Andy's Glasses

So yesterday ended brilliantly, with the petrol flowing like wine, like asses milk, like golden honey, into the cars. Preceded by Miele-gate. Mel’s absolute best friend in the whole world was broken. I could be her bff, possibly her identical twin sister to whom she speaks 14 times each day. But no. Her washing machine is the thing she really loves, the one she misses when we’re away, and always her first love. Til the fucker broke last week. And although its 12 years old, it is the absolute 600AMG, V10, M-Class, Bugatti Veyron of clothes cleaners. And at the airport yesterday we learned of its fixage. It’s all better. Ready for another 10 years. Mel was in tears.

But the day was not without its stresses.

Berlin has airport issues. Or, flughof issues, as they call them over there. Because Berlin had two airports. An old shitty one really close to the centre, which everyone loved because of its proximity and forgave its shitty rustiness. The other was miles away. Or, ‘kilometres away’ as they call it in Germany. And equally horrible. But wait! Right next door to the shitty, old, far-away one, is another one which we built 10 years ago and completely forgot about. It’s never been used, like, EVER. Dust it off, close the other two and we can be a proper International City with a ‘hub’.

Its an hour away from the daughter. 45 minutes on a good day. Yesterday wasn’t a good day. We walked to the local train station (5 minutes), got on the local train which would take us just 5 stops to the big station where you get the direct, fast, super-train to the airport (20 minutes). What could possibly go wrong.

The little local train went one stop and then, amid a lot of German words and announcements I didn’t understand, all was basically ‘kaput’. A word I do understand. So there we are, somewhere we don’t know where, 4 stops short of our next destination, in fucking Germany. So God bless Uber. It came within 1 minute and whizzed us to the big station and we made it to the airport in good time.

Well, it would have been good time if the Brandenburg Flughof was worthy of its name. But it is just useless, unfriendly in that there are so few direction signs, and ridiculously under-manned. The ‘good time’ became ‘last minute panic’ as the lovely woman at security was repackaging our less-than-100-ml bottles into nicer plastic bags than they were already in. As every item from carry on has to go into its own tray. Oh nein, you can’t put your belt in with your jacket!!! That’s how 9-11 started!!! Fuck me it was agony. And just two scanner desks operating out of 6. Hair was pulled out, obscenities whispered beneath smiling faces, sweat profused.

Then, of course the flight was half hour delayed anyway, obviously.

But its sooooooo stressful. And needn’t be.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So we ventured into the deepest, darkest, eastiest bit of East Berlin. So east that they still keep a statue of Lenin there. But they keep other things too. Like dead Jews. Because in the little town of Weissensee there is a magnificent old Jewish Cemetery. Which opened in about 1880 and was, you can imagine, something of an upmarket place for Berlin’s upper echelons of the Jewish world to find their final resting place. So you can see, if you’re going to be there for all of eternity, you’re looking for something solid, something to last, survive the elements and, of course, impress the neighbours. Well, not the neighbours themselves, obviously, but perhaps their family, when they come to visit, say a prayer, place a stone. And people of substance like to leave something to remember. Hence these immense and wonderful family crypts which are scattered all across the place. There are thousands and thousands of ‘normal’ graves too, marked with modest little headstones. Not because those dead weren’t loved sufficiently to build a 6 bedroom house around them, but because it simply wasn’t necessary for there to be anything more than a simple stone.

Yet this was Germany. And every gravestone tells a story. So some family plots just listed the members who never returned from Auschwitz, or Theresenstadt, or Bergen-Belsen. Whereas others were more profound. Where you’d have three named headstones in one combined ‘unit’, and two empty blanks.

About 40% of German Jews fled the nazi regime in the early to mid 1930s. And as the ‘inhabitants’ of Weissensee were affluent and rich, they would have been able to move out of the country. The problem was with the 60% who didn’t leave. Who either simply could not believe that the only nation they’d ever lived in for several generations, the nation they’d fought for in the Great War, the nation where they had been respected, revered, lionised, advised governments, helped the military, that such a nation would abandon them totally. Not just abandon, but persecute to their deaths. Or, they simply lacked the funds to escape. And of that 60%, about 55% never returned.

Either way, those blank spaces hit you right in your very soul.

So now we’re back. Not just back but following one phone call and a four minute drive, we drove straight into a petrol station, no queues whatsoever, and filled two cars with gasoline. I mean, WTF??? My car had 78 miles left in it, Mel’s 32. And now they’re full. Such a relief.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

When I was a kid I loved DC Comics. Superman, Batman, Flash, loved ‘em. But now they’ve become PC Comics as Superman slips out of the binary world which has constrained him, mercilessly, for 50 years. Nothing else could constrain him, not steel nor concrete nor nuffink other than Green Kryptonite. But now, Superman can finally be true to the more gender fluid superhero he’s always wanted to be. And kissed a man!! In the newest ‘episode’ of the comic, they’ve had a young Superman kissing a boy in a decidedly ‘beyond-man-hug’ kind’a way. The Man of Steel has come out of the Supercloset. Do I care? No. But I’m not Lois Lane!!! She must be devastated.

So we’re in Dresden, which is quite wonderful, quite other-worldly and quite biiiiiiiiigggg. And its pissing down. So we invested a few Euros to go see the exhibition of porcelain at the Zwinger. Oh, come on, keep up, that’s the ancient palace of the rulers of Saxony which was totally destroyed in the war, levelled to the ground, and rebuilt afterwards in exact replication of its original everything. And quite amazing. Hence, a bit ‘other worldly’. And Dresden is famous for china.

Which is why it seemed a bit odd to enter massive chambers filled with… china. From China. And remember, back in the 1600 and 1700s, China was not so famous for murders, overthrowing the world, human rights abuse and totalitarianism as it was for making lovely vases. Which have endured. After 500 years these pieces, massive, beautiful, hand-painted, are still perfect. In a city flattened just 70 years ago. Whereas your iphone is obselete after 15 months when the next version comes out. I think that says a lot.

Pride of place, for me, in light of the ‘Superman-gate’ story which came out (no pun) this morning, was this rather becoming figure from 1750. Looks like a fab hair-do. Could be a turban. (It is Persian). Looks like a dress? Could be a coat. For me the whole vibe is ‘woman’, ‘female’, ‘girly’. And then there’s the moustache. Which would sit well with the original hypothesis if the character was over 50 and Greek, but I feel she’s neither. Hence, Houston, we have a pronoun issue here, over…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

My love affair with Berlin continues apace. But my horizons have expanded massively. Because in all the trips we’ve made here since the younger daughter adopted it as her home, we’ve generally come for weekends and confined our love of ‘Berlin’ to about 3 or 4 of the central areas of the former Eastern part of the city. Or, ‘the good bit’ as I’d always thought. But today we went totally insane (by relative standards), got on a train and went to Potsdam!!! It’s miles from Mitte, kilometres from Kreuzberg, furlongs from Friedrichshain. And its lovely.

Potsdam is the capital of the state of Brandenburg. The state which has the famous ‘gate’ in (proper) Berlin, built in 1780 to mark the spot where just along the road in the Adlon hotel, Michael Jackson would later dangle his baby son over the balcony.

The Brandenburg gate is a lovely structure on top of which is a statue of some horses and other German stuff. And I think that’s a Brandenburg thing. Because on virtually every roof in Potsdam are statues. I haven’t seen so many cherubs since… well, its been a long time. Hundreds. Thousands of ugly fucking cherubs.

But when you arrive at the Palace of Frederick the Great, you have definitely reached Cherub Central. Plus thousands of other statues too. Most of which are on the roofs of every one of the almost obscenely magnificent buildings in the Palace area. Which is a massive park, filled with wonderful buildings which only an Emperor could have built. The word ‘obscene’ springs to mind. His actual palace is said to rival Versailles, which it does. And I’m not just saying that to upset the French. Even though I would if I had to.

Then you leave the park and the town itself is really cute. Not, like cloyingly, sickeningly cute, like many tourist towns, but genuinely sweet and nice and full of people eating ice cream and drinking beer. Some of whom, unlike in ‘real Berlin’, are actually speaking in German! To each other!!

Tomorrow Mel & I leave for Dresden. That’s a whole other City. I’ll let you know what I find.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So what do you do when you’re 2 years old and someone leaves a real-life, non-plastic, metal and wood, full-size tile-cutter lying around? Answers on a postcard to:

Joey
Department of Breaking Things and General Destruction
My House
What’s Left of It
London

And so we’re off again. Buoyed by the relative ease and simplicity of our recent travels to Greece, we’re going to Berlin on Saturday. Because I haven’t seen Checkpoint Charlie for 2 years. Because I miss Hitler’s bunker. Because I need to be part of a Trabant vibe. Because Rachie lives there and we need to see her. Even though she’s coming over here next month. And we saw her when she was last here, not very long ago. But we’re allowed. She’s our daughter. And thus (according to her) we miss her. And if we don’t go now we can’t go til about April. Because Berlin gets cold. I’ve been in November and it was cold. Been in January and its very cold. And it gets wet. Which is worse than the cold because you can’t see Checkpoint Charlie so well. Though that’s mainly due to all the Far Easterners taking selfies there and buying Stalin hats. Which is a bit like a Hitler hat but with a star on the front.

Last night I finally joined the latest new game storming the capital. It’s called ‘Petrol Hunt’ and it is the best fun ever. Because even people who hardly ever use their cars still, eventually, get low on fuel. And as president of the ‘I’d rather walk than drive electric’ society of Great Britain, Northern Ireland and Slovakia, this is the situation we found ourselves in. So, with Mel’s car showing ‘57 miles’ left, I started out at about 9.45 last night (always a game best played in the dark) and drove to four petrol stations over 25 minutes covering… well, the fuel thing said ‘42 miles’ by the time I arrived home, but I don’t think that 15 miles is totally dependable. But three stations had no petrol. Shit-loads of diesel, because you have to be brave to fill up with that dark and polluting shit these days in case Greta or Extinction Rebellion or Insulate Britain happen to be around. The fourth did have gas!!!! Yippee. But had a queue of about 45 cars, only four pumps open and (we knew cos we’d asked them) was closing ‘any minute’.

There’s loads of petrol in Berlin. And we’re allowed up to 100mls EACH in our carry-on. Hmmm…

Happy Friday

A xxxx

As I’ve mentioned before, I have a thing about Barbie dolls. Not necessarily ‘that kind of thing’, I’ve never put more than one in my underwear, but I’ve played with them since my girls were little, 30 years ago, then had a major Barbie-renaissance with Lila, when we brought the collection of Barbies down from the loft. Some even had all their limbs still attached. One or two even had heads which weren’t rolling around the bottom of the box.

And its nice to see that Barbie stays at the forefront of… well, of selling things. It’s what big companies do. So they’ve brought out European Female Astronaut Barbie. In honour of Samantha Christoforetti, the first European woman astronaut. To stand as a role model. An aspiration. To try and engage young girls in science.

Unfortunately, sales of Astronaut Barbie have been outstripped by those of Digital Media Influencer Barbie. The first Barbie ever to have her mobile phone moulded permanently into her left hand. Influencer Barbie costs the usual 19.99, BUT, you can’t get her out of her box until you pay her to do so, with the credit card slot. And every time you put her back you need to pay more to get her out once more. Though you can bypass this by giving her very expensive clothes, cars or holidays instead.

The other massive, post-woke innovation is Karbie. Its a Barbie who answers to ‘Ken’. A Barbie with indiscriminate pronouns. Who wears one Barbie stiletto and one GI Joe workboot. It comes without the long locks of normal Barbie, but not the yellow carpet of Old Ken. Short hair, bit like Ronaldo’s. Breasts scaled down from the normal Barbie 38DD to a modest 36A. Comes with special ‘bulging underwear’ option.

They were going to make a Boris Barbie but the plastic requirement took it way over budget. So instead they’ve created Covid Barbie. Comes in a bed with her very own ventilator. (Coffin not included).

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We’re back. We won. Spurs are… there! Where? Not totally sure, exactly, but we won. A football match. Almost like we did a few times right at the beginning of the season, but without the clean sheet and with more purpose. More commitment. More… more… more Son Heung Min. Who really is the heart, the soul and the pace of our team. Our absolute favourite, smiling Korean in the whole wide world.

But there was magic in that victory. It was a monumental day, even though the players were possibly quite unaware of the magnitude of the moment.

Lila’s mum went to White Hart Lane. For the first time since she was pregnant with Lila, 5 years ago. She’s been… busy. And although I’ve been encouraging her to go, “just go with hubby to the footy, the kids’ll be fine for a few hours. Joey knows how to use the microwave… well, he knows how to break it, Lila can make tea, they’ll only open the door to Amazon deliveries, like usual, it’ll be FIIIIIINE”. But some misplaced sense of parentalism kept her away from our brand new stadium. Until yesterday when hubby acquired some super tickets which were too good to refuse. Unfortunately, because we won the match, my daughter has become our instant ‘lucky charm’ and MUST go to every other match, home and away, this season. The kids can sit outside in the car.

We went out for dinner with friends on Saturday night. And our friend’s brother was over from New Jersey, where he lives, with his son of 15. Who, as an official ‘forriner’, had only been to Spurs 6 times, and had NEVER seen them win. But he went to the game yesterday and ‘lived the dream’. Thus won’t slip into Goonerism or, almost as bad, follow the New York Giants. A great relief all round.

I do know some people who aren’t Spurs fans. I don’t talk to them much and try not to mix with them socially, but there are a few in my life. They’re, obviously, just not worth a mention.

So now, I can state without the merest hint of doubt, that Spurs can go on from this massive victory and win the league. We have the best stadium, the best player (not counting Phil Foden or Mo Salah just because they played ONE decent game in their lives) and the most joy of winning yesterday.

WHAT A FUCKING RELIEF!!!!

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We’ve know each other long enough. We talk of many things. We don’t shy away from the uncomfortable. Unless its underwear. And we don’t mind swearing. In fact some of us love swearing. Yet even I moderate my keyboard’s ‘tongue’ when it comes to the sweariest, nastiest, most contentious-est word in the English language. The c-word. It’s also the most divisive-est word around, by some way. And it appears to divide quite strongly along gender lines. Though I’ve only conducted my extensive study in cisgender types. And this is what I find.

Men love the c-word. Some men are almost obsessed with it. They use it constantly. But only in the presence of a male audience. Unless its a special occasion. In which a female has been deeply upset, offend or abused by a person. Who can then be described in such a term, but only for a short duration of the window of opportunity. Use of the word after that window has closed with result in the usual disgust and possible punishment.

Because women hate the c-word. Perhaps because they can relate to it more in its original, anatomical meaning. They’ll never use it.

97% of men (boring, regular, heterosexual, or in the closet, cisgender) love the c-word.
98% of women dispise the c-word.

Bisexuals can take it or leave it.

Transgender people learn how to view and use the c-word as part of their sex-change therapy. If you transition to female the best bet is to stop using the word altogether. Or else it may become a bigger giveaway than your beard.

You only need to pronounce the ‘t’ at the end if the word is spoken with true malice and venom. If you’re just addressing your mates, leave the ‘t’ out altogether.

And all this because of a sentence which the government are thinking of implementing as part of their new awareness programme. Something intended to sway the impartial, to motivate the unsure, to innovate and stimulate the ignorant. It reads thus:

If you don’t have vaccinations, you’re a cunt.

There are no exceptions.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I had my flu jab yesterday. Not covid related. And I have a cold. Also non-covid-related. What we used to call ‘a cold’. Just that now when you sneeze you clear the tube carriage. Win-win. And today I was invited for my covid booster. My stars are aligned. And my upper arms.

And just in time for the party conferences. Labour’s has just finished in Brighton and the conservatives will be having theirs. In Manchester? This weekend.

Kier Starmer gave his best impression of ‘a slightly more interesting person than he normally is’ during his rabble-raising, hour-and-a-half shout-a-thon yesterday. But he had to shout. Because of all the hecklers. The pro-Corbynites who constantly bemoan the direction the Labour Party is currently taking. Which, some might argue, is a few steps towards future electability. And a million miles from the last election result where the nation finally told Corbyn and his demonic acolytes precisely where he could shove his particularly nasty brand of neo-socialistic bollocks.

But Corbyn was ‘there’. In some kind of blackened ‘spirit’ presence. He occupied a few dirty pub back rooms to meet with his faithful and hear them sing his name. Amen. Tosser. The group looked like they’d never had a bath, let alone a vaccination. And in those meetings they denounced the Tories as ‘scum’ and they praised Lenin and Marx and the ghost of Len McLusky. And they carried on their particularly poisonous brand of persecution, separating themselves from anything currently considered ‘Labour party’ by half a dozen steps to the left.

Interestingly, party leaders consistently look less than totally comfortable making their ‘leadership speech’. Because its not what you say (or in Ed Milliband’s case, what he never chose to mention), but the way that you say it that requires you to leave your ‘leader-of-the-pack’ normal persona and become part stand-up, part cheerleader, part (in Milliband’s case) dickhead and main motivator. And it didn’t sit well on Sir Kier’s shoulders. But credit to him, he gave his all. More than he has in the last year of his tenure.

Happy Thursday

A xxx

Ok, so you’re a sculptor, here’s the brief: we need a statue to represent a fictional heroine from an 1858 poem who meets the Italian patriots before they go and die fighting against the kingdom of Naples. Fair enough. I’ll get to work.

If the sculptor was English he’d be thinking of a Florence Nightingale type and start with a lamp. If Scottish he’d make the woman ugly, Sturgeonesque and fiercely aggressive. A French sculptor engaged in any depiction of war would probably start with the white flag.

But Emanuele Stifano is an Italian sculptor. So he started with a fabulous arse. And cobbled the rest of the woman together around that. And why not? How could he not? He’s Italian and that’s just how he’s wired. He wanted the make the statue a nude but was dissuaded so made the token gesture of clothing it in the flimsiest, wind-blowniest fabric he could conjure out of bronze. It’s almost a tribute to the wet t-shirt.

The statue has been accused of being ‘deeply sexist’, of being ‘a sexualised body devoid of soul’. Whereas I see this image as being deeply empowering of women. Especially empowering of women with fabulous arses. Who should be empowered and revered.

Emanuele could have made the woman less beautiful, less ‘sexualised’, he could have made a sort of ‘Les Dawson in drag’ image. But would that have inspired or comforted soldiers about to die? They’d have run to their death in terror. Whereas this image would be what those poor, fictional boys would undoubtedly want as their last view of life. It’s what all Italian boys want. A strong and appealing woman, confident and independent, in a pseudo-pornographic pose with a wonderful bum.

If they wanted different they should have gone to a priest for their sculpture. Or not an Italian male.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx