Andy's Glasses

I’ve been so busy this week, I haven’t had time to even mention Wimbledon. Not only the finest tennis tournament in the world, but more importantly, the only one which really matters. Ok, the only one I ever bother watching. And I do watch it. I would say ‘religiously’ but me and religion enjoy a relationship that such a statement would immensely downplay the importance of Wimbledon in my life. I play tennis all the time but the only I time I want to watch it is there. Or ‘there’ on tv. I think that when the grass there went green, in about 1973, when we got our first colour tv, that became the definition of the sport. And even though I play on ‘hard courts’, they’re also green now, just so as not to confuse me.

I find the French open too boring, the American too American and the Aussie too late. But like Goldilocks, Wimbledon is just perfect.

The tennis has been spectacular. The problem is; the people playing it.

There’s no longer any ‘stand out’ characters. They’re all a bit dull. The shouters, the screamers (I don’t mean whilst hitting the ball, that’s really never a good thing), the late-night partyers, the wild ones, the funny ones, they’ve all gone in the name of sponsorships. “Here’s 5 million quid a year for wearing a white hat. But if you act naughty we take it back. Not the hat, they’re useless, the 5 mil”.

So in the absence of any discernible personality, we need to judge our favourites in other ways. And being humans, we do that predominantly by how they look. We can’t help it. We take one look at Roger Federer and we love him forever. I can never forget Gabriella Sabatini; who never won anything but looked so gorgeous whilst losing that no-one cared. Anna Kournikova, similarly, beautiful. Hence loved.

Then you get Novak Djokovic. Possibly the best player EVER!! But no-one likes him. Because he looks like he’s sinister, nasty and sneery, even if he isn’t. Nor does it matter. He looks a bit evil so the world collectively will always ‘support’ whoever he’s playing.

Until Thursday night. When he played Yannik Sinner. And no-one in Centre Court knew who to hate more. We (the tennis fans of the world) have finally found a worthy successor to Djokovic. Not in a good way. Like Djok, Sinner is spectacularly good at tennis. In fact, he’s the world number one. And would be totally dominant if not for pesky little Spaniard called Alcaraz, who is universally loved and keeps beating Sinner in the big events. And hopefully will do so this afternoon.

What do I have against Sinner? Well, for starters… actually nothing. Nothing you can explain. It’s the Germanic look. The pale, almost vampirish appearance. The ‘buttoned up’ Germanic manner. In short ‘I don’t like the cut of his jib’. No idea what a ‘jib’ might be but the message is clear.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So we download books. For the kindles. And Mel & I, plus any assorted daughters, all read them. Generally. I generally take a pass on any book with ‘flowers’ in the title and Mel didn’t read the Roy Keane biography. I’ll read the rom-coms, because I’m that kind of man. One who likes crying.

But one book I downloaded a long while ago was ‘The Salt Path’. Mel read it, liked it, but I didn’t… couldn’t… wouldn’t… it was non-fiction. But not of a footballing nature. Possibly not of a political nature. Even of a mildly rugby nature. But the ‘memoire’ of an old couple walking along a path? Errrrr… don’t think so.

Then for some reason, just a couple of weeks ago I thought: “I’m gonna read that”, and I did/am. Midway through. And what a fucking storm its caused.

Not me reading it, as such, but just the timing of the ‘scandal’.

Because when you write a memoire or an autobiography, you generally want to portray yourself in a very positive light. As a fundamentally ‘good person’. Possibly something of ‘the victim’; that’s acceptable and will garner sympathy from the reading masses, maybe some degree of heroic, a true ‘fighter’, something good. A wonderful partner, to someone with ‘special needs’, that’ll do it.

And that’s what you get with the Salt Path. So much so that the movie came out about a month ago. Starring the X-files babe and one of the wizards from Harry Potter. Good pedigree for Raynor Winn’s book.

Which, according to a newspaper report last week, is a total pack of lies. The ‘victimhood’ was in fact self-inflicted after years of fraud and embezzlement by the writer, the ‘terminal disease’ of the husband, still living and apparently quite healthy. The ‘being made homeless’ also subject to the fact that they own a place in France.

And I’m in the middle of this book. Still full of sympathy and compassion for a couple persecuted by the courts, given terminal news by the doctors and rendered homeless so their only option is to walk 630 miles around SouthWest England with no money. I’m sharing their plight and their suffering and their perseverance and their determination in the face of horrendous odds. But I don’t get a share of the 64 grand the author allegedly nicked from her previous employers. Which was what led to the repossession of their home in the first place.

All I’m saying is; they might have fucking waited for me to finish the book before exposing it as a total fraud.

And I think I need to get Lila a slightly smaller e-bike.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Our nation has indeed been blessed, this week. We have had the honour to bestow an appropriately grandiose, full state visit to the president of our neighbour-nation and long-term allies, the Republic of France. We rolled out the king and queen to greet him, lined up the Cold Stream Guards for his inspection and opened up Windsor Castle. All of which was greatly, some might say ‘smugly’ appreciated by the trumped up little shit, Macron. Who strutted around as if he was an important person. With a look on his face you just wanted to punch. I was only surprised that faced with all those resplendent soldiers, he didn’t just surrender.

But now the glad-handing is over. The Royal banquets are done, we’ve put Charles and Camilla back into care, and it’s down to work. That being: the immigrant crisis.

The boat loads of refugees which invade our shores on a daily basis, 20,000 or more this year so far. And although they’re from Afghanistan, Algeria, Vietnam, Eritrea or wherever; they actually come from France. All of them. As far as I’m concerned, they’re French, the lot of them.

Yet even Macron admitted that, though he doesn’t particularly want them, none of the immigrants want to stay in France. Well, why would they? There’s too many immigrants there for the immigrants to want to mix with. So Macron identified a major problem, which is that England is ‘too appealing’ for them. There’s our benefit system which, although asylum seekers can NOT claim benefits, as we’re repeatedly told, they do get accommodation, food, phones, clothing, maids and jewellery. Oh, and health care, education, BMWs…

Another big plus for this multinational mass is that most of them speak English. Which Macron identified as a major problem in stopping immigrants. Kier Starmer will announce tomorrow that from now on everyone in England can only speak Lithuanian.

Asylum seekers are not allowed to work. But how am I gonna get my pizza delivered if they don’t, FFS??? I’d have to collect it myself and miss some of the tennis. I’d send Mel but I don’t trust her not to nibble it on the way home.

So we’ve now devised a ‘one in, one out’ system in which out of every 42,000 illegal immigrants, we can send one back to France. BUT: we then have to bring another one in who has a relative here already claiming asylum.

I’m not Enoch Powell. I’m just 3 generations from immigrants myself. I empathise. I don’t want people living in fear. Or with absolutely no future other than misery and starvation. But there are other countries. Nice ones. Europe’s full of them. And you don’t have to go very far in England, either physically or on the phone, to realise we’re pretty full up. If you want to increase our numbers you need to arrange it so that Doctors appointments can be made. Hospitals can cope. You can get your children into a nearby school. You can travel with a degree of freedom. WE NEED HOUSES. Flats. So we’re not paying stupid hotel prices for accommodating people long term.

So thanks for your time, Macron, and your advice. I’ll pop in when I next go to Paris for a weekend. One when it’s not rioting, hopefully.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So I had a ‘spot’ thing by my collarbone. Dark. Sinister looking. Didn’t bother me but Mel thought it seriously affected my normal ‘perfection of beauty’ so I was sent to a ‘skin dude’. Who stuck a microscope on my chest and declared it was ‘nothing’, just some blood vessels. And we all need them. “However…” he said as he roamed around my torso with the scope stuck on his eye, “this mole down here is not so good…” Oh. I have one hundred and twenty six moles and he found a ‘dud’ one.

“I need to remove it and have it tested”. Ok, when? Well I’m fully booked but I’ll come in early next week (ie: today) before my clinic. Great. Or is it? I’m fine with routine stuff, casual checks, but when a dermatologist is prepared to leave his mansion before his staff have even arrived to dress him!!!, you have to be worried.

Took 10 minutes. I refused the local anaesthetic because I’m fuckin’ ‘ard. Ok, I didn’t, I asked for more. I asked for a general just because it feels so nice, but refused on the ground that he’s not a drug dealer. And he stitched me up and stuck on a big plaster thing and that was all easy and nice. But…

Can’t use my e-bike. Not allowed. No tai chi tomorrow. No showering for 48 hours. So if you planned to see me in the next 2 days; cancel. Though I’m allowed a ‘careful bath’. Meaning no toys, boats, ducks or splashing games. Not supposed to do lots of things, but as there’s no specific mention of ‘tennis’, I’m gonna assume that’s ok.

But as I like the dressing, I’m going to go around topless, so I can flaunt it. Looks like I’ve been stabbed. Which, actually, I have been. But just carefully, precisely and very expensively.

Happy and HEALTHY!!! Wednesday

A xxxx

So we drove up to Yorkshire. It’s a long way. But it’s fine, because they let you drive fairly fast on the motorway. Ok, they keep slowing you down, but I don’t think they really mean it. All those ‘50’ signs are just to test their wiring.

But then you get to Yorkshire. And for some reason, for such a massive county, they really don’t want anyone getting anywhere in any kind of hurry. And you know you’re ’up north’ because people actually adhere to the limits. Unbelievable. And quite agonising.

But it doesn’t matter! Because we’re here!!! On the Yorkshire Moors! And they’re beautiful. Yesterday evening we walked to a lovely pub for dinner and saw the Moors. But night was approaching and I kept hearing that line from my favourite film “don’t go onto’t Moors after dark!” An American Werewolf in London. When I fell in love with Jenny Agutter and Van Morrison’s Moondance simultaneously.

But this morning we were safe. So up we went. We’d ascended about 50 feet onto our first Moor when Mel was attacked. They tell you about the werewolves but not about the shitting birds high up in the trees. As about half a pint of what looked like liquidised cherry descended upon her lovely pink shirt. Ex-shirt. It’ll never be worn again. But undeterred (unde-turd?) we fearlessly walked on. For about an hour. Then decided, yeah; ya seen one moor, ya seen ‘em all, and came back into ‘town’.

The town of Ilkley. Which is tiny, posh and very sweet. From the toy town Town Hall to the insy wincey train station, lovely shops, Sunday market and jazz band playing on the green, it’s all rather chocolate boxey and nice. Loads of people about all smiling at you and wishing you g’mornin’ in their strange accents. Mel (raised just up the road in Leeds) translated for me.

So now we’re off to the wedding. Here’s how you get there. You start in Ilklley, which is in the middle of nowhere (not counting the Moors) and then you drive 15 minutes away from any kind of civilisation to… ‘the edges of nowhere’?, absolute nowhere? Who knows. I’ll let you know.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

In celebration of Labour’s one year anniversary of winning the general election, I’m going to travel the whole country telling everyone I meet how wonderful this government is, what a joy it is to live in Britain under Starmer’s command and how they should all be sending their postal votes NOW for the next election, in 2029.

Actually, I’m travelling the whole country to go to a destination wedding. It’s in the Yorkshire Moors. Though the invitation is a bit more precise than that. So we’re travelling today for the wedding tomorrow. Yorkshire’s a ‘destination’, innit?? You have to put it in Google Maps, so it’s your destination. Some people might assert that 200 miles up the M1 is not exactly ‘the whole country’. Well it fucking feels like it. And who really cares about the other bits? Like Middlesbrough and Bristol and a saddened, mourning and sorrowful Liverpool.

Liverpool is ALWAYS saddened, mourning and sorrowful. It’s the natural state of the Scouser. It’s almost aspirational. They like nothing more than moaning, complaining and feeling persecuted. Just because since 1961, NOTHING worth having has come out of that city. The Beatles left and that was it. Over. So all they have to ‘celebrate’ is the bad shit. So they embrace it and make it last until a new tragedy comes along. Thus we had about 45 years of Hillsboro’, ok, there were a few league and cup wins along the way, but they didn’t let them get in the way of the overwhelming depression of the city. Even when they win the league some mofo ploughs into the celebrations. And now we have Diogo Jota. Which is an absolute tragedy. Crashed his Lamborghini. Footballers who crash are ALWAYS in Lamborghinis. Probably because no-one else drives them. Who needs to spend 350 grand to look like a drug dealer? A few hefty gold(-plated) chains and a pistol would do the job for less than 500 quid.

But happy birthday to the government. A year of… well, not too much really. Lots of proclamations, all shouted down by their ‘vast majority’. Who aren’t really a ‘majority’ in any normal sense. Rather, they’re a group of disparate minorities, ideologically, banded together temporarily in the ‘broad church’ of Labour. Like putting al Quaeda, the Mossad and the Spanish Inquisition in a room together and expecting that a few cakes will bring them together.

Hence the ‘new party’. Ok, it doesn’t have a name yet, and so far has one confirmed member: Zara Sultana. She’s named Jeremy Corbyn as a ‘partner’ but he hasn’t actually confirmed his interest yet. Zara has also said she’ll bring in the ‘independent’ MPs into the party which cannot be named. Because no-one has named it. All we know is; it will be a ‘proper left-wing’ party. With all the shit that implies. And as these ‘independents’ won their seats on a ‘death to all Jews’ policy, plus bearing in mind Corbyn’s natural position, which is alongside Adolph Hitler, it will be interesting to see what direction ‘new party’ will take.

What will happen is that this will divide Labour. What will John McDonald do? Diane Abbot (aka: ‘the liability’), one-time shag of Corbyn and his main cheer-leader. All those of the ‘vast majority’ who are naturally way to the left of Starmer. Like Angela Rayner. But she has her eye on the leadership.

So happy birthday to the hapless shape-changers that we call ‘government’, and we can only wait and see what the Anti-Semite party will bring to the party. Well, it’s a name, innit?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Black Sabbath are playing their last ever gig this weekend. Appropriately, at Villa Park. Because what starts in Birmingham should emphatically end in Birmingham. No idea why, just sounds nicely profound. The band are old, Ossie Osbourne has Parkinson’s and it is probably time to call it a day. But you simply can’t underestimate the legacy of this humble little quartet from Brum. Who, (can you say ‘single-handedly’ when there’s four of them???) literally invented a music genre. A critic, probably not a fan, I’m guessing, reviewing them ‘back in the day’ described their sound as ‘like heavy metal being beaten very loudly’. And heavy metal was what it thence became. Amen. Or, the satanic equivalent of ‘amen’, probably ‘nema’ or some such.

And that is what I really love. Black Sabbath were completely and absolutely original. Ok, all music is ‘derivative’ of what preceded it, to some degree. But Sabbath invented a new take. A loud one. And, what is very underestimated, an exceptionally clever one. They pretty much created ‘feel bad’ music. Carole King sang songs which lifted your spirit and made you want to hug. Sabbath sent shivers down your spine, shattered your eardrums and made you frightened. If the top 10 was saccharine, they played vinegar with chillies. To really get the drift of this band just say ‘Alexa, play Black Sabbath by Black Sabbath’. Ok, assuming you have an Alexa. It starts with a thunderstorm, and then 3 notes ring out. What are known as ‘The Devil’s Interval’, and you’ll hear why.

Best of all; they never took themselves, or anything else, particularly seriously. The image of satanistic death-cult wizards invoking the souls of murdered lesbians was totally tongue-in-cheek. Ozzie Osbourne biting the heads off live chickens on stage was more ‘head in cheek’. Tony Iommi wrote a riff which became the track ‘Paranoid’ (their only foray into the world of singles and the charts), gave it to Geezer Butler who wrote the nonsense lyrics on a bus going home. They embraced the rumours that ‘if you play the track “Black Sabbath” backwards, it will invoke The Devil!!! If you play it backwards at 78, you will vanish in a puff of smoke!!’ They never denied or confirmed anything. Even when the Christian establishment called for a ban on their music for some kind of ‘heresy’ or ‘blasphemy’. They just smiled, effectively giving the finger to the lot of them.

Or you can go this weekend to see the return of Oasis. The stroppy, strutting, spitting siblings who personify a completely different type of evil to Black Sabbath. There’s nothing ironic or symbolic about the Gallagher brothers when it comes to ‘nasty and horrible’. And although they put out two truly fantastic albums, which I’m still (just about) prepared to play, anyone who ever listened to the Beatles could never call Oasis ‘not derivative’. But still. I wouldn’t go if you paid me. And as you haven’t offered, looks like I’m staying home with Alexa.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Rachel Reeves broke down in tears in parliament yesterday. And in doing so, caused a ‘mini-Liz Truss’ and crashed the markets. Three tears, a major tsunami on the trading floor. Not that anyone trades on a ‘floor’ any longer. They sit in luxurious offices with their Gucci-clad feet resting on a desk made from one single piece of ebony, looking at 14 screens. All of which turned red before ‘Rachel from accounts’ could get a tissue out of her handbag.

Because we live in a world of ‘instantaneous’. No-one has to wait for the ‘late edition’ of the evening standard to know what happened at Prime Ministers Questions. They’re watching it live and reacting instantly with one click of the mouse. All of which puts a massive pressure on ministers NOT to fuck up.

Unfortunately our current government haven’t read that bit in the ‘guide to good government’. It’s page 527. Just after ‘don’t shag little boys in the ministerial car’.

Starmer has lots to answer for. But then he’ll u-turn and have a lot to answer differently. Which really doesn’t help. And when you’re standing at the dispatch box facing questions about your Chancellor’s future in the job, you don’t ’film-flam’, you don’t hesitate, you don’t obfuscate. And you don’t imply that she may be going only to state 3 hours later on tv that ‘she’ll be in her job for a very long time’. Because as we all know; 24 hours is a long time in politics.

I’ve always said that once any PM proclaims ‘their complete support’ for a troubled minister, that minister is history. Because if someone’s good at their job no-one asks the question.

Do I feel sorry for Rachel Reeves? Not when she’s ’part of the problem’, which is our current leaders’ inability to agree consistently on anything. And to be honest, crying? Really?? The most important minister in the country, after the tosser-in-chief, and she’s crying like Lila when Joey’s just beheaded her favourite cuddly toy.

People cry. Life gets emotional. But we’re British. We don’t do public wailing, chest-beating, ululating. And we can cry all we like. Crying makes you look human. Sensitive. Overly emotional. But in Parliament, it makes you look weak.

Starmer didn’t offer any comfort. Why would he. He has all the warmth of an air-conditioned vampire. All the compassion of a football hooligan. If he had offered a hand on the shoulder, a brief hug, some sign that he is in fact human, he would have looked strong. Instead, by doing nothing, he too just looked weak. A ‘typical man’ who freezes and looks away at any sign of emotion.

When a butterfly flaps its wings in China, it can cause a hurricane in Africa 2 months later. (It’s why you see so many Africans killing butterflies in Beijing). Small events, massive consequences. When a chancellor sheds a tear in parliament, billions get wiped off the bond market. But; instantly.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So I never went to Glastonbury. Because it wasn’t Woodstock. And I truly, madly, deeply wanted to go to Woodstock. But my mum refused permission. On the grounds that I was 13 and it was in New York. In the days when traveling to Bournemouth was considered ‘exotic’ and going to Europe was only for the rich and privileged. Typical controlling, over-parenting behaviour, depriving young kids of a unique opportunity to experience all the sex, drugs and rock’n’roll they could ever dream of, in one long weekend, in Upstate New York.

Because at Woodstock they had all bands we really loved. The ‘album bands’. Who never made anything as tacky and commercialised as ‘singles’ because 3 minutes at 45rpm simply couldn’t demonstrate the artistic wonders they had available. The only band present who’d ever had a number 1 hit was Sly & the Family Stone. Who were so cool they were forgiven their probably rather lucrative forays into the pop charts.

1969 was the year when the kids took over. And an estimated 500,000 descended on Yasgur’s farm. Some had tickets, most didn’t. Was of no consequence, they’d underestimated the demand and had no infrastructure to check tickets or keep people out. Out of half a million people, the AVERAGE age of whom was 22, over 200,000 were women. And yet there was only 3 bras in the entire area. 2 of those worn by transvestites.

The Who played there but no Stones, no Beatles. The majority were good ole American bands and singers, full of anti-Vietnam war and anti-establishment passion. But unlike Kneecap, these were not advocates of military revolution and violence. The opposite. They were anti (Vietnam) war and advocates of ‘lurve’ and peace. The hippy agenda. Aided by all the drugs which made you mellow.

Crosby Stills and Nash were there, Joe Cocker, Dylan and of course, the grand finale was Jimi Hendrix. On the basis that no-one could ever upstage Jimi. He finished the festival with his famous rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Played with irony because Woodstock hated the government and establishment who were sending all the country’s 19 year-old men to the far east to get killed. Which was wonderfully summed up in Country Joe’s fabulous anti-war anthem which he played there.

“And its one two three; what are we fighting for?
Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn.
Next stop is Vietnam.
And its five six seven, open up the pearly gates
And I ain’t got time to wonder why
Whoopee! We’re all gonna die”

Although, just a little ‘spoiler’, in the sad tale of poor, young Andy.

Like virtually everyone else in the world, I didn’t hear about Woodstock until after it happened. I appreciate that made getting there to see it way more difficult. But there was a big splash. They were hoping to get maybe 20,000 people there and ended up with half a million. The images we saw, the bands, the music, the total… love of the event meant no music festival could ever match it. And in the intervening years, none has ever come close.

Hippy Wednesday

A xxxx

Just before I start, an aside. Because as I was preparing supper the other day for ‘the monsters’, who obviously have completely different meals from each other, Joey was ‘helping’ me. And I looked over and saw he’d found a jar of peanut butter (and not just ANY peanut butter but deep-roast, crunchy, MANILIFE!, MY fucking peanut butter!!!). And he was eating it off his (grubby little) fingers. So being a good grandparent, I gave him a spoon. Ya get more that way. But I thought: nuts… allergies… hmmmm. Joey is dairy intolerant. But not as much as he is intolerant to the word ‘no’. Because sometimes he will ingest small amounts of dairy, as long as its in frozen form or comes from a bakery. But he’ll never tolerate “NO!”, ever. Yet I was concerned that people may enter my home with allergies and intolerances and we have every allergen known to man and beast, all ready and open. So I have had a sign made for over the front door. It reads: IF YOU HAVE ANY ALLERGIES AT ALL YOU’RE PROBABLY GOING TO LEAVE HERE ON A STRETCHER.

I couldn’t get to Glastonbury this year. Shame. As it represents the 54th consecutive time I’ve missed it. So far. But much as I love music, wallowing in mud is better left to hippos (rather than hippies, ha, ha, haaaa…). And its not like I’m missing Bob Dylan or Crosby Stills and Nash, just a bunch’a rappers, tossers, ex-Disney child stars and Neil Young!!!! Who really didn’t wanna be there. As for Rod Stewart, I’d only go to Glastonbury if he was playing at the O2.

Though i really wanted to see Kneecap. They’re so… Irish. They’re so… IRA. They’re angry as fuck, though they don’t know precisely why, they’re aggressive as swarm of wasps and they are anti-establishment to the point of terrorism. Perfect credentials for me to be their biggest fan.

But as I waiting for them to come on the tv, I watched Bob Vylan. My first thought was ‘who???’ followed quite quickly by ‘this is rubbish’. But then it got good. The geezer (Bob? Vylan?? who knows) started talking about Palestine. In the interests of both Glastonbury and the BBC’s specific mandate of ‘no politics at Glasto’. Then he started chanting, which is good, because chanting is meditative. But instead of ‘ohmmmmmm’, he chanted ‘DEATH, DEATH, TO THE IDF!!!’. And then broke into a great rendition of ‘from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free’, which was really cool. What was best was the even though inciting people to kill is completely illegal, and even though ‘from the river to the sea…’ is an incitement to genocide, all I knew was; this is great!!! So in keeping with the Glasto zeitgeist which is roughly “I’m too fucking stupid and ignorant to know what any of this means, even when I’m not stoned out of my head, but I’ll shake my Palestine flag and sing along anyway; it looks like fun”. We all joined in. Death and genocide; all in the name of peace. Which is why the BBC played it in its entirety and even put it on iplayer in case any Hamas members missed the show and wanted to catch up.

Then Kneecap came on. Dressed like ‘provos’ as we used to call ‘the Provisional IRA’, the ones who shot, maimed, tortured and killed, and invented ‘kneecapping’ as a punishment. Where the victim (or in their eyes, the villain) is shot in the kneecap(s) so will never walk properly again, if at all. Nice to name your band after historical events. Unfortunately, one of the band is awaiting charges for terrorism offenses after claiming allegiance to Hezbollah. Which, along with every other group this band aligns themselves with, is a terrorist organisation. So I watched them, as non-politically as I could, just enjoying the music. Which is nice, pleasant, peaceful. Its like ABBA with machine guns and grenades.

To be honest, I expected nothing less from fucking Kneecap. They are simply anti-establishment scum. And I’d never heard of ‘Bob Vylan’ before and probably won’t hear from him again, until I read about his imprisonment. But what really appalled me was the instant, immediate and almost total compliance of the massive crowd to follow the words and actions of terrorist sympathisers. Waving their flags and singing along, oblivious to the meaning of their words.

The ‘new narrative’ put forth by such people and so heartily embraced by the legion of middle-class, over-entitled, spoilt little rich kids, is that ‘zionism is evil and if you support it in any way, sympathise with it, condone it, then you are evil too’. Which is dangerous.

Happy Monday. I wonder who’ll be wearing ‘Hamas green’ shorts at Wimbledon today?

A xxxx