25 years ago. There’d be uproar. But as usual, the rules and regulations around sexual harassment tend to follow the ‘norm’ and once things get a bit ‘gay’ then everyone tends to back off a bit anyway. Though doubtless, ‘details will follow’. I’m just not sure I want to read them.

Happy Friday,

A xxxx

Now here’s a picture to fill your heart. The world’s best tennis player (as of the taking of this pic the world rankings became totally irrelevant), and possibly the most gorgeous one, decked out in the livery of her beloved football team. My beloved football team. Your beloved football team (if you have sense, style, class and don’t worship the devil). Ironically, in her lifetime, she’s won more trophies than Spurs but that’s a different conversation. One we shan’t be having today.

There are some men (David Mellor) for whom nothing is more erotic than a woman clad in football kit. His preference was the Chelsea kit. He must really hate women. For most of us normal people, fantasy figures are generally wearing sheep-suits and there are swastikas involved, 6-inch heels, a cattle-prod and and a snare drum. But some men…

The best thing of all is that Emma Raducanu wore the Spurs kit for free. She was paid nothing to wear it. Possibly even bought it herself (!!!! Heaven forbid!!!) Which is true dedication and love as she has 10 million pounds a year to wear clothes, jewellery, drive a Porsche (terrible sacrifice for a 19 year old when she’d rather be like all her mates, riding round in a 1997 Nissan Micra, beaten to shit) and ‘endorse’ stuff. She turned down, allegedly, a further 35 million because she didn’t want to dedicate loads more days to prancing round in uncomfortable shoes, hideous dresses and over-the-top jewellery when she wants to be playing tennis. A decision I made decades ago. Though I do wear the hideous dresses when I get back from the courts.

Yet since winning the America Open last year Emma’s form has slumped. ‘Too many distractions’, they say, ‘sacking 7 coaches in 9 months is awful’, they cry, ‘too much, too soon’, the critics level at her. Well fuck ‘em all, she’s a Spurs fan and thus must be treated with the utmost respect and glorified at every step of the way.

Otherwise, its same old, same old at Wimbledon. We all love Rafa, we all hate Novak, Nikos Kyrgios has upped his game (not tennis, but petulant shit-headedness) by spitting at a fan and slagging of a line judge and Murray is moaning, only being slightly distracted by Scotland’s next attempt at independence. And I’m loving it. And loving Emma.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Is there life after football? One of the deep questions philosophers have pondered through the millennia. “I think therefore I don’t play for Chelsea” was Descartes’ early foray into punditry before he gave it up and invented graphs. Aristotle must have been a Liverpool fan to come up with “Happinessis is the whole purpose of life” because he never could have supported Spurs with that kind of attitude without risking suicide.

But as fans we have to endure the ‘close season’. Those arid, sterile, tragic months between May and August when there is no domestic football. And because the World Cup can’t be held until November because its in fucking Qatar, for whom Prince Charles apparently launders money, that tournament isn’t filling our lives now, as it should be.

So instead we have some cricket. And its good cricket. Against the New Zealanders. Who, for a nation with a tiny population, punch well above their weight in all sports. Not good at much else, but sport? Holy shit. The All Blacks are the best in the world at rugby, so are the All Whites great at cricket? Well not too bad, though hopefully, will lose the 3rd and final test at Headingly today if England can just…

And then there’s tennis. The sport I choose to play all year round but watch just once. Wimbledon. Starts today. Emma Raducanu is playing Andy Murray on Centre Court. I may have that wrong, not sure of either of their pronouns, but they’re both there today. In a ‘Brit-fest’ of our… only 2 stars. One of whom has rather faded a bit since we learned he’s actually Scottish.

Thus did we turn to Glastonbury for our temporary entertainment. Not actually go there, heaven forbid, but to watch in the sanitised comfort of my lounge. And I watched… well, just Paul McCartney really. Bit of Billy Eilish because she’s such a talent, a touch of Noel Gallagher because he opened for Sir Paul and as he’s the slightly least obnoxious of the Oasis Brothers, I can almost tolerate him for short periods.

Then Paul. His voice has gone. Well he’s 80 FFS, what d’ya expect. He can hit high notes like I can hit a cross-court, top-spin, backhand volley. Infrequently and not very well. But he is Paul McCartney!!! He’s a Beatle!!! And thus carries a musical statesmanship that few can match. And if they can almost match it, like Bruce Springsteen, they bloody fly over just to sing two songs with the man. And he brought Dave Grohl with him. And seeing fabulous Dave up there, wearing his fucking reading glasses, bless him, spoke volumes about the upwardly ageing profile of true musical stardom. That no-one born after 1970 can aspire to true greatness. Most (other than Adele) can’t even write a song you remember tomorrow, let alone in 60 years time.

Love, love me do.

A xxxx