Andy's Glasses

What’s your absolute favourite film of all time? The Godfather? Nah, too Italian. The Italian Job? Nah, I only wanted you to blow the bloody doors off. Shawshank Redemption? Nah, too… oh, its Stephen King, I don’t like him. Gone with the Wind? Nah, too slushy. Annie Hall? W**dy All*n??? Are you JOKING!!!! The Sound of Music? Just fuck off.

For the purposes of today mine is The Blues Brothers. It quite literally ticks every box. It’s stupid, daft and verging on insane. It’s hilarious, outrageous, obscene, blasphemous and they crash more cars than in 75 other ‘car chase’ movies combined. They certainly crashed more than the Sound of Music. But the sound of their music was ‘even better’ than Julie (fucking) Andrews telling us that the hills were alive. Though both movies had Nazis but in Blues Brothers they were Illinois Nazis.

And of all those films listed, only BB had John Belushi. Possibly my favourite comic of all time, possibly just one of 10 total masters of the genre. Yet Belushi, along with fellow contendee (and dead person), Robin Williams stand out even in that exalted company because as well as being unique and amazing, used masses of ‘performance enhancers’ and other ‘substances’ and were pretty much off their faces their entire careers. Which for a surgeon may be problematic, but for a comedian?

So when my girls were… probably about 8 and 5, their ‘down time’, post homework, after all activities, was to watch a ‘video’ (remember them? Big in the 90s). And they watched Mary Poppins, endlessly. I came home from work every day to find Julie (fucking) Andrews in my lounge. And I got so bored that I introduced to my gels a new film. A funny film. A great film. The Blues Brothers. When my saintly mother first sat with them and the swearing started, she was rather appalled. But the price of having John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd in my lounge was worth paying. They were kids! They’ll get over it.

So when this photo arrived yesterday, apropos of nothing, just the kids in the car, it all came flooding back. And in fact there’s quite of lot of the John Belushi in Joey. Unfortunately most of the ‘bad’ bits, but unlike big John, Joey might one day grow out of them.

We’re on a mission from God.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Portugal has been ‘closed’ again. Was open, or ‘green’, as we now call it, everyone booked flights and holidays and then… it went ‘Amber’. You can still go but when you return home they put you in prison in Folkestone with seven thousand asylum seekers from Syria and Afghanistan for a month. (Some of these details may not be completely accurate).

Yet Portugal was the venue for last weekend’s European Champions’ League final. Played between Chelsea, who unfortunately won, and Manchester City, who fortunately lost. Two English teams, you may note. Originally scheduled to play the final in its originally selected destination of Turkey. But Turkey was a ‘red’ country so they had to move it. So let’s think. Where shall we move this final… the two finalists are both from England… we don’t want people traveling the world unnecessarily… Wembley Stadium is free that (and every other) night… so what’s the most sensible thing to do…

Play it in Porto! Of course. It’s so obvious.

From my understanding (never a great starting point) they wanted to play it at Wembley. But England was not prepared to accept the thousands of UEFA and FIFA hoy-polloi without the usual checks and quarantines and shit, and Portugal weren’t so fussy. Probably why they’re rates are now rising.

In a typical year at such a massive event, there’d be, say, 60,000  spectators. Of which, the two competing teams are allocated about 10k each for their fans and the other 40,000 are for UEFA, for clubs to give to dignitaries, sponsors, lawyers, agents, all the usual band of over-paid, free-loading bottom-feeders who collectively curse the modern game of football. And because these (un)worthies come from many different countries, all at different levels of covid risk, England said ‘non’ and Portugal said ‘why not?’ And letting in 20 thousand actual supporters from India-by-proxy central, what’d’ya expect??? So Portugal became amber and thousands of tourists (including one daughter) get screwed. 

I’m only playing football in my garden and holidaying in Southend-on-Sea. 

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This will surprise you: I’m not really into cosmetics. I know, its a shock. People look at me and assume that I must have skin regime that takes hours a day, that I spend endless time preening and primping and probably using Botox and fillers and all manner of heinous shit. But I don’t. This face represents the finest of natural beauty to the extent that people say I don’t look a day over 87. I use 3 ‘products’. Shower gel, face moisturiser so my forehead doesn’t itch (Marks and Spencer actually make the very best one), and talcum powder.

When people ask me ‘what was the worst thing about the first (proper) lockdown, there is only one answer. Cleaning the bathroom. That was my ‘duty’ as we divided the home care and labour. In fact we have two bathrooms, but don’t let that affect my membership of the Champagne Socialists (aka: the Hampstead Hypocrites). One was easy to clean. With my sprays and scrubbers and stuff. The other, “My” bathroom, was, in essence, a fucking nightmare. Because that’s the one in which I deploy the talcum powder.

I don’t just use it. I don’t just ‘rub a bit on’, I fucking drown in the stuff. I hurl it around and run through the clouds, in gay abandon (if you even think it, I’LL CANCEL YOU!!!), sling it on, under, between and into every nook and cranny this perfect body has. Because using a towel is boring. And talcum powder smells lovely and feels wonderful. If Mel is dressed in black she has to go and stand in the garden when I get out of the shower and give it an hour to settle.

Thus ‘cleaning the bathroom’ is, in essence, reclaiming talc from every horizontal surface in the room. Heaps of it. Piles. It’s like fourteen heavy rockers have been partying in there all night. White powder everywhere. I load it into sacks and recycle… ok, it gets dusted, swept, vacuumed, whatevered. 

And today I learn that Johnson & Johnson have been sued for $2billion because my absolute favourite of their products can give me ovarian cancer. Yup, according to the litigants in the state of Missouri, it is filled with Asbestos. And probably (for the purposes of my pending law-suit), ricin, botchelism, powdered uranium and covid dust. I mean, really? Asbestos? Like they couldn’t find anything better to put in? 

Powdery Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m having a serious deja-vu moment with my football team. I get that Harry Kane is going to leave, I understand his reasons and have sympathy with his decision, totally. Disloyal FUCKER!! And thus, as ever, we must ‘move on’, we must ‘think of the future’. So after wondering if we in fact have one, with no manager and the best player in the country about to jump ship, I get exited by the prospect of the ‘new start’. Because Spurs is a bit broken and needs to be re-built. We’re not ready to be liquidated but we’re having some major restructuring work. And Harry’s departure should leave us £150million to the good, which should go some ways to build our future. My deju-vu re-boot.

A bit like when Gareth Bale, at that time, the world’s best Welshman, left Spurs for Madrid, inflated our coffers by 100million Euros (like pounds but a bit less value and a lot less welcome) in 2011. And we all thought: brilliant: re-build. And the management went out and pissed away all the money on a bunch of tossers, jobsworths, journeymen, losers, wankers, cretins… and Christian Eriksen. Who was the cheapest of them all  and by several light years the best. So that didn’t really help much. And with Harry Redknapp in charge at the time, you never knew who was a really prospective player to buy and whose agent would produce the biggest bung. No accusations but Harry was… Harry. And the result was a touch less than the expectations led us to believe.

Now we need a manager first. A man who can manage temperamental players, who knows about football, about men, about men playing football and football playing men. Someone like… Pochettino. Well, how about… how about Pochettino???? You can’t get any closer than that, can you. And then he can spend the Kane money on his choices. Neymar will follow him to Spurs. Probably Mbappe too. Probably for dirt cheap wages. 

So that’s it then, Spurs 21-22, under Mauricio Pochettino, with Neymar, Mbappe, Gareth Bale and probably Messi. If you think this an overly optimistic assessment, start laughing now. 

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Let me tell you about MY Joey. Little Jojo, who turned 2 this week. Because what I have to tell may shock, may horrify or may even having you calling the Police. You see Joey is the most adoringly lovable little boy ever. And I state that with total certainty, with the statistics drawn from a massive sample of… one. He’s the only little boy I know. But he’s sweet. He’s cuddly. He asks for a ‘hug’. He’s beautiful. Big dark eyes, head of light curls, he is just wonderful. Bright, obviously. Speaks fantastically, when his sister allows, and has one quarter my genes so has more ‘genius’ in him than most. The other 3 grandparents I’m not prepared to comment upon without a lawyer present.

So that’s Joey. Well, one half of Joey. The other half is more sinister, more evil, more violent, more… he’s just a thug. A hooligan. A terrorist. He is Jeckyl and Hyde without any medicine. If they made a Magnificent Eight, he be the last one. He’d be Mr Blue in Reservoir Dogs. Mainly because every colour you show him, currently, is ‘blue’. He breaks things. Examines them, works out how they work or what goes where, then just breaks them. His violent tendencies are legendary. Suffice to say: ya don’t mess with Joey!

Yesterday I was in his garden. Involved in a Lila-game, I was a mermaid. Ok, imagination stretch required, but Lila has no issues with that. And she, the ‘wicked pirate’, had trapped me in her net. A little garden football goal. And as I lay there, ‘trapped’, I felt something. Joey had joined in the game. And was kicking me in the head. Normally if I’m anywhere near the floor he’s jumping on my back, but the goal was in the way so he did the next best thing. Kick the shit out of Papa Andy.

I didn’t actually realise until I heard his mummy shouting at him to stop doing that! Then I laughed. Because it was so funny. So Joey. He would only attack someone in such a way who he felt comfortable with. Or, perhaps, knowing that ‘telling off’ is not in that victim’s repertoire. I saw it as a sign of love. No greater love has any man than kicking his grandfather in the head.

Yours deludedly

A xxxx

David Baddeil wrote a rather interesting book recently called ‘Jews don’t count’. It’s a rather novel way of looking at anti-semitism and how no-one considers it as ‘racism’, not really, even up to (shadow) Government level. Because although Jews are, by any possible definition, an ‘ethnic minority’, we don’t get any of the usual benefits that all others enjoy in terms of (normally quite obsessive) protection from slurs, slights, abuse, violence, desecration and discrimination. If I were stand up in Hyde Park next to a person as they attack Gazans for having the audacity to attack an innocent nation with thousands of lethal rockets, I’d be lambasted, cancelled, vilified on social media (even though I don’t use it). Especially if I was famous/political.

Yet Corbyn and McDonnell joined a protest last week which attacked Israel as ‘worse than Hitler’, called the defence of its people ‘another holocaust’ and even went so far as to say that ‘Marks and Spencer is like the Israeli embassy on every high street’. Even though it hasn’t been ‘Jewish owned’ for decades now. Diane Abbot was also there, but she really doesn’t count. In fact, as she proved more than once, she can’t count. Not past 10 anyway. Or, ‘7’, as she calls it.

So where do hard-lefties buy their underwear? That’s the question. If M&S is ‘boycotted’, where does Corbyn buy his pants, socks and vests now that there’s no more army surplus stores around? An interesting question that will be debated for years to come.

The long and short of it is that if people have really stupid views about Jews, then fuck ‘em. I don’t care. Because even if I did care, I’m not so daft as to think I might be able to change those views with one, carefully considered, 15-word sentence. And if they have stereotypical prejudices, as Corbyn does, then fuck him too. And just embrace the fact that he is an ignorant pig. It’s really easy.

Yet at Cambridge University they’ve now installed some new report-a-transgression system by which students, or staff, can ‘report’ any little incident in which they perceive some form of prejudice might possibly have occurred. And by ‘prejudice’ this is emphatically the modern interpretation, meaning any positive reference to anyone or anything that had any remote connection to the Empire or, God forbid, slavery!! Anything that even implies dilution of the Black Lives Matter ideology, or questions any Muslim religious or cultural concept. I’m guessing that jokes about the Irish, Polish or Chinese are definitely reportable. Obviously greater tolerance will be shown to those slagging off Jews. Obviously.

This is a very positive step. Encouraging wokeness to the level when every sane person might just as well pack up and go home. It attacks the right of any kind of freedom of speech and gives Universities, once the epicentres of free thinking, reason to just ban or ‘cancel’ anyone not adhering to the prevailing zeitgeist and questioning its views. It is a cross between the Cultural Revolution in China, the Spanish Inquisition and the KGB. I hope it makes them as happy as it makes them blinkered to open-mindedness.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Who would have thought that in the middle of a fucking global pandemic, we’d have the cheek to start doubting Albert Einstein? I mean, really? Einstein? He who has never been proved wrong, despite 43,573,865 degree and doctoral dissertations using ever-increasing computer power and vastly improved universe understanding, all failing to undermine one word (ok, one ‘number’, Einstein didn’t really do ‘words’) the great man spoke. How dare they question him now? Because of ‘dark matter’, that’s how. And how they’ve now mapped it across the galaxy and… and… and it don’t act like Alby said it would. In his maffs. In his revered ‘theory of general relativity’, which would produce more ‘clusters’ of the stuff, rather than the more even distribution that they in fact have found. And just because Albert virtually invented dark matter, just him and God one day in a coffee shop in Zurich in 1904, doesn’t apparently give him any control over how it actually ‘is’. In real life. Einstein never looked to the heavens. He looked down at a pen and paper. No observation, just sums. I reckon quite a lot of them. And because he actually met Marilyn Monroe, my money’s on Einstein. Watch this space. Literally so.

And we’re living in a world of variants. Dominic Cummings is a human variant. Not like a normal human, but a nasty, vindictive, cheating, lying, Asperger-ish human. Slagged off the health secretary something rotten. Not that he doesn’t deserve slagging off but some of those accusations! OMG! Not testing old people when they leave hospital before submerging them back into care homes without testing was perhaps not Matt Hancock’s wisest move. But claiming that ‘tens of thousands of lives could have been saved if the government had blah, blah, blah…’ is just so much hindsight bollocks. No-one knew. Not Boris, not Hancock and certainly not Cummings.

Coronavirus is so named because it resembles a crown. Albeit a spherical one. With little spikes on, giving it the ‘corona’. The Brazilian variant had spikes shaved to leave just a central, linear spike. The Moroccan variant was more cylindrical than spherical and looked like a Fez. And the Indian variant, the most dangerous of the moment, under a microscope, looks like Chicken Tikka Massala with a peshwari naan, pilau rice and onion bhaji with aloo gobi on the side.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We’re all heading for June 21st!!! The biggest day in HISTERRY!!! Not just because its 5 days after my birthday and my hangover would have subsided, but because lockdown gets unlocked. If nothing else happens. And no-one else dies. And the Indians keep their variant to themselves. Said so in the headlines. Because the ‘big crowd’ trials have been very positive. Not like ‘testing positive’ but positive meaning ‘good’. They stuffed hundreds of people together in Sheffield and made them watch snooker for days on end (poor souls, I hope they received sufficient compensation) and only about 3 tested positive afterwards. Same with concerts they held in Liverpool and the Brit awards. Lots of people, no distancing, no masks, all spitting at each other. Ok, no spitting but all those ‘aerosols’ in one place!!!! And very little consequential infection. Which is brilliant.

But in a lesser headline, just next to that one, is a list of the 8 places in England that YOU MUSTN’T GO TO!!!! Including Hounslow. The rest are ‘up north’ so aren’t an issue for me at all. Though possibly I’m more likely to go to Burnley than Hounslow. Until Heathrow opens properly. These are the Indian Variant Hot Spots. Where you mustn’t go. Or leave. Unless you need to. Or want to. Or, do so accidentally. Though its NOT a lockdown, it has no law or legislation behind it, just ‘advice’. Reads like this: DON’T FUCKING LEAVE HOUNSLOW OR WE’LL SHOOT YOU DEAD!!!! Nothing too strong, just ‘advice’.

Similar to the advice about holidays, with school half term coming next week. Don’t travel unless its ‘really essential’. Which all becomes a matter of interpretation. You could argue that you have a week booked to sun yourself in the Algarve and as it won’t come to your garden, it becomes ‘essential’ to travel there. Unless you can ‘beam’ yourself there. James T Kirk did it and he wasn’t even vaccinated.

So I hope that’s clear. The path to being totally unlocked is clear. Unless you live in Bedford or Leicester where they’re building a wall to keep you in. And only travel if it is… something you want to do.

Joey was 2 years old yesterday. I bought him a samurai sword, a gun, knuckle dusters, a machete and some Japanese fighting sticks. Even though he is undecided about how he intends to self-identify so will wait til he’s 3 before announcing his pronouns.

Happy Birthday Jojo

A xxxx

At the end of a truly fabulous and wonderful league campaign, Spurs have achieved not just glory but quite literally history! Because by cleverly avoiding the top 4 league places, deftly ducking fifth and side-stepping 6th, we get, as 7th placed, to enter the most coveted, very first, the inaugural, the brand new Europa Conference League!!! And no-one’s ever been in that before. Because its new. In case you missed that. So that is really exciting. In fact it is beyond excitement.

My main concern is when they intend to play the matches. The Champions League (snobby, bit elitist, arrogant) plays on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. The Europa League (a bit sad and decidedly second rate) plays on Thursdays. Because no-one watches football on Thursday evenings. So the new Europa Conference League (unknown… but… but…) will have to be played on Monday mornings or in the middle of the night. Otherwise there’ll be ‘conflict’. Because really, who’d bother watching Bayern Munich play Barcelona if Lech Poznań were playing Molde over on BBC7? Or Spurs were taking on Ludagrets Lazgrad? So set your alarm NOW for 03.27 for the first kick-off!

It all ended in tears. Harry Kane did or didn’t play his last EVER game for Spurs, depending on… but still managed to achieve a massive ‘first’. Because not only was he the top scorer in the league, he also had the most ‘assists’. Neither of which did any favours to his asking price for interested teams. Which is probably ‘all of them’.  

Yet Spurs win at Leicester not only deprived the east Midlander above-weight-punchers of a champions’ league place, but also, tragically, inhumanely, gave it to Chelsea! 

Man City won the league. And much as I hate that, I have a deep and profound man-love for Sergio Aguero, now departing. He has blessed our league for 10 years with style, grace and shit loads of goals. Half of them against us, little bastard. 

West Ham are ‘frilled ter bits’ about reaching the Europa League (second tier, fairly shit, see above) because its so much better for them to just be celebrating relegation avoidance, as they do every other year. 

And Arsenal… errrrr… well… hmmm… 

Happy End of Season F’rever!

A xxxx

Martin Bashir murdered Princess Diana! And the BBC took out the hit! Encouraged by Prince Philip. Who threatened to refuse payment of his license fee if they didn’t agree. Prince Harry took to drink and drugs. Prince William took to the Scottish hills to find solace and comfort from… the heather? Thistles? Never smoked either myself so I can’t really say.

But what did Martin Bashir really do that was so bad? Other than lying, cheating and a bit of mid-level forgery? Coercion. Bullying. Fabrication. Distortion. Other than that, what was his crime?

What he did was so wrong on pretty much every imaginable level. And yet what the BBC did was actually worse on an exponential scale. Because they knew, they had an inquiry, in which they managed to cover up everything and proclaim their and Bashir’s innocence, and were content to let it lie. Let their lies lie. Which they did for 25 years and then KA-BOOOM!!!!, it all kicks off once more. But this time with the benefit of hindsight. And into a different world, a generation later, in which ‘transparency’ is one of the (ok, nauseating, vile and over-used) catchphrases of our time.

The BBC is a journalistic organisation, first and foremost. In fact it would like to think it is the ‘best’ of class, in the whole, wide world. And best, in journalistic terms, means impartial (which it sometimes is), unbiased (hardly ever), totally neutral (ish) and biggest of all: TOTALLY TRUSTWORTHY.

Martin Bashir created a bunch of bank statements which allegedly showed payments made by the Royal Family to people or persons to keep tracks on Diana. He showed them to her brother, who thus encouraged the Princess to be interviewed. To tell ‘her side of the story’. Which she certainly did with her famous: ‘there were 3 of us in that marriage’ speech.

Did ‘bank statement-gate’ increase the much-loved Princess’s paranoia? To the point where it may have contributed to her terrible death? I don’t know.

But I do know that the BBC have been irreparably damaged by this. Because trust has been broken. The contract between broadcaster and punter has cracked.

Personally, as I watch the news every night, only and always on the BBC, I find it rather amusing as they report this massive story. Using the 3rd person. Even though they’re all BBC themselves. And their discomfort is our great tv.

Martin Bashir didn’t wish to be interviewed and I was playing tennis anyway.

Happy last day of a horrible football season Sunday

A xxxx