Andy's Glasses

I like playing tennis in the ‘elements’. Not the ‘elements’ of the periodic table, because lead would be a bit of an issue, helium leads to strange voices and you just never wanna do uranium. I mean the other elements. Because I just played tennis in Storm Arwen. And it was great. Hurricane winds, driven rain, sleet, hailstones and fucking locusts. Perfect tennis conditions. If you’re a true hero (read: FIRST DEGREE DICKHEAD) like me and Spurs Paul, you don’t just put up with playing in slightly adverse conditions, you embrace your inner schmuck, you realise that its windy, rainy tennis or no tennis, and you (as our esteemed and on the verge of a total breakdown Prime Minister would say:) you get the job done. So now, like those imbeciles who follow tornadoes around America, we are going to search out the storms as they start and play tennis in the middle of them.

A job that is made infinitely easier by global warming and the climate disaster. Because before Greta Thunberg was born, it never rained heavily. Oh, right, of course it did. Well, there were never droughts in India and Africa. Oh, but there were? We never had storms. Only… errrr… every year. Or so. Lots of them. Ahhhhh, but here’s the thing; before global warming, they were just storms. The absolute proof of climate disaster and emissions-related clusterfuck is that the storms we now get are in ALPHABETICAL ORDER!!!! And that could NEVER happen without global warming. So bring on Storm Brunhilda, Storm Boris, Storm Bohemian Rhapsody; WE’RE READY FOR YA!!!

In fact the only thing that will stop us playing tennis is ‘variants’. You really need no longer state ‘variants of what?’ because everybody knows. And variants get names too now. Strange ones. Greek ones. Which don’t necessarily translate. Because why would you bother with terms like ‘Kent’, and ‘India’ and ‘South Africa’ just because they are where the variants started? When you can use the far more explanatory ‘alpha’, ‘delta’ and (FFS) ‘omicron’, the only letter of the Greek alphabet I’ve never heard of because it is not used as a mathematical constant. So I suppose its about time it had some proper recognition. Let’s use it to re-name THE CARRIER OF DEATH!!!!

And to the very mention of the word ‘variant’ there is immediate reaction along the lines “there goes that fucking holiday then”, or “we’ll reschedule the wedding for next year”, or “you know when we said ‘Christmas will be ok’, well…”

Happy shitty, rainy, stormy, varianty Saturday

A xxxx

We’re getting a regulator. Not just me; everyone. Every football fan is getting regulated. Well, not so much for us fans (though certain fans, of certain clubs, could indeed do with more than a little ‘regulation’; you know who you are) but the new regulator, for all of English football, is to be appointed following a ‘fan-led’ review of the (once) beautiful game (until the money ruined it). And by a ‘fan-led review’, I don’t just mean that they were singing ‘one regulator, we need one regulator; one regulaaaaaa-tor, we need just one regul..’ all the time, but that the points raised in the review were done so by the fans. Not the players, not the managers, certainly not by the owners or boards who I would barely trust with a dirty nappy, let alone the national game, but ‘us’ fans. Because when you think about it, we ARE the clubs. Everyone else is subject to a revolving door of different periods of revolution. Players come and go, managers certainly come and go, particularly at Spurs and owners, if left to their own devices, will sell anything for a fast buck, including, as recent events have shown, their own league.

The review was conducted under the leadership of Tracey Crouch (no relation), an MP. And she decided that the Premier League clubs must be answerable to a regulator. And although there is a big noise coming from all the owners about their clubs paying a ‘transfer tax’ to support lower league football, and other restrictions, which will be argued by the immense teams of lawyers at these clubs’ disposal, Tracey can trump them all. Because she can get it sorted through parliament. In which respect, this humble MP for Chatham and Aylesford carries more clout than all those mercenary billionaires combined. And part of this regulation will see a ‘test of integrity’ by anyone or any state (as happened at Newcastle, at Manchester City in real terms) trying to buy a football club.

I’m hoping this might be applicable retrospectively. The integrity of current owners too. In which case, we might have a Black Friday sale of Chelsea, Arsenal, Manchester City, Newcastle, Tottenham, Manchester United, Liverpool and Everton. West Ham might pass some vague ‘integrity’ criteria but would fail on morality grounds due the pornographic history of one of their owners.

So well done Tracey. Something has to change, FFS.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Covid’s back. Ok, it never went away, in any form of reality, however depressing that may be. Worse still ITS NEVVVEEERRRRR going away. So any ‘going away’ is purely an act of attitude, of consciousness, of… delusion. Which is, really, what I’m best at. Which is why I can say with assurance: “I’m over it!!!” Completely. Its done. It is an ex-virus (in my mind) and I’m on to the next one. Which is a rather pesky cold. Which looks like Covid, sounds like covid, is viewed by all my fellow tube-travellers as covid but, according to the lateral flow tests I take every (fucking) day, it is emphatically NOT covid.

Though new cases are still at 40,000 a day in England. That’s 1.2 million a week. Which is odd, when life appears so ‘back to normal’. Yet hospitalisations and ‘deaths’ remain quite low. There are many theories as to why this is so. Because the whole purpose of vaccinations is to stop the spread. And we’re all vaccinated, but its still spreading. Ok, the vaccines protect us from symptoms of a death-like nature, but really, they’re supposed to stop us getting it altogether, so we can’t share it.

Yet in many parts of Northern Europe, it is indeed back. With a vengeance. Austria is locking down properly (remember lockdowns, he says with something approaching nostalgia, ahhhh) much to the displeasure of the vast masses of Austrians who are opposed. Germany has introduced new measures. The Belgians are revolting and as for the Dutch!! Holy shit there’s been riots in Rotterdam, anger in Amsterdam, havoc in the Hague… ya get the idea. Basically because uptake rates of vaccinations are relatively low across that whole ‘low countries and other Germans’ area, they’re enjoying their 4th wave. Possibly 3rd. Maybe 5th. Who gives a shit, a wave’s a wave.

I’m vaccinated. So many times. Against so many things. And here’s what that’s taught me:

Vaccinations are not part of a global capitalist conspiracy
Vaccinations are not a way of culling the population, arguably the opposite.
Vaccinations don’t make you sterile, impotent, dyslexic, autistic, misogynistic or impressionistic.
Though NOT having a vaccination DOES make you a dipstick.

Lesson over. Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Boris has lost it. Assuming he ever ‘had it’ in the first place. He has descended into even more shambolic imbecility than was previously thought possible. He is giddy from so many u-turns. And he’s about to perform another. Has to. The ridiculous ‘social care plan’ which he threw together in a fit of mania with apparently neither thought nor consultation, because a social care plan was desperately needed, particularly in wake of the ongoing sleaze fiasco.

So here’s how it works, according to Boris. Who, pretty much for the first time for any Tory PM, has a mass of seats in the previously staunch Labour, northern working lands. The so-called ‘red wall’, a term I shy away from because it brings to mind Arsenal and free kicks. So anyone entering care will be responsible for the first £86,000, taken from the value of the home they’re leaving. Not a percentage of that home’s value, not a sliding scale of homes valued from £87k (Burnley) to £8.7mil (Richmond), but just a neat, flat, 86K!!!! And all in the interest of ‘fairness’. Holy shit. So Mrs Burnley leaves 10k to her 14 children, whilst Lord Richmond bequeaths shit-loads to whom he wants because the government are paying the rest of his way. Speaking as a Londoner fast on my way to senility, I think this is a great plan. Well done, Boris.

Then yesterday, whilst addressing a group of business leaders, Boris lost his place. Just stopped. Froze. Fumbled with his script. Couldn’t find his place. Possibly in the world. The seemingly endless stream of consciousness for which the PM is famous, seemingly ended.

So he started talking about Peppa Pig World and how great it is. He stopped short of telling this high-powered bunch of CEOs and COOs and other similar acronyms which particular ride he’d strongly recommend, but really. Really Boris? Peppa Pig World???

Although Joey was, for possibly the first time in his young life, suddenly engaged in politics. He loves Peppa Pig and, like Mr Johnson, had the ‘best time ever’ at PPWorld. So maybe this is the new plan: engage the next generation! Because current generations think he’s a tosser, previous generations loathe him (the northerners) or love him (those from the South East). So he’s going for the nappy vote. Or, in Joey’s case, the just out of nappy vote. Maybe he’s not a stupid as he looks. No-one is a stupid as he looks.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

Busy busy.

Happy quiet Monday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boris Johnson is currently a moron.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

Healthy Monday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Sunday

A xxxx