Andy's Glasses

I actually do have a duffel coat. But that’s not why I love protests. I love them because they’re what happens in a free society, and only in a free society, when people want to make a point. And, generally, when no-one’s listening to what they’re saying. Or, even more generally, when no-one cares what they’re saying. Like anytime a Corbyn picks up a banner, its time to watch the football. If its not Jeremy marching for Hamas or to defend some holocaust denier, its his insignificant brother spouting his anti-vax bullshit or denying the pandemic as something started by capitalists (errrr… China?) to repress the workers.

Yet we have to be indulgent. Just because people like the Corbyns are thick as pig-shit, dim as dead lightbulbs and worthy of being beaten with batons daily, does NOT deny them their democratic rights which I would defend myself and personally, just after I finished the beatings.

In Afghanistan they don’t protest. Or they do so with great care. And may pay for it in the most severe way. In Russia, you are completely free to protest. As long as its in full and total support of Putin. So protests represent a freedom which we are lucky enough to enjoy.

But you have to make people take note of what you’re protesting, otherwise it is totally futile. To have sixty people march round in your own back garden will achieve nothing. That’s why extinction rebellion (they’re unworthy of capital letters) like to take their morning nap on Trafalgar Square. Or chain themselves across Oxford Circus. So that there is disruption and chaos and thus we, the unprotesting masses, get to learn of their views. Which, even for a bunch of tree-huggers-ambushed-by-hard-left-militants, like ER, are valid and relevant to us, to a degree.

But ‘Insulate Britain’ have taken it too far. They’ve clogged up the M25 numerous times this week. Either lying down in the slip roads or latterly, gluing themselves to those roads. Which firstly causes miles and miles of jammage, and secondly causes masses of extra pollution which, for a green movement, is where irony meets the absurd.

The police act too slowly in these situations. They consider the welfare of the protesters. And I would too. I’d give them 10 minutes to get the fuck off the road. Then I’d send in the bulldozers. A lot of them. Driven by people wearing headsets. So they can’t hear the screaming.

Protest all you want but fucking up the M25, the world’s most already-fucked-up road, is so inconsiderate, unfair and stupid that it elevates the protest from the moderately daft to the criminally selfish.

Happy Yom Kippur

A xxxx

I hate injections, always have. Even as a kid, when it was vaccination day at the doctors, they always made my mum bring my brother and me for the last appointment. Because my screaming would tend to upset the other kids. And I’d arrive screaming, and wouldn’t stop until a lollypop was in my mouth on the way home. Those were the days, re-usable syringes (with ‘needles’ the size of a water pipe!) and endless sugar.

I still hate injections but at the moment I take all I can get. I’m due my ‘booster’ covid and my old person’s annual flu jab. The legendary ‘one in each arm’ scenario. I wish I had more arms. Then I could have more jabs. I don’t normally suffer with ‘octopus envy’ but just think how many vaccines they could have. And I no longer scream. Not externally anyway, just on the inside.

It’s strange how we grow up and adapt. Because when I was a kid I also hated all green (or white, purple or any other colour) vegetables except peas and runner beans. Now I eat all of them, love most of them, just never bother with aubergines or courgettes. Not because they’re French words so much as slimy, tasteless and bring less than nothing to the party.

I hated books. Readin’ was fine, but only things I absolutely HAD to read. Never for pleasure. Only comics. DC comics in particular, never Marvel. I could relate totally to Superman; he was sent over from planet Krypton as a baby in a space rocket and could fly faster than a plane, pick up an entire train and stop trucks with one finger. I was born in ‘ackney, moved to Ilford when I was a baby and couldn’t do any of that shit. Quite an amazing coincidence when you think about it.

And I hated Arsenal. Some things never change.

Ok, tomorrow is Yom Kippur, the ‘day of atonement’ or, in modern parlance ‘Judgment Day!!!!’, even though its not really. It’s a day of fasting, but I’m still so full of Greece that really shouldn’t be a problem, I stocked up for several fast days/weeks over there. It’s also a day of introspection and improvement. So I have to prepare. Mentally, spiritually, emotionally, totally. It starts tonight at 7 and finishes tomorrow night at 8. During which time I shall be one with the angels. Rather than off with the fairies, as I normally spend my time.

May your spirit be as cleansed as your stomach is empty,

A xxxx

Its a little anthropocentric (scientific word, not a new sexual orientation) to assume that our ‘world’ is the only one. There are 47 million stars, each possibly with its own planetary system. You do the maffs. I can’t (be bothered). And if you do, the answer will be ‘a shitload’ of potential for life ‘elsewhere’. Though not necessarily as we know it.

And I’ve found just such a world. A world where Spurs are top of the league. Where we didn’t lose this weekend. Where football remains a happy place. And that world is called: Wimmin’s Football.

Because yesterday Spurs women beat Manchester City’s women to go top of their league. Ok, tied top with Brighton (?), Arsenal and Manchester United, but top is top, right?? And I saw a bit on the news and it looked quite a lot like… like ‘football’, but with more bits jiggling round on the pitch, and I would say ‘more ponytails’ on view, but after watching Leeds yesterday I’m not sure about that. The football itself was… well, the winning goal was scored by the defender’s arm, but shit happens even in… in real football. And I don’t like to be in any way sexist about this, especially coming on The Weekend of Emma!, but it didn’t really look like proper, top flight football. Ok, they looked a bit like Arsenal did in their first three matches, but a bit more butch and scary.

And talking about Emma, as all British people have to do, at least once a day, every day, until Wimbledon starts next June, by order of Parliament, we need to discuss ‘the future’. Which started, for her, yesterday. Because she has instantly become the most marketable individual on the planet. She’s young, gorgeous, clever, funny, charming and a TOTAL FUCKING WINNER. Yet, although she takes her tennis seriously, doesn’t take herself too seriously at all. Which is yet more endearing. So to add to her cheque on Saturday for $2.5million, marketing experts reckon that within one month she’ll have signed contracts worth another $25mil. Possibly £25mil. Doesn’t really matter. And then, we learned yesterday, she speaks fluent Mandarin. Like, beyond ordering a meal. Almost like its a language when you don’t even want noodles. But its a language spoken by most of China’s 1.6 billion people. Ok, not all are tennis fans, I give you that, but she’s not only going to be selling tennis. She’ll be selling her soul (I know I would). And selling anything that someone coughs up enough money to get her to sell. The possibilities are limitless.

Have a delightful, back to work, Monday

A xxxx

I hadn’t even arrived back home yesterday when Spurs had a player sent off. Personally, I think taking Wilfred Zaha round the throat is not merely acceptable but should be considered a good thing for the benefit of all. But the referee saw things differently and sent Tanganga off. And then Crystal Palace scored. The fact that their manager is (for the moment, in between relegations) Patrick Vieira, the ex-Arsenal captain, only increased my sense that another week in Greece would have been a far superior option to traffic jams on the M40 and conceding our first goal of the season to South London scummy upstart wide-boys and low-lifes, Crystal Palace. I needn’t have worried. By the time I was home we’d conceded our second and indeed third too. Making the whole trip worthwhile. (?)

However, I’m not a football fan any longer. I only ‘sing when we’re winning’ and as we stopped winnin, I’ve stopped singin. I’m a tennis fan. Not just a tennis fan but an Emma Raducanu fan. Possibly her biggest fan in the whole country, if not the whole world. I’m prepared to back up this seemingly vacuous statement with an intense program of stalking, obsession and unhealthy attempts at unwanted communication.

I’d like to put Emma’s victory into perspective. Unfortunately, I’m not very good at that kind of thing, often being prone to mild exaggeration verging on the hyperbolically ridiculous. But the nature of her victory in the US Open championship is like climbing Everest whilst you’re still wearing nappies. It’s like writing a best-selling book before you can speak. It’s like my 96 year-old dad sailing round the world. (He doesn’t know how to sail but I might stick him in a boat anyway, just for fun).

But really, there are no parallels in the world of sport. I won’t bore you with the superlatives and records because they’re all over everything today. And tomorrow, and in fact every day until Tim Henman comes back on court at Wimbledon again. If you missed the match then I feel sorry for you. Not because it was totally brilliant from start to finish but because you’ll have even less to add to any conversation today than you normally do. Everyone remembers exactly where they were when Emma Raducanu won the NY Open.

If you did miss it, you can get the replay on BBC radio. That’s the best catch-up. It goes like this: “forehand drive down the line-taken early on the backhand two-handed cross court met at the net but only parried awayforasuperbbackhandovertoavolleybackdownthelineforthewinner!!!!“

And its only about 2 hours long.

Happy Victory Sunday

A xxxx

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