Andy's Glasses

So here’s the problem: what allowances do we have to make for God in things like democracy? Medical advancement? Football??

Well, it’s Saturday, so we need to be profound. No point fucking about with the trivia when there’s big shit to consider.

In Iran they’re having what they loosely call ‘an election’. What the rest of the world and apparently about 70% of Iranians call ‘a joke’. Because to stand for president over there you have to be ‘approved’ by a committee of guardians. Who, basically, tell everyone who God would approve of. Because they know. So anyone who might, kind of, actually make life a little more easy, or even more bearable for that poor, long-suffering population, is immediately rejected. Or murdered. They do ‘rejection’ in a big way over there. And you end up voting for… (drum roll…) THE GEEZER WITH THE DRESS AND HAT AND BIG BEARD!!!! Hail the new president. Looks just like the old one. Sounds just like the old one. Increases the long list of “you can’t…s” to eliminate a few more freedoms and, see ya in 5 years.

Gene therapy, genetic engineering, contraception, terminations and a whole array of other massive advances are generally ‘banned by God’. It’s not a question of mere ethics, they have non-religious committees to do all that. But when the result comes, it inevitably goes against something, somewhere in the bible, Koran, Talmud, holy book of someone, and gets mired down in a moral maze. Bit like euthanasia. Everyone loves the idea of it for themselves, but God’s not happy about it, so as yet, they won’t even discuss it in parliament.

Only football bucked the trend. They never used to play on Sundays. The Sabbath, for Christians in a Christian country. And then, less to do with multi-culturalism, much more to do with Sky tv and commercial opportunity, God was voted down on that one. Well, ‘that God’ was. My God was pleased because he won’t go to football on a Saturday but could now go to see his beloved Spurs on a Sunday.

I’d just like to say in His defence, God’s not really the problem. It’s a question of who interprets what they think their God would like according to how extreme they want to take it. Once you start forcing the will of God onto people you risk ending up like Iran. Where they’re so unbelievably religious they’re prepared to kill, maim and torture in the name of a God who would send them all straight to hell for doing so.

More importantly, England couldn’t even beat Scotland last night. In fact, were lucky not to lose. I mean… I mean… Scotland. Holy shit. Different ‘holy’, obviously.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Today I’m going to continue with my riveting new series, entitled: all the fings wot I missed and even a few wot I saw, growin’ up in the 60s, 70s, 80s, 90s and 100s.

I should include 110s and 120s really because ‘growing up’ is a work in progress. And apparently, not one I’m particularly good at.

And they say that ‘if you remember the 70s then you weren’t really there’, so I must have been really everywhere all during about 5 decades, because I remember so little of it. And not just because of the drugs. But they helped.

I’m so old I remember a time when people actually walked along a street, like, kind’a, looking where they’re going! Rather than staring at a fucking phone and crashing head- first into a lamppost. And of course, I was around in the entire ‘pre-computer’ world.

I took a ‘computer science’ option in my 6th form, in about 1974. Probably because it got me out of some other class I didn’t want, but I did it anyway. And we spent an hour punching holes in little cards, instructing the computer in the only language it understood, called ‘binary’, (Bill Gates didn’t come up with ‘Basic’ for a few years yet, when you could actually just tell a computer in English what you wanted). This would be for an equation, like the Pythagoras one. Simple. Quick even without a calculator. But as an ‘exercise’ we punched it onto cards. Which we then took down the Stratford, about 6 miles away, where the polytechnic let us use their ‘computer’. It was a room. A big one. Filled with mechanical electronic gadgetry. And we gave them our card stacks. Returning next week once the cards had been ‘run’, reassured that the square on the hypotenuse was STILL equal to the sum of the squares on the other two sides. Hooray. The wonder of computers. 3 weeks to for something that would take you 5 minutes with a pencil and paper.

When the silicon chip was invented, North East London Poly got their room back.

My brother bought a ‘computer’ in the 70s. A Sinclair ZX81. And it was the first available to normal people. You had to plug it into a tv and it didn’t do very much. But it worked.

I got myself an Amstrad (thank you, Alan Sugar) in the mid-80s and it was brilliant. Not by today’s standards but in green and white (that was all you got) it was a revolution. Then someone created a ‘mouse’ and a disc drive and the rest, like this, is history.

So in 50 years we’ve moved from a massive room in E11 to my phone. Or your watch (because I wouldn’t have such a thing on my wrist), doing 1000 times more stuff a million times faster. And they call that progress? I’m not convinced.

Happy 65 and one day older… day

A xxxx

You almost have to feel sorry for the Scots. Almost. Then you remember they’re Scottish and it becomes even harder to do so. And again, this is one of those weird things, every Scot you meet is lovely (I’ve never met Nicola Sturgeon nor Alex Salmond) but as a nation? A nation??? All that blue face paint and the spirit of William Wallace, Andy Murray, Trainspotting, Letter from America, and their collective dislike of everything south of Hadrian’s Wall? Nah. Yet you rarely find a Scot without a great sense of humour. Ok, possibly Gordon Brown. Self-deprecation is the national pastime, after ‘tossing the caber’, and their dry wit is legendary. But you’d have to have a wonderful sense of humour with a football team like theirs. A fabulous meme went up on Monday night within minutes of the final score against the Czech Republic stating that ‘Nicola Sturgeon will NOT accept that scoreline and will fight as long as it takes to get it rectified to the will of the majority of the Scottish people ’.

And on Friday they’re coming to Wembley to play England. Oh my. The match that has been building up… well, since last year when it should have been played. They’ve shown ‘the Gaza goal’ 14,653 times on tv. And even though it is a totally brilliant goal by a wonderfully brilliant SPURS PLAYER, I’m almost bored with watching it. What they should do is make more interesting, in case the match (as happens so often) doesn’t live up to expectations. They should make it a ‘winner takes all’ event. If Scotland win they can leave the United Kingdom. If England win we get Scotland and will sell it to China.

More importantly, its my birthday today. I’ve become ‘a man’! I don’t mean that in any gender fluid or reassignment way, just, I’ve ‘come of age’. But what a ridiculous age. 65. Holy shit. The card Mel found is so profoundly accurate and brilliant, I just had to ‘share’. Also, because its my birthday I am allowed to use that word without puking. But I won’t share my presents. I’m getting 3 this year, in keeping with the spirit of our world as it moves towards progress. A 1971 Dodge Charger, supercharged V8, to help with the environment. Three baby lambs to keep in the garden. For food. And a slave.

Happy birthday

A xxxx

The end of ‘lockdown’ is being delayed by four weeks to allow the “Delta Variant, first discovered in fucking India!!”, time to… errrr… well, time to slow down, ease up, get better or get superseded by the Epsilon Variant, first discovered in *******.

The thing is that if you run a theatre, sporting events, possibly weddings (they’re going to have special dispensation, apparently delta viruses are very keen on the institution of marriage and have promised to keep away from nuptial ceremonies and receptions), then that’s bad.

For pubs, limiting numbers during the entire European football
campaign is horrendous and unimaginably costly. Especially now all football fans have bonded over Christian Eriksen and would like nothing more than to sit in vast crowds watching big screens, eating together, drinking together, vomiting together, in one cohesive act of unity and an outpouring of love. Not gonna happen. Not til July the whatever, when the football’s long over.

But…

But if you’re a normal person, not engaged in such crowded working things, just a regular guy/gal, sorry: just a regular
guy/gal/LGBTQIA/hermaphrodite/thing-with-dubious-pronouns/anything-else that hasn’t yet been defined gender-wise, if you’re one of them/us,then lockdown is pretty much a thing of the past. We’re over it. I’m over it. Ok, I wear a mask, but only when I absolutely have to, for the least possible time and only if people are watching. But otherwise, life is getting pretty normal out there. As I know nobody
under 18, other than Lila and Joey, my whole world is vaccinated. So we hug, we kiss, we meet up, drink coffee together, dine together, and if more people stop by at the cafe, they no longer receive the looks of shock, horror and disgust, as they breeze over for a chat, as they would have had in February.

We’re never going to ‘beat’ coronavirus. It is now our constant and everlasting companion. The cost of a divorce from it would be excessive as it would involve killing every person, dog and bat on the entire planet. So, as they keep telling us, we have to learn to live with it. Which really, I think, is where most of us are at right now.

So Boris and Hancock and Rishi can say what they want to upset
everyone in the leisure and travel industries, my life will go on. Ihope. Long as I don’t get covid. Badly. Because I ‘learned to live with it’ about April last year, and I’m still learning.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Christian Eriksen is a footballer. He’s 29, obviously fit, totally wonderful at football (doh) and played for Spurs. He was the ‘odd one’ bought when we squandered the rest of the 100 million Euros we received for selling Gareth Bale. He was the ‘cheapy’. But proved, by miles and miles, to be the best, the most talented, the most enduring of an otherwise pretty ragged bunch of bad buys. He left us a year ago to play for Inter Milan.

And yesterday, whilst playing as captain of Denmark in Copenhagen, his heart stopped on the field. He collapsed. Basically, he ‘died’. But by the quick action of the emergency protocols used at all matches, they managed to bring him back to life. Thank God. And for that, we must thank Spurs. Because as God is a Spurs supporter and all Spurs supporters love Christian Eriksen, even after he left.

One of the first ‘tweets’ that went out was from Fabrice Muamba, who wrote “Please God”. Because it happened to him. He was 23 years old and playing for Bolton, at Spurs, when he suffered a massive heart attack. Fortunately it was at Spurs.

Because in 2012 at ‘old’ White Hart Lane, there were 34,000 people there. Of whom, at least 20,000 would be Jews. And of every 20,000 Jews, anywhere in the world, there will ALWAYS be 5,000 lawyers, 5,000 accountants and 5,000 doctors. It’s the 11th commandment. As it is written. Amen. So of those doctors, there are a full array of specialties covered. And one of the cardiologists (there were 87 present at senior registrar level or above, that day), one rushed onto the pitch to give CPR, which, by the time the ambulances arrived, had basically saved Fabrice’s life as his heart stopped for 78 minutes.

Muamba returned to Spurs a few years ago, no longer a player, but just for a visit. And received the biggest standing ovation ever. Just for being alive in the place where he so nearly died. I cried. He cried. Everyone fucking cried.

And that, those instances of absolute nightmare horror, is when football truly becomes ‘the beautiful game’ it so rarely is the rest of the time. It’s when the fans forget their stupid, tribal loyalties and banner waving and racist obscenities and stupid thuggishness and they become just ‘people’. Who care about other people, regardless of race, colour, nationality or football club affiliation. In those horrible tragic moments there are only good, positive, loving thoughts for someone suffering as they hope and pray they never have to suffer themselves. It is an outpouring of empathy.

As there was yesterday, beautifully demonstrated by the players and fans of Denmark and Finland (they are two different countries, even though they all look and sound the same).

Get well Christian and hopefully grace the game once more with your absolute class and elegance. Our thoughts are with you.

A xxxx

It’s my birthday soon. Very soon. I’m not fishing for presents. There again…

And I will be… 65 years old! So I’d just like to say: FUCK! ME! How could that even happen? My old dad, at 96, probably feels the same, but a lot more so. How do we ‘suddenly’ change from 23 to 65, in an ‘instant’? It defies belief. It defies science. And yet remains true, nonetheless. I’m so fucking old that I remember:

Spurs winning the league! 1961 it happened. Ok, not so much ‘remember’ as ‘was alive when…’ Because at 5 I’m not sure the news was as important to me as eating mud.

I ‘remember’ the Bay of Pigs incident, 1962 when world war 3 almost started in Cuba because neither the Russians nor the Americans wanted to ‘shit on their own doorsteps’ when, to stretch that metaphor to excess, the nuclear ‘stink’ would last for about 75 years afterwards.

Everyone remembers exactly where they were when John F Kennedy was assassinated in Texas in 1963. Except me. I have no clue. Probably in school. Possibly on the naughty step. Not saying its true, just a distinct possibility.

I do remember the Beatles arriving on the scene. Probably because I have an older brother and liked to copy what he did. But in a really annoying way. Then the Rolling Stones came along and ‘we’ didn’t like them quite as much. But loved the Kinks, the Who, and pretty much all the bands and none of the ‘crooners’ who still populated a lot of the charts back then. Which meant I was perfectly placed for the ‘birth of music’, which didn’t exist before the Beatles and died with Kurt Kobain later on.

I watched the 1966 World Cup Final on Harvey and Bradley Porrett’s little black’n’white tv. I screamed. It remains, to this day, the only football match my football-loathing brother has ever watched. I’ve seen a few more.

When Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, I was there. I remember it because we had special dispensation to get up in the middle of the night to watch it. Then Armstrong had the walk taken away for ‘substance abuse’. Oh, sorry, that was the other Armstrong, Lance.

Monty Python arrived in 1969 by which time my memory was working perfectly fine, thank you very much, as it did for the next 40 years before it… what? Yeah, whatever.

1970 provided the best World Cup ever, won by (for me) the best team ever to play the play the game; that Brazil squad. Who also, by no coincidence really, scored the best goal ever scored, in the final. The sheer nonchalance of Pele’s pass for Carlos Alberto to slam home defines everything wonderful about the entire universe and man’s place in it. (Who said ‘hyperbole was dead’?)

I remember being introduced (along with the rest of the nation) to Lady Diana who was to marry Prince Charles. And much later, I was in Paris when Diana died, about 10 miles away. I didn’t kill her, just for the record.

I remember Winston Churchill’s funeral (boring), Maggie Thatcher’s reign of terror, the Vietnam War, the 6-day war, the Yom Kippur war and shit loads of other wars. I even remember some peace, but we don’t name those.

Holy shit, I’m old.

Happy history

A xxxx

Jo Biden has arrived on these shores. His first major challenge was the steps of Air Force One. Didn’t look too convincing if I’m honest, being a bit steep and… stair-like, for a man with 80 years of hip strain and knee issues behind him, but he made it onto English soil with just a little help from his carer, Mrs Biden. Just in time to issue a diplomatic ‘caution’ to Boris over Brexit and Northern Ireland. Like a yellow card for ambassadorial types. The sort of thing you normally do when you’re really pissed off with an ‘enemy’ type nation. Not your country-BFF. Yet many think this move was just to give some sort of advantage whilst negotiating our ‘trade deal’ with America. And as we want absolutely NOTHING to stand in the way of our unlimited access to chlorinated chickens, this could be a good tactic by Biden.

Could be, but wasn’t. Because the ‘land of the brave’ is only brave when not under threat. Or when they’re sending in thousands of troops where they’re not wanted. When troubles abound the yanks are normally the first ones to lock the gates and ban travel.

There’s a long history of East Coast democrats with affiliation to Ireland. The Kennedys were ‘Irish’ and many subsequent politicos make the claim too. Which gave them their unique ‘unalienable right to interfere’. Like during the ‘real’ ‘troubles’ in Northern Ireland when Noraid were fundraisers for the IRA, helping to keep them in bullets and ensure that we Brits, on the ‘front line’ knew that the bombs blowing up West End pubs and Brent Cross flyover, were made with the best explosives US dollars from Boston could buy.

But a trade deal? We could give them access to the European markets, except we no longer have that to offer. So they can have all the Vauxhall cars they want and in return we have to increase our purchase of guns. Every house in England must have 3, except the people who want 33. They also want to stipulate that ‘there will be no more good music played in the UK, only Country and Western’. Then we’ll need to change our policing methods to a more US style. And run the entire NHS on a private model. So that the people the police shoot in the back can’t get into hospitals for treatment without a valid credit card.

Joe Biden needs to understand that no nation is more intent on peace in Northern Ireland that Britain. Boris is old enough to remember the ‘good ole days’, he needs no threats from octogenarian Yanks to remind him of the fragility of the Province.

Welcome to England, Mr President

A xxxx

So Covid came. And then… (pause for dramatic effect), it MUTATED!!! Into a ‘variant’. Which is pretty much ‘same shit different day’ but its called a variant because its slightly modified whilst being fundamentally the same. Viruses evolve. Very quickly. They do the evolutionary equivalent of ‘monkeys to men’ in about 9 days. (He says with such definitive authority that no-one will doubt the scientific research involved in such a statement which I made up whilst peeling my banana.) So a new ‘strain’ is more contagious or, as the virus calls it, ‘more successful’. Thus becomes ‘dominant’. Then we give it a name.

Which is easy-peasy. Just name it after the place where ya found it. Oh, that was in Kent? Fine, its the ‘Kent Variant’. That’s official. What! Another one??? In South Africa, and another in Brazil?? Ok, we’ll go to the official government Department of Naming Viruses, its on Whitehall, number 33, and get the Secretary of State for Virus Nomenclature to produce suitable titles. And they came up with the rather catchy ‘B.1.351’ and P.1’. You can see why they get paid so well. Yet despite all that work and effort in producing names, the people not yet infected by these strains, and the press, insisted on calling them ‘the South African variant’ and ‘the Brazilian variant’. The ministry was not happy.

So when the Indian variant came along, obviously the last thing they were prepared to call it was ‘the Indian variant’, that would be completely unsatisfactory. It’s positively prejudicial. Against India. And against variants. Unacceptable. And might possibly result in the closure of our Department. So they changed tack.

Lest anyone should consider holding Indians in any way responsible for the spread of their variant, we are going to give all variants Greek letters and append them accordingly. Thus, shall the viral variant, formerly referred to as ‘the Indian variant’, being the 4th in its class, shall be called… (errrr… beta… no, alpha’s first… what the fuck comes next… ask a Greek… oh gamma… and then… DELTA!!! Got it) The Delta Variant!!!

So now, on the news, they speak frequently of this ‘thing’. Always thus: ‘The Delta Variant, which originated in India’. Every single time.

Well done, Department for Virus Naming, a bloody good week’s work. You can all take the next 14 days off on full pay and go to Portugal. Or Delhi. Which we’re now calling Delta.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I just don’t do ‘shopping’. If you doubt that, just go look in my wardrobe. I don’t mind food shopping. But clothes? CLOTHES???? I can’t even do it online. How the fuck are you supposed to buy shoes online? How can that work? But I needed new jeans. And realised that no-one was going to bring a clothes rack to my house, so I had to… go shopping!!

For men (in particular, but not exclusively) of a certain generation, jeans ARE Levis. There’s just no other. They were my first, my last, my everything. In denim. I’ve even visited the place where it all began. Nimes. In France. Near Montpellier in the Languedoc. Because that material was named ‘of Nimes’, or de-nim, as those bloody foreigners would say because they just don’t bother pronouncing -es at the end of words. Because they’re lazy. Anyway, me, Levis, the love affair.

When I was 12, having nagged my mum for possibly 3 years, every single waking hour, (I’m guessing here but probably not far from reality), she took me to Ilford, that fashion hub of the Western Hemisphere, and bought me a pair of ‘shrink-to-fit’ Levi jeans. Just for the record, in 1968 there were no other jeans around. I took them home, put them on and sat in a bath of warm water for half an hour. In my jeans. It’s what you did. Proved they were real. At the end of 30 minutes the bath water is dark blue. As were my legs, the towel, the bathroom floor, hall carpet, sofa…

But they were ‘primed’ and ready. When dry, obvs. And I loved them for years. Then forgot about them until Nick Kamen wore a pair to do his laundry and I fished them out again. Ok, they were long gone but I re-entered the Levi world and have stayed there ever since.

The ‘original’ Levis are called ‘501’s. No-one knows that code. It’s a secret. Just me and Levi Strauss have the secret. But then, with the surge of popularity following that advert, they brought out 532s and 786s and 943s and all manner of styles, quite alien to the ‘old’ purists for whom Levis just ARE 501s.

But last week in the Levi shop in Brent Cross (God fucking help me!!! I HATE Brent Cross!!!) they had 501-ladies, they had 501-taper leg, 501-extra bollocks room, a whole manner of the things. Because ‘501’ is so core to their history, they decided to use it with add-ons. Rather than just, kind’a, use some extra, different numbers. Maybe they ran out of numbers.

The girls who served me was clueless. Beautiful (hence forgiven) but fucking clueless. Her father wasn’t born yet when I was in my bath with my shrink-to-fits. But she sprayed the changing room with anti-virals really nicely for me.

I have Levis that are over 20 years old. Which are so shredded that they then morph into… cut downs! And you wear them for another 20 years. I have a drawer full. So I look at buying Levis as an investment. Mainly as an investment in not having to go to Brent Cross until I’m 85.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Oh wow, congratulations and mazzletovs all round, Harry and Meg produced another sproglette. An almost royal one. Not sure about its exact status in the ‘line’ but I’m guessing: low. Just below the Duke of Kent’s butler but still higher than The Emperor of All of Rutland. And in deference to all that is lovely and memorable and super they’re naming the little girl Ghislaine. Obviously, being some kind of quasi/pseudo-royal, one name is never enough, you need at least six Kings or 8 Queen’s names in there too. Or names that resonate with the parents. So the baby’s full name is: Ghislaine Adolph Yentl Kunta-Kinte Jeffrey Epstein Glen Hoddle Rosenberg-Markle-Windsor. She’s going to be a cheer-leader and speak funny. So I wish her and the family well. Not sure where that particular ‘family’ begins or ends any longer, so I’ll leave it vague.

And I can’t tell you just how excited I am about the up-coming European Championships. So I won’t. I’ll just leave the ‘excitement’ column blank for the moment. Though I am excited about the WAGS this time round. Because I was reading just yesterday that ‘this lot are different’! Oh yes, no more ‘groupie’ types hanging round the changing rooms desperate to get pregnant by anyone earning north of £100k a week. No more peroxided bimbos with more paint on their faces than Rembrandt used on a canvas. This time they’re ‘clever’. Intelligent. Edjukayted!!! One of them (no idea which, as ever, they all look exactly the same) has a degree in clothes. Another a masters in ‘Soap Operas and other shit on the telly’, whilst a third actually has a PhD in make up and dildos from the University of the Middlesbrough Bypass. Oh yes, WAGS have come a long way from… errrrr… last time round.

Have you seen Mare of Easttown? It’s a tv series. Everyone’s raving about it. To such an extent that I almost read a ‘spoiler’ in yesterday’s Times but managed to avert my gaze just in time, screwing up the entire newspaper and burning it. Because I thought the whole point of this entire ‘on demand’ viewing was that you don’t all watch it together. That some people (no names) are slower on the uptake. Need telling 17 times just how brilliant Kate Winslet is (and she really is) and how ‘dark’ it is and how utterly, totally wonderful it is. And they’re only half way through. So don’t spoil it for them. Wait til I’ve seen the last one (there’s only 7 episodes) and then I’ll spoil it properly.

This photo was taken yesterday on the occasion of my lovely 96 year-old dad leaving his care home for the first time since August. Other than a few hospital visits. But they don’t count because there weren’t 4 generations all there to celebrate like we had in our garden.

Happy Monday

A xxxx