Andy's Glasses

It’s a funny ole world. Lewis Hamilton wins 7 Grand Prix titles and gets nothing (the 50 mil a year simply doesn’t ‘count’, we’re not talking ‘monetary gain’ here) other than a few lumps of cut glass to put on his mum’s mantelpiece. Then he loses a championship, in the most spectacular, violent and brutal manner possible, and they give him a knighthood.

And I looked at this picture and thought: WTF??? What century was this taken???

I know, that’s what makes Britain the greatest place in the world. That we have an unquestionable class system in which one family, just One Family, has the unquestionable, unalienable, unique and exclusive right to bestow ‘class’ upon others, thus ‘ennobling’ them for all time. Amen. ‘For God and the King.’ But not necessarily in that order.

And Lewis Hamilton, for whom I have nothing but the utmost respect and reverence for as the finest driver possibly that the world has ever produced, is actually a bit of a trumped-up little shit. More so after his brush with Charles’s sword yesterday. Sir Trumped-up-little-Shit.

Because Lewis uses his position in the sporting limelight for political statement. He always has, and a credit to him for it. But the sort of political statement he likes to engage is of the ‘right-on’ variety. He supports BLM, rightly so; he wears a rainbow helmet in Shariah countries to make a stand for LGBTQ…and undecideds, he wants to be something of a social warrior. A fighter for the underdog, a campaigner against racism, against elitism, against the unfair distribution of privilege.

And yet he didn’t decline the honour, as so many have. Like John Cleese, like Alan Bennett, Stephen Hawking, David Hockney and the wonderful David Bowie.

Because this photo is, quite frankly, ludicrous. If I held a sword against someone’s neck I’d get arrested. But Bonnie Prince Charlie does it, even dressed up as an admiral, and knighthoods come flying out of the tip. All of which goes to sustain the equally ludicrous ‘class system’ which is so deep-rooted in our nation as to be the main source of division and inequality. In education, employment, virtually everything.

But Lewis suspended his right-on woke-i-ness just long enough to become knighted. I’m afraid he has diluted and weakened his normal political stance.

Happy Thursday

Lord Conway of Gants Hill, KCM, GCI, FBI, UB40…
xxxx

Ninety-nine conservative MPs voted against their own government yesterday as Boris attempted, successfully as it turned out anyway, to turn us into a police state, removing our freedoms and turning us into a “SHOW ME YOUR PAPERS!!!!!” regime, in the model of Nazi Germany or Russia any time since 1917. They probably do it in North Korea too, but no-one’s ever witnessed it and come out alive.

The inflammatory, controversial, highly contested, freedom-limiting, restriction-overdrive ‘Covid Passport’ is indeed divisive. For me, with my triple-vax status and an armful of holes, I can go into a nightclub any time I want. Although the times I’d want to do such a thing, they’re probably not even open yet. But YOU, you great unvaccinated, conspiracy-theorising refusenik and Covid risk, can’t come with me.

The point no-one seems to have mentioned, of course, is that vaccinated people can, do and will still get Covid. It affects them less, but they still get it. And thus, can carry it, transmit it and spread it. In fact, we, the great vaccinated heroes, represent a far greater risk because we’re far less likely to know we have it. Whereas the unvaxxed kind’a realise they do as the pipe is sliding down their throat at St Thomas’s.

However. Vaccine passports is what was decided, so parliament has to vote. But again, unfortunately, most conservative MPs chose not to vote on the matter at hand. Instead they chose to hold their own ‘vote of no confidence’ in the Prime Minister. I know, Covid is serious shit, Omicron more deadly than the nuclear arms race, but when given a chance to make statements about the competence of the nation’s leader, that’s how they chose to vote. Plus, all real conservatives have understandable issues about infringements of freedoms and ‘carrying papers’. Whereas the Labour lot are not quite so ‘democracy sensitive’, as Corbyn showed and Starmer can’t quite rid himself of, so the Tories knew that the whimpish opposition leader would ‘whip’ his team into any covid panic available. Thus Boris achieved ‘the right result for the wrong reason’. Which, knowing Boris, is just fine. He can live with the shame of being shunned by his own party. He lives with one kind of shame or other every single day.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

“We’re all goin’ on’a, winter holiday, no more workin’ for a week or two…” Probably.

We’re probably going on holiday. On Christmas Day. Tenerife. All planned, booked and even paid for at least 3 waves ago. On Boxing Day Lila and Joey are coming to meet us there, probably bringing their mum & dad, not sure. And the ‘rogue’ daughter is flying over from Berlin to hook up with us too. It’s all very exciting. Until you hear those dreaded words: ‘Boris is making an announcement tonight’. Then it all gets rather more stressful.

I should actually be more concerned with Spanish announcements. Probably proclaiming that they don’t want no stinkin’ Brits comin’ over with their Omicrons, but you know that most countries don’t go into knee-jerk mode every time someone sticks a cotton bud up their nose.

On Sunday was Boris’s last announcement. But he mentioned neither me nor Tenerife specifically. All he mentioned was ‘boosters’. And mentioned them 427 times in a 6-minute announcement. If there was a prize for blond-haired tubs of lard saying the word ‘boost’, our PM would definitely win, hands down. Unfortunately that’s about the only competition he could win.

There are more announcements on the horizon. More specifically about travel. And although it makes no sense for us to have to ‘quarantine’ upon our return from a fairly covid-free place, back to Omicron Central, logic and Boris, where coronavirus is concerned, remain strangers.

I am not paying 3 grand to spend 10 days locked in a 6 foot by 8 foot room in the Holiday Inn Express getting junk food delivered 3 times a day. It’s just not good value. I have no real issues with spending time in cheap hotels nor eating junk food, that’s why we’re going to Tenerife, but its worth about 250 quid at most. I’m thinking of starting an ‘Mis-selling’ class action litigation against the government.

And today Sajid Javid said that quarantining will actually be stopped for returning holidaymakers. Which makes so much sense, they probably won’t do it. Because WE have the highest rate in the world. WE seem to be ‘the problem’. Not much point quarantining us here.

I’ve got my suitcase out and placed a pair of swimming trunks in it. And that’s all I’m prepared to do until Christmas Eve.

Happy Hopeful Holidays

A xxxx

When. WHEN. WHEN!!!!!???? did I become ‘that person’? Can’t have happened overnight? Did it? Must have taken months, years, decades? Possibly covid accelerated, exacerbated, contributed, accumulated…

But one day I was a really lovely, easy-going, no-cares kind’a dude who took everything in his stride, and now I’m a short-fuse away from anger, insult, abuse, swearing, totally intolerant, impatient, inflammatory, who gives no quarter and takes NO FUCKING PRISONERS!!!! on my path through life’s trivia.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, I’m the same as I’ve always been but have been ‘driven’ to my new persona because everyone else on the planet has changed? For the worse.

On Thursday I was driving down a narrow road (they’re all narrow round my way), just enough room for two cars to pass each other. And the BMW I3 coming towards me started to drift a bit onto my side. I don’t slow down. I can’t. I’m in ‘my lane’ and have right of way. Even if it costs me the side of a car to demonstrate. It drifted further, I went for the horn and looked (close enough at that point) at a women with one hand on her steering wheel staring down at her own lap. I was looking at the top of her head. She looked up, still laughing at what had been happening on her phone. Funny enough to justify the 15 grand’s worth of damage about to be inflicted on her vehicle if she hadn’t been so rudely interrupted and forced to pull over. I left my hand on the horn for about 20 minutes. To make the point. And I wanted that woman tortured before being imprisoned for the rest of her life. I swore quite a bit. More than usual.

Yesterday I went to Superdrug to buy my father some denture fixative. Just ‘popped in’ because it was quiet. I gave the cashier a 20 pound note and waited. Five minutes of inactivity later I enquired if there was a problem. The till won’t open. Oh. Can we use another as there are about 15 empty ones in a line here? I’ve called for help. Ok. Help arrived in the loosest possible definition of ‘help’ in the form of a dipstick with a lanyard. Who spent the next 5 minutes pressing buttons and getting confused between the sale price and the change to be given. Then, without word to me or to the original dipstick (sans lanyard), she walked away. To another till. But did nothing she hadn’t been doing for the last 5 minutes, and with no greater success. I didn’t want to swear. Which means I could not speak at all. Because it would have happened. I just pointed at my note and dropped the Denture stuff on the desk and walked out. My dad can eat porridge for a few days. He likes porridge.

In fact I went to Boots, bought the same stuff, 59p cheaper (!!!!) and paid with a card. But really. Till won’t open. Really?

Calm down. Breaeaeaeathththeeee…

Happy Saturday (I hope)

A xxxx

Cabinet Office, yesterday morning…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile for me, its going to be a

Very Happy Monday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yours impartially,

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

Happy Monday

A xxxx