Andy's Glasses

Even in the 1960s there were rules. Of sorts. There was a new morality, which was to some extent a vast immorality as ‘free love’ (read: free sex) became the slogan of the era. Now you always have to pay for love. One way or another.

I’ve been watching the Eric Clapton rockumentary. It’s brilliant. He’s brilliant. Was, is and always will be. I only watch it in small doses because although Mel is interested in such things, a 10-minute Ginger Baker drum solo during a Cream gig is probably more than she wants to endure. To me its like watching Glen Hoddle’s greatest goals.

Eric had a problem. He was madly in love. With Patti Boyd. Who, unfortunately for him, was married to his best mate, George Harrison. So he did what any decent person would do and got hooked on any/all the drugs he could find. And in the 60s and 70s, he could find plenty. And then he was ‘cured’ by substituting them with alcohol. Which was deemed ‘much better’ but is in fact ‘much worse’ as its available everywhere, its legal and totally acceptable, until you’re finishing a bottle of brandy before breakfast.

So Eric wrote a song for Patti. In fact he wrote a whole album dedicated to her, but Layla, his pet name for her, was his heart-felt outpouring of emotion. And because Eric was and always will be, first and foremost, a blues artist, and blues is synonymous with pain and suffering, and because Eric is possibly the most emotive guitarist that ever lived, (I don’t have to apologise to BB King or Jimi Hendrix), ‘Layla’ has to be the finest love song ever written. And there have been many.

Layla has a ‘hook’. The opening riff is so powerful, so recognisable, so intense as it repeats through the song, that I need just 3 of those 7 notes to start crying. So whilst ‘unchained melody’ is sublime and ‘ain’t no mountain high enough’, immensely bold, and ‘when a man loves a woman’ just reduces prop forwards to pulp, Layla just is the one. Endless Love makes me want to be sick. Anything that will make it stop. But I also love ‘you look wonderful tonight’, also by Eric, and ‘while my guitar gently weeps’, the George Harrison number on which Eric played the guitar in that way he does.

Eric eventually got together with Patti, and they married in 1979. Ahhhhhhh. Then divorced in 1989. Awwwwwww. But the song endured way longer. There’s a message there somewhere but you need to be cleverer than me to read it.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

After a couple of weeks of the Olympics, you kind of get used to everyone you look at being lean, fit, muscular, possibly tattooed, with a major league 6-pack, thighs of steel and a BMI of 24. It’s like watching Love Island with IQs. And then come certain sports which make you realise that not everyone on tv has to be like that.

The weightlifters come out and they’re big. Big? They’re fucking massive. Flabby. Beer bellies. Massive boobs. And the women are just as bad. Or just as good. Or, in fact, pretty much the same. These people we can relate to. Weightlifting is the most androgynous of sports, other than perhaps shot-putting. The ‘bulk’ sports. I suppose once you hit 20 stone you can no longer see your own genitalia so it doesn’t really matter what type they are.

But then came Laurel Hubbard, the New Zealand heavyweight lifter. Who was previously a man. But transitioned a while ago and becomes the first transgender person to compete in the Olympics. And I hear you say ‘THAT’S CHEATING!’ she’s a man competing in a purely strength sport against women!! Not fair. Which would be appropriate if she hadn’t crashed out of the event rather spectacularly, without completing a lift. Poor… thing.

Britain traditionally does really well in the ‘sitting down’ sports. As a nation we simply excel at sitting. So sit on a horse, or a boat, a bike (BMX or otherwise) and we’re fab. When they pull out a chair of any kind, they might as well just give us the gold medal. We just this second won another sailing event. Well done on that… boat/canoe/cruise liner/warship, whatever it was. Brilliant.

Watching the Olympic round-ups on the ‘impartial’, ‘unbiased’ BBC, it took me three weeks before I realised that other countries are allowed to win medals. Or even take part, other than to make up the numbers so we can win medals. But heh, it is the BRITISH broadcasting Company, this is allowed. They do mention other nations, but only when they’re losing to us. Or standing up.

So I’m still lovin these Olympics and (according to the BBC) we’re winning.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Here I am, back from my break. Mental health never better, I feel like a totally new aardvark. Full of health and sniffing round for ants. Well, its a cure of sorts, nothing’s perfect. Not even the three-headed angel which has followed me since my cure.

And the Olympics rolls on even without Simone Biles and now, tragically, without Dina Asher-Smith too. And much as I admire Simone as the veritable ‘giant’ she is, at about 4 foot 8, I truly adore Dina. She is our national captain. Our poster girl. She is the most bright, vibrant, energetic woman. She is eloquent, unpretentious and delightful. In short (and she is, too) I love her. But she has been harbouring a secret hamstring issue for 5 weeks. She didn’t want to upset everyone. Didn’t want to ‘let anybody down’. She told the BBC yesterday after she let everybody down by coming 4th (sheer class) in her 100 metre heat. And then she started crying and I did too. It was emotional. Her shattered dreams become our shared upset. We still love her.

And then some interesting words from Jeremy Clarkson this morning. Mainly because they were about cars. When he ventures to other subjects I’m less inclined to agree. He test drove a hydrogen car. Which have actually been around for years but the problem is buying hydrogen to fill them up. There are about 4 places in the country where you can do this, so if you don’t live fairly near them, getting a hydrogen powered car is pretty much buying a sculpture. And no-one likes production-line, Japanese-manufactured artwork on their driveway. Yet the advantages of buying hydrogen over battery are many. I’ll spare you. Trust me. And Jeremy. There’s also the minor issue of how electricity is ‘made’ in this country, predominantly. Whereas hydrogen just produces it all by issself. Furthermore, regular petrol and Diesel engines can actually be converted to hydrogen, which you can’t do with ‘lectric.

So why aren’t we promoting such a thing? And this was Clarkson’s point. Because someone made a hybrid electric car and the government went into ‘panic mode’. Or perhaps ‘sound byte mode’ and attached the salvation of the entire planet on ‘the future of transport’. Elon Musk knows opportunities when he sees ‘em and responded to the challenge. No-one in government appeared to look at the big picture (how unusual?) nor consider the alternatives. Some of which, like hydrogen, had been with us for ages. So instead, driven by the burning imperative (I’m sure there’s a pun in there somewhere) of climate change and the ACT NOW!!!!! bullshit spouted by the reactionaries, they went for the less joined-up version of problem solving. Which was doing it without thinking about it.

And we thought the pandemic decisions were unusual?

These are first world problems. Because third worlders walk. 2nd world people… who cares?

So before we tear up any more of the planet, at masssssiiiiiiiiive environmental cost, looking for Lithium and all the other conductive materials required to make batteries for which we burn coal to charge, someone needs to take a step back and have a re-think.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve decided to take a break from writing andysglasses to prioritise my mental health. Which, you will have noticed whilst reading these postings, has been degenerating rapidly and catasrophically since… well, since I started posting them really. But its reached the point where it can no longer be ignored. The pressure of… the anxiety due to… the relentless… yeah, no, yeah, no, if my mental health declines any further I run the risk, yeah, no, of turning into a premiership footballer. Yeah, no…

I was inspired when Naomi Osaka withdrew from Wimbledon, and I gave up tennis in sympathy with her. Then Simone Biles, the world’s greatest gymnast, pulled out of the Olympics, so I made the monumental decision, the great personal sacrifice, and gave up gymnastics too. So when yesterday Ben Stokes publicly announced his break from cricket, because I suffer from terminal role model syndrome, I gave up cricket too. I had to. I phoned Essex cricket club and told them I could no longer be a supporter. They were so stunned the guy said: “sorry? Who the fuck are you???” And I put the cricket pages in the dustbin, along with the gymnastics and tennis ones already there.

So in solidarity with all these people, and with the others sure to follow, I have to take a break from everything, be as brave as they are, and just jump on that bandwagon as if my mental health depended upon it.

But before I go, just a mention of how great it is to be British during an Olympic finals. Not content with heading the less meaningful medal charts, basically because we aren’t, we have the distinguished honour of heading the only really important chart out there. Which is the most 4th places. Britain leads the world in the ‘so close but so far’ from a medal table. Anyone can win a gold medal, you just have to be the best. But 4th? That’s hard. You have to be better than 5th but just not quite as good as the geezer winning the bronze.

I’m loving these Olympics and probably won’t take my break from them to prioritise that bit of my mental health until they’ve finished.

Ok, that’s it. See you when I’m better.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The government is changing the rules about seat belts and the not wearing thereof. They’re going to change the current fine to a bigger fine and 3 points on your driving licence. And that seems so… so 1984 compared to somewhat bigger motoring problems.

Who doesn’t wear a seat belt? Do we then care that they don’t? I mean really ‘care’? If they’re so stupid and they get hurt as a consequence, awful though it may be, tough shit. I’m wearing mine, I’m alright Jack/Joan/neutral-name.

Whereas the tossers, those imbeciles incapable of breathing without holding their phones, they are a far greater problem. And their stupidity affects ME!

Tests have shown that 62% of all drivers are looking at their phones 73% of the time. Which, mathematically, explains why they drive into things. Worse still, and patently more obvious a ‘crime’, is those who check their phones at traffic lights. They’ll be the ones just sitting there oblivious to all but their device when the light goes green. The ones who need hooting at, really aggressively and prolonged-ly. Because you’re not allowed to deploy a baseball bat whilst at the wheel of a car.

Obviously, drivers of electric cars are allowed more phone time whilst driving because they are superior people generally and may be using the app on their phone to… put more charge in their vehicle’s dying battery or something which us fossil fuelers know nothing about.

Either way, seat belt avoiders, whatever, but phone tossers/zombies? Death penalty. Loss of licence, forEVER! Solitary confinement with NO PHONE.

That’s it, rant over, done it now, got it out of my system, feeling lots better, thanks for asking.

Happy Wednesday

Andy xxxx

Sent from my iPad whilst driving along the A40

Practical.

Ok, so its ‘kosher’ or its not. That’s a big, thick, black line which you cross AT YOUR PERIL!!!! One side is a life barely worth living as its so tied up in archaic bullshit and rules, and on the other side is an eternity of damnation in the fires of hell, but at least you can get a coffee from Starbucks, should you please, or an ice cream for the kids on a beach.

Therefore, the thick black line gets ignored other than by those in thick, black overcoats and hats when its 32 degrees outside, and instead we have slightly ‘greyer’, a little more ‘blurred’, somewhat ‘moveable’ lines. And that’s where the trouble starts.

Not with the lines themselves but with what they represent in the unstated hierarchy of ‘observancy’.

Not to put too fine a point on it, if its not a kosher restaurant, you’re not kosher. Whatever you’re eating or not eating. But… (latitude, compromise, tolerance, common sense…) how can a piece of bread NOT be kosher? It’s flour, water and salt. No Crustacea, no pig’s trotters, no leg of lamb. Ergo, I’ll eat that anywhere. And risk the fires of hell later, when I’m not so hungry. Similarly white fish. Just don’t put shrimp with it. And/or make sure its cooked in a different pot from the shrimp. And don’t serve it on the same plates you might have used for the mussels.

So the (Jewish) world divides into camps for eating out. Tribes. All of whom ‘keep kosher at home’, as we do, because its a tradition thing and hurts no-one. Except lovers of shellfish.

First are the black hats. They eat no-where that isn’t already filled with others in black hats to attest to its safety from the non-kosher. There’ll be certificates all over proclaiming its level of kosherness. Which, sadly, are not always the same certificates you get for public health issues.

Next comes the meat avoiders. You have many Jews who will eat in any restaurant, but not meat. Only fish. Meat needs to be killed ‘properly’ (not a conversation for vegans) to be kosher so even a piece of perfectly acceptable meat is avoided if not sourced from a kosher butcher. And by avoiding it there’s also the other biggy of any suggestion that the meat might have come into contact with something dairy. Fish is fish and, as long as it was born with scales, represents no problem. Until you cover it with prosciutto, then its a big problem.

Then come the ‘I’ll eat meat in a restaurant, even though its not ‘strictly’ kosher, but obviously NEVER with anything of a milky or cheesy nature. And never pork!’ Chicken’s fine. By nature it is a Jewish bird.

I’ll only eat food. Any/all of it. Long as there’s a lot.

And its all good. You do what you want, eat what you’re comfortable with, dine as you please. As long as there’s no holier-than-thou-ism involved, nothing judgmental of others from a different tribe, I’m happy. Because unless you live the life of a black hat you’re blurring lines and become an instant hypocrite if you criticise someone else’s line.

We went to eat with a fairly non-food-observant couple one day in Fitzrovia. And ordered squid. Which is deeply, profoundly banned. Mel, (tribe 3), won’t touch it. So here I could share it with people ‘like me’. But then it was noticed that there was some kind of ham which came with it. And that was a red line to this couple. It’s all about how you learned the rules. The choices remain yours and yours alone. If you don’t count God.

Sleeping with toy pigs is not in breach of any dietary laws.

Enjoy your lunch.

A xxxx

PART 1: Theory.

Rules are always made to be broken. That’s what my tattoo says. The imaginary one. On my forehead. Maybe between my shoulder blades. And the first rule I like to break is the one about kosher food. They make food to taste a certain way, its nothing to do with the religion of the food. Steak is strictly non-observant. Broccoli is atheist. Whereas lettuce is agnostic, which is why its limp, soggy and has no redeeming qualities or value.

Hindus won’t eat beef. The poor peasant farmers starve in the lean years whilst a herd of great, fat cattle graze, worshipped, in their fields. Buddhists are vegetarians. As they deserve to be. Muslims won’t drink alcohol, otherwise their food laws are pretty much the same as the Jewish ones. Unsurprising as they both stem from Abraham. The old bible geezer, Abraham, not the short order chef at Nobu, Abraham.

Jews have made a total fucking industry on NOT eating things. The rules have their own rules. It started as, basically, ‘don’t eat pig or shellfish and don’t mix milk with meat’ (I’m guessing these started for health reasons when cleaning dead animals wasn’t very skilful. And lots of cultures have issues with not cooking an animal in its mother’s milk). And as loose guidelines, these are good, if you like that kind of thing, and they’re workable.

But then the rabbis get involved. And it ends up an exercise in pedantry. Where everything you eat (and I mean EVERY-THING!!!!) including tooth paste, mouthwash… you got it?, everything has be made, produced, grown, manufactured in ways that not only adhere to the rules, but that are monitored at every single step of the way to ensure that the wheat in your daily bread didn’t at some point eat a pig. That a slaughtered lamb (and only slaughtered in a very special, monitored, controlled, observed way, obviously) hasn’t come in contact with some spilt milk, a lost prawn or anything which would render it ‘unkosher’. Once ‘approved’ it can be packaged and sold in a shop which again is monitored all day every day. Now that’s KOSHER!

Which is why it cost four times the price of any normal product. An expensive label. And the same with restaurants. To be ‘kosher’, everything served, every plate, glass, knife and fork and coffee bean has to be ‘watched’ to ensure it hasn’t slipped into a lobster when no-one was looking, or been accidentally abducted by a bacon seller.

So now you know the ‘rules’. In part 2, the next riveting episode, you’ll learn how to break them.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Interesting article in today’s paper. On the sports pages. Where all interesting articles are found. Because apparently some pundit was watching the golfer, Michelle Wie, as she scored a 64 and beat everybody else, both men and women. And he commented, basically, that when she putts, she bends over so far you can see her panties. And I get that its inappropriate at best, appalling and disgusting and objectifying at worst, but even if it is ‘just’ inappropriate, the pundit has made no mention of the value of her golfing achievement, merely the length of (or lack of) her skirt. I’d like to add that no-one makes ‘phwoarrrr’ comments when great, fat, tattooed, hairy, slobbering darts players bend over to pick up an errant dart to reveal a few yards of grubby y-fronts. And I’m not suggesting they should. And yet the reasons are self-explanatory. Two reasons:

Firstly, that Michelle Wie is a babe and gorgeous whilst Billy ‘Two Bellies’ Runcorn (made that up, couldn’t name a darter if your life depended on it, nor can I be bothered to look one up; rather than look up one)

And secondly, in case it’s not glaringly obvious, Michelle Wie is a woman. And a golfer. Billy is a slob. And… well, who cares what the fat fuck does in his spare time. But, and here’s the problem/issue/rub: men and women are different. Shocker, eh? So I’m not saying ‘all’, but there’s of lot of THEM out there, men who view women, in certain conditions, on a purely physical level of desirability. Whether those women are dangling from a pole wearing spinners on their tits or performing open-heart surgery on a Siamese twin is totally, initially, irrelevant. It’s just what having a Y-chromosome does. It is not a conscious thing. It is not something for which training is required. Nor, more pertinently, something for which training will cure.

I’m not saying this is the ‘best’ of being a ‘man’. But it is unquestionably a part of it. And I’m not saying this makes looking at a pretty girl akin to rape. It is not. Of course, in some idealised (impossible) world of perfection (right…) and total acceptance and equality (gimme a call soon as it happens) this wouldn’t happen. But that world is not the one any of us inhabit, however idealistic our aspirations.

So is the golfing pundit a total dickhead for being puerile, childish and typical-man-ly? Or was he in fact being honest and ‘transparent’ by sharing his inner thoughts with the public?

Is voicing an offensive sentiment any less offensive if it expresses a fairly universal truism?

Life is hard.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Ryan Giggs is on trial. The ‘Welsh Wizard’ is accused of ‘allegedly’, basically persecuting, controlling, beating, kicking, head butting and abusing two sisters on or around the same kind of time. Repeatedly and often. Which fits with the general Giggs off-pitch M.O. He likes sisters. Ask his ex-wife. Or her sister. It’s awful. Though in his defence, they’re going to play the winning goal in the 1999 FA Cup semi-final against Arsenal. There is no other defence for these actions other than to show possibly the finest individual goal of all time. And pray that of the 10 jurors, at least 7 will be football fans. ‘Football fan’ is officially defined as “someone who loves the game of football AND dislikes Arsenal intensely”.

Incidentally, I googled ‘welsh wizard’ and learned that to receive such an honorary title, you basically have to be Welsh and possess the ability to kick, throw or swing at any kind of ball without falling over. Other nations may bestow ‘wizardry’ under harsher criteria but it would appear that anyone who can stay sober for 20 minutes in the Principality whilst engaged in sport becomes a ‘Welsh wizard’. Except Merlin. He was Welsh (who knew?) and a real wizard. Though may have been a rugby player when not wizarding, otherwise the hat gets in the way.

Whilst I was engaged in my tai chi this morning, kicking a very tall man holding a large punch-bag, I noticed the rain outside. You couldn’t fucking miss it. But by the time our class was over, the downpour had desisted. And a mere half an hour later the tennis courts were sufficiently dry to enable me and Spurs Paul to play our game. Although there was a degree of ‘moisture’ around, we heroically kept our footing. We dodged a bullet. There are storm warnings all weekend here and as you still haven’t replaced your gas boiler since the last storm 10 days ago, I expect these ones to be even worse. I’ve been recycling like mad, at every opportunity and hope that the corresponding drop in global warming will result in saving my tennis club from further flooding.

Happy holier-than-thou-Eco-warrior Saturday

A xxxx

The Tokyo Olympics start this week. Did you know? You can’t actually go and watch because its just too far. And too hot. But a tv in an air-conditioned room will suffice. So you can soak up the atmosphere of the totally empty stadia as the crowd (four stewards, the tea lady and a geisha who got lost) roar with excitement. It promises to be… well, a bit dull really. But as they’ve already delayed it one year they’re going ahead. Despite the pandemic, despite the heat (currently 38 in Tokyo), despite half the athletes pulling out for testing positive. Because otherwise all those lovely uniforms and costumes would get wasted. They still say ‘Tokyo 2020’ on them, which is bad enough, but to have to dump them in a landfill in Indonesia would be tragic. Especially the women’s beach volleyball costumes. I like those. And they don’t take up much space.

I’m not really a great fan of the Olympics. I should be. Because its sport and its on tv a lot, but other than when it was over here, in ‘the proper Olympics, where they should be’, there’s only so many cycling helmets I can watch going round and round on split screens.

Holy shit! Just after writing that I jumped in the car and as the radio came on, there was a football match being played, ‘live’. With… women!!!! Not Arsenal, real women! And it was ‘Britain’ against Chile. And I thought ‘Britain?’ Britain?? Britain??? It must be the Olympics!!! And it was, they’ve already started!!! Who knew? They never told us.

So as there’s no sport on, they’ve given us Dominic Cummings instead. The man who controlled Brexit, the man who won the last general election single-handed and the man who managed to alienate the six people in the world who didn’t already hate him by taking his Covid infested family to Durham. And now he’s gainfully employed in slagging off Boris Johnson. Something the rest of us do for free. His latest revelation is that ‘he was on the verge of getting rid of Boris as PM within days of him winning the election’ because of Carrie issues and the fact that Dom and his team’s jobs were suddenly in jeopardy. He put Boris in, he could take him out. That seems fair. Democratic. The entire nation voted to put Boris in number 10 but Le Cummings decided he knew better. We already knew Boris to be incapable of being PM and a bumbling incompetent, that’s why we voted for him.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx