Andy's Glasses

I’ve mentioned how libertarian the Greeks are. How carefree and helmetless and yellow-line-free they live their lives. And I love that. Freedom to choose, laws as guidelines rather than officious pedantry.

And then I got into our Uber to the airport. And Ubers in Greece are all regular taxis, all yellow and stripey and shit. The driver was ‘playing’ on his phone, which was stuck on the dashboard in time-honoured manner. The screen showed his Uber app, but there was sound of voices, I thought, on the radio. However, driving down the road, still fiddling with the phone and cleaning his sunglasses (way too much freedom for this passenger to endure), he found what he was looking for. The tv channel showing the debate we’d been listening to. Which he then watched as he drove us towards our destination. Which we hoped was the airport rather than the ditch by the fucking roadside. I mean, really?? TV whilst driving???

But he must have felt my seething anger/fear seeping through my mask and turned it off. And safely didst we arrive at the airport.

I’m not a princess. I wish to state that plainly and clearly from the outset. If I was a Princess it would probably be the Stephanie of Monaco type, all sex and drugs and rehab and abuse of power and total bitchiness, rather than the traipsing round minefields for the good of humanity type like the saintly Diana (may the Lord rest her troubled soul). But me, princess, I don’ fink so.

But when flying became possible again, the only seats offered on most European Air Miles flights are in Business Class. BA obviously worked out that ‘the world’ has not spent an air mile in 18 months and most users have reclaimed old ones from the inevitable covid cancellations. So for European flights, for BA, its a no-brainer. The ‘business class’ seats are exactly the same as the others. Ok, they leave a gap in the middle, but they don’t have to put bedrooms with en-suites up. So it costs them very little and it means we just have to spend a few more air miles to get them. Which bothers no-one as devotees have almost countless after the year + of inactivity, and it gets a few more ‘spent’.

But I don’t mind travelling almost like a commoner, because there are benefits. Mainly fast track through the airports and the lounges. Which is fine at Heathrow because fast-track is very fast and the lounges are… ok. But in Athens, fast track doesn’t work because all those fabulously multi-lingual Greeks suddenly don’t get the words written, in Greek, and ruin my life. Then the lounge is shit. Ok, for a free coffee there’s not a lot I wouldn’t do, but then I asked where the toilets were. And was pointed… OUT THERE!!! On the main concourse, OUTSIDE the rarified atmosphere of THE LOUNGE!!!

“WHAAAAATTTTTTTT????!!!!!” I asked gently. “I have to shit with the serfs? Poo with the proles?? Make toilet with the trash??? Crap with the commoners???? Wee with the working classes????” And then I fainted. My knees buckled, the world swam and then went black. If that’s not some form of unconscious appropriation. Because that’s what Grace Kelly would have done. And any other real princess. And one so seldom has the opportunity to swoon, in real life.

And now I’m home, just in time for Spurs to lose. And Lila started ‘big school’ on Thursday. OMGeeeeee…

Not the best Saturday

A xxxx

Let me tell you about my holiday. All holidays really, because their main job is to take you away from the norm. And keep you sufficiently away from it that you enter a wonderful, stress-free unreality-land where your main concerns are an even suntan and what you’re going to eat next. And drink while you’re going there to eat it. I’ve even managed to avoid the News. I have no idea how much more shit has happened in Afghanistan since I left home last weekend. Have the Americans gone back? Have the Taliban become nice? Changed their tack? Become gay-inclusive? Woman friendly? Or at very least come to realise that ‘equality’ doesn’t mean raping men AND women. I have no idea. The news is something I obsess about at home. But deprived of my morning Times (online counts for NOTHING) and BBC news at 10 (world service is shit), I remain in a glorious news-free zone. Have our taxes risen, as messages keep telling me? Should I just stay here as a tax exile?

One bit of news I managed to glean, mainly because it can’t upset my sense of wellbeing, like the cricket did, was learning of lovely Emma Raducanu and her amazing exploits in the US Open. She’s 18, into the semi-finals and thus already half a million quid richer than when she left home three weeks ago. And she’s almost unplayably brilliant. She is now the British women’s number 1!!!! Which I realise is like being the best skier in Soweto, the most successful stud of all INCELs or the least credible of all Greek gods. But sometimes being a bright light in a dull pond, you can really, really REALLY shine, even in a bigger pond. And smile all the way through.

And I’m yet to get to grip with ordering food here. We go to a taverna, sometimes a meat one, sometimes fish and the same thing happens. I order something, Mel orders something, we order a salad and some chips to share. Yet what arrives is food sufficient for an entire wedding party. (I’d love to see what they serve at weddings here: holy shit!). But that’s not all. It is customary to give you lots of free things. In case you’re still hungry after eating enough for 10. So they bring you amazing starters, just a tray-load, ‘help yourself, whatever you want’. Then fruit comes afterwards. Lots of fruit. And a little sorbet, go on, just a waffer-thin one…

These are not expensive restaurants. The food is fantastic but cheaper than a take-away in London. Including the wine, beer or whatever.

Come to Greece. And fucking EATTTTTT!!!!!!

Very happy and quite full Thursday

A xxxx

So Apollo is walking through Brent Cross one morning, just kind’a minding his own business, although being the god of music, prophecy, poetry, medicine and the Sun, most things were his business, one way or another. And he came across Athena. Not the poster shop but like the actual, real, goddess of war. “Hey babe”, he called out across the Marks and Spencer doorway, “how’s it hanging?”

“Don’t you fucking ‘babe’ me, you proto-misogynistic anachronism” (a reference to three of their cousins, Protos, the god of foreplay, Mysogyny, the god of wife-beating and Chronos, the god of time, but whose fame came from swallowing all his own babies whole, as they were born).

“I’m here to do battle. Like all women I like to fight, disagree, complain and bemoan, but unlike the rest, I carry a fucking great sword, swear like a navvy and can hit you with my knife from 100 yards whilst running backwards”.
“There’s a new God in town and I need to kill him, eat him, have babies with him or turn him into a 5-headed snake with the legs of an elephant and the face of Nicola Sturgeon”, Athena said.

“A new God??”, Apollo inquired? “Like with a capital G???? That’s a bit controversial. We only get small gs.”

“Well, He’s not really ‘new’, in fact he’s the oldest of us all, apparently. Some dude called Moses brought him down from Mount Olympus, way back when, or some such tale. Hard to believe really. And coming from someone who was born fully adult, cleaved from her father’s head, the bar for ‘believable’ is pretty low. Anyway, I need to kill him because… well, I’m a god, its just what we do. But there’s a rumour going round that he’s omnipotent AND omniscient. So not only is probably pretty hard to kill but its like he’s bugged the entire world and the heavens and even the underworld, so His intel is awesome.”
“He started off just being God to a few Jews, then to all the Christians, once they took off, then all these Catholics and Mormons and even the Greeks and Romans. And now they even believe that one old guy could actually replace all of us! Like you could have the portfolio for wine and for victory at the same time. For the winds and mothers and for stars? How would you find the time?”

“Well, you’d get Chronos to make you some more. But why in Brent Cross?” Apollo demanded. “Is this where he lives?”

“Well, definitely somewhere in north-west London, obviously. Golders Green, Hendon… not Edgware because Hades got there first. He allegedly supports Spurs and won’t drive on Saturdays, so he can’t be any further from Tottenham than this.”

“Ok, you sort out God, I’m off to find Hermeseta, the god of artifice and sweetness, we’re going to fly into the Sun with Icarus airlines and we need to do a PCR test.”

“Yes, I will kill and murder and maim and torture!!! And then there will be peace.”

Amen.

A xxxx

I’m loving Greece. But like really loving it. Ok, pools, beaches, no working, total R&R all combine to deflect reality for the short-term and create a feeling of well being and love for all men, women, LGBTSUVBBCUAEG&T and everything else in between, but beyond the normal holiday illusion, Greece is special.

For a nation brought to its knees by masses of recessionary debt verging on bankruptcy not long ago, the people remain upbeat. It’s the Greek way. They invented democracy on a hill in Athens which I walked up the other day. And ‘absorbed’ some of that into the soles of my feet. There’s a kind of freedom of spirit here, perhaps the relief still that the Turks left in about 1200AD and the Romans had long gone and the Syrians, Babylonians and Hungarians had let them be after centuries of outside rule. Or perhaps its just the fucking heat. Either way they’re free and they’re lovely.

We went to a restaurant in Athens and it was full. So as we were walking away a very elegant, 70-year old man said to me ‘that’s a lovely restaurant’. ‘Yeah’, I told him, ‘but its full’. At which point he changed direction and led us 5 minutes round a few back streets to another. Pointed to our table and went back the way he’d come. He never offered to pay but it was a lovely gesture anyway.

And they can park where they like. One measure of true ‘freedom’ in any society. Ok, they park really badly and cause obstructions at every opportunity but the law here is flexible in that respect. They also don’t wear crash helmets on motor cycles. I’m not saying that’s a good thing, a terrible thing, an outrageous thing or any thing. It just means they are free to decide. Free to feel the wind in their hair, free to die on a Suzuki 250 on an Autoroute near Mount Olympus.

One legacy of the Euro crash is that food prices in restaurants are outrageously good value. You can eat like a god (Greek god, 10-a-penny) for 50 quid a couple, or obviously spend more. But you can eat really well for less than £20. Including wine, beer, drugs, wild women, baclava and a limo there and back. And this is feta-heaven, if you like such a thing. Last night for starter we had feta, baked in pastry, covered in honey. I’ve never eaten ‘heaven’, not even sure it exists, but if Carlsberg made heaven…

And so to my favourite thought whilst sitting at a swimming pool. Ok, one of my favourite thoughts. “Why would you have THAT fucking tattoo????” Why would a single parent from Esher have an entire Maori legend inked from toe to shoulder? What would make a grandmother from Gstaad walk around with half the astronomical constellations etched permanently across her tits? What is the purpose of a ‘full sleeve’ if you’re not a footballer?

Philosophy’s the other thing done in Greece (though not for about 2,500 years, sadly) so I shall ponder all this during my stay in my vision of heaven.

Happy Hellenic Tuesday

A xxxx

To understand Greece is to understand the Gods they worshipped. In the old days. Before… before God came along. And that’s ‘our God’, of course, the one, the only, the bestest, the meanest, leanest, the undefeated champion of all Gods, God. The One God, who was made famous in his best-selling book, the Bible.

And the problem is, the Bible is pretty dull reading. Compared to tales of The Greek Gods. Their Gods appealed to everyone’s inner Keith Richard. Their Gods were sexy. Beautiful. Debauched. They ate babies, FFS, you can’t get more sick than that, yet still retained their status. No-one wanted ‘historical abuse’ to be considered, back in historical times. But most of all, they were a fiction. Much as our God is, but the Greeks made sure everyone knew it was just a series of fabricated tales to explain everything from dry seasons to thunder and lightening to infertility and mad cow disease.

I’ve done extensive study into Greek mythology. An entire 12 hours in Athens, devoted almost exclusively to studying their Gods and eating their kebabs. Not necessarily in that order.

Mel and I walked over 10 miles today in pursuit of the soul of Athens. We started with a walking tour and just carried on, from Museum of Modern Art to Acropolis to Parthenon to wherever our little feet would carry us. And everywhere you are filled with tales of Zeus and Athena and Apollo and Minotaurs and eating people and swallowing whales and all manner of incest, copulation, fornication, masturbation, dedication, indoctrination and castration. And abdication.

One god had a terrible headache so demanded his head be cleaved with an axe. And out came Athena, fully grown, fully dressed, armed like a Ninja and ready to rock’n’roll. And that really, is going to give anyone a headache, having a warrior inside your head. Can’t remember which dude it was, but I’ll name him Migranius. Gods who turned themselves into bulls to have sex with their own daughters who gave birth to man/bulls. It’s all true and really happened. In an Athens near here.

Greek mythology is simply wonderful. And totally explains why the Greeks are the most fucked up people in Europe. Though whilst being so, are lovely, friendly, happy and quite delightful.

And Athens is magnificent. Not just the old wrecks and archaeological stuff, but everywhere. The vibe here is just fantastic. It’s hot, sunny and fabulous. So fabulous that we’re leaving tomorrow.

To go to… Vouliagmeni, just down the coast.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I witnessed the saddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, yesterday morning. And I’ve seen some sad shit in my days. Have you watched Arsenal this season??? But this brought tears to my eyes, a lump in my throat and a palpitation in my heart.

It was the brunch line at the wedding yesterday morning. The morning after. Heads were fragile, the sun was shining and the food, like the recently betrothed, was…
Vegan!!

So you need to consider ‘brunch’, without eggs. That was my first conceptual leap on a morning when, being decidedly after the proverbial night before, ‘leaping’ was not really an option so much as ‘lying very still in the dark moaning quietly’. But then I got on board. ‘Eggs’, I thought, ‘who needs ‘em?’ Ok, maybe the chicken wot laid ‘em?? Not me, I’m temporarily vegan. And I’ll have any number of other brunch things instead. Toast and bu—, toast and synthetic rape-seed and cornflower spreadable non-dairy fat-ish stuff. Cappuccino, made in way in which no cow’s udders were fondled, tugged, pulled or molested in any way. And leaves. All the leaves you could ever wish for, dream of or lust after. But in fact there were croissants. Plain ones, chocolate ones, fruit ones, OMG, I love all that shit, and if its vegan it must be virtually no calorie, so I’ll take all three, thank you. No idea how you make any bake-ables without butter but they either did it brilliantly or they fucking lied to the married couple and just told them it was vegan. And they were good. Really good.

But then the sadness. The tragedy. The young woman in the food line in front of me asked ‘do you have anything gluten free?’ And I thought, if you’re asking for gluten free at a vegan counter, then that is the day your new diets starts. You may not even want to diet, but you’re going to. Would you like some air, madam? A little water to wash it down with? Otherwise, if you look underfoot, the grass looks somewhat delicious this morning, I must say…

I’m at Heathrow and the other end of this road lies Athens. Where I shall impress them all with my mastery of o’level latin. Veni, Vidi, vici… that kind’a thing.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Several years ago we went to Budapest. S’in Hungary, innit. And I learned that the city’s name came from the joining of two towns divided by the river. And thus chose to comment, as I tend to do, that ‘the racists of Buda hooked up with the anti-semites of Pest’ to form the lovely place we all know and love today. The sad thing is that it is a lovely City and I’m sure, is filled with at least some? A few? A majority?? Of lovely people. Ok, there’s one very nice person there and his name is…

Last night England played football there. I didn’t see it, I was at a wedding. But there was ‘trouble’. From the rest of the Hungarians. The ones wearing black t-shirts. The ‘Ultras’. That term being used, across Europe, to describe hateful racist thugs, often violent, always ugly, generally fat. Ultra stands for Unfortunately Loathsome Thick-as-shit Racist Asshole. They can be from Italy (Rome has Ultras) but generally they are from ‘the East’.

So playing a game of football (or anything else) where you start by ‘taking the knee’ in an accepted anti-racist stance, is bound to inflame a bunch of racists. Then to lose 4-nil to a team (England) which actually has black players causes the same kind of dissonance that Jesse Owens gave Hitler when he won 4 gold medals in the Berlin Olympics in 1936. How can you be a ‘white supremacist’ when the blacks are winning? It makes all those poor fat neo-nazi scumbags feel very uncomfortable.

Here’s what you do: you don’t play football in Eastern Europe. Hungary, Czech Repbulic, Slovakia, Slovenia, Lithuania, Belarus, Russia… just don’t play there. Or play there in empty stadia.

The England players brilliantly mocked the horrible Hungarians last night which probably hurt them more than losing the match. But the answer is, ban matches until the evil vermin can be isolated and kept away.

The Wedding on Osea Island was wonderful. This pic shows the ‘causeway’ when the tide’s up. Which means once there, that is where you stay until God, the moon, the forces of gravity and the tides decide otherwise. Which could get a little bit ‘Agatha Christie’ for some, a touch ‘The Shining’ for others, but with Mel to protect me, coupled with no limits on alcohol consumption cos you can’t drive anywhere, everyone had a truly fabulous time. And the sun even shone! In Essex!!! The county wot I growed up in. Just not necessarily that bit.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m going on holiday!!!!

Remember those things we thought would never happen again? Well (all being well, with a good head-wind, falling infection rates, fingers crossed, legs crossed, eyes crossed, no sudden attack of quarantinisation, pth, pth, pth…) we’re going away! To a forrin land. Where they don’t speak English (bit like Tower Hamlets) and eat muck (bit like Tower Hamlets) and don’t use ££££££.

It’s Greece for us. In the great Amber continent of Europe.

And Amber means ‘easy peasy’, it means freedom, it means sunshine. Because all you have to do is:

Make sure you’re double vaccinated and have documentation to prove it
Organise your ‘day 2 test’ for when you come home, but you MUST do that before you go
Fill in a Personal Locator Form (PLF as the designated acronym for… fairly obvious reasons) for arrival in Greece
Send proof of vaccinations to British Airways (not required on Corona Airlines, Covid Air or Infection Aviation)
Arrange to have a test in Greece 2 days before departure (and GOD HELP YOU IF ITS POSITIVE cos you won’t be coming home)
Fill in your PLF for the UK so they know where to find you
Pack your swimmies and toothbrush.
Remember where your passport is after nearly 2 years of non-usage and hope its still valid.
Get some Euros.

But to ensure the smooth passage and trouble free travel, we thought we’d go to a wedding first. Today. Just to make sure that the vaccine works as we prepare to mix with 200 drunk revellers on a little Island off the Essex coast. But here’s the best bit: the island only has access by a causeway. Which is only passable at low tide for about 2 hours a day. Otherwise you swim. Or you car sinks. Or any other ‘man versus water’ situations you can think of. And there is only ever one winner.

So all we have to do is survive the M25, the causeway, dancing with people hugging and kissing, being in Essex and more M25 and we’ll be all set.

Lila and Joey are already in the sunshine but in Spain so I might swim across the Med to see them.

I’m very exited.

Happy Wedding day

A xxxx

The best things in life are free, but someone, somewhere, pays for everything. So looking at trees and birds, the oceans, cloud formations can fill your heart with… stuff and emotions and pleasure, but really that’s just a start. Your children (can, but SO OFTEN DON’T!!!) give you immense pleasure. Grandchildren are in a different league. Not to the one above, but to everything else. Cars, loves, lovers, holidays, experiences, successes, maybe dancing, skiing, gambling, whoring, certainly drinking to oblivion, drugs… and prayer, errrr, obviously.

But there is nothing, simply nothing in my 65 years of living on this world (I’m not counting previous lives and incarnations because I ceased being a Buddhist in 1975, 2 weeks after becoming one) could get close to the sheer wonderment of today’s Premier League table.

It is simply The Best Thing Ever. Nothing compares (so many song titles and lyrics I may have to pay royalties for this posting).

It’s not just that Spurs are top. The only team with maximum points. And that included the win against Manchester City. And its not just because we drift to that exalted spot on occasion, normally early in the season before we crumble, so enjoy our moment in the sunshine. But its because at the very bottom of that same table sit Arsenal. With no points, no goals, one horrendous red card and 25 horrendous red faces.

And I know its fairly meaningless, after 3 games, and I know gloating in any way, shape or form is evil and nasty and I know that schadenfreude is no place in which to luxuriate, but JUST LOOK AT THE TABLE!!!! The middle 18 teams are totally irrelevant. The numbers are unimportant, the names changed to protect the innocent (?), but that table. I shall cherish this forever.

And I shall end with one last song line.

Da doo ron ron ron, da doo ron ron.

For no reason other than I want to. I can do what I like. My team is top of the tree.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

There’s a movie coming out. A real ‘must see’. Essential viewing. Destined for classic status. I can hardly wait. Its the Paw Patrol movie and its out now-ish!

What? You don’t know ‘Paw Patrol’? What are you, older than 5? Or don’t know anyone younger than 5?? Paw Patrol is simply where its at. Joey won’t leave home without his PP cars, toys, t-shirts, mugs, cups and uniform. And when he does its only to ask for videos of PP as soon as he arrives where he’s going. But that is videos of the tv show. Now we’re talking… the movie!!!

Which you’d think would be met with only two possible reactions.

1. I don’t give a shit, I’m not 3.
2. Brilliant!! I am 3!! Or I know someone who is and who therefore will probably love it.

Because what’s not to love about a bunch of dogs dressed up as policeman (the main dude), firemen, paramedics, helicopter pilots, and rescue… dogs? Rescue things. And rescue they do. You get into a fix, a jam, get stuck up a tree, assaulted by cats, anything, PP will come to the rescue. Its like The Marvel Avengers for the dribbling classes.

But there’s a problem. Quite a big problem. The Guardian newspaper, that bastion of hard-left, ultra-woke, so-PC-it-fucking-hurts bullshit, have been harshly critical of the PP movie. Why? Does it have excessive violence? No. Is it overtly sexual in content? Not really, bit of sniffing, probably, but that’s dogs. Does it have subliminal satanic messages that will turn your toddler in Damien from the Omen??? No.

It portrays the police doggy as a hero.

That’s its crime. And that all but one of the PP dogs are boys, not bitches. You know its ok to write bitches in this context, right?

And for most militant lefties, the police are the enemy. Most could not tell you why, but that’s the case. And if British Gas have guidelines about how many women it needs of its board of directors, PP should adhere to the same rules. Its just common sense.

The Guardian don’t want children becoming police admirers. It clashes with their rhetoric. They probably think that the police dog should be more institutionally racist, should shoot black dogs in the back (BLACK DOGS MATTER!!) and that the heroics should be shared around with the other doggies, NOT just the bloody police stealing all the glory.

And Joey read the critique and had to agree. He immediately burned all his PP stuff and asked for a bust of Lenin and a Che Guevara t-shirt (size 2-3).

Bloody pigs.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx