Andy's Glasses

Last night was a pivotal moment in the whole pandemic world. Because Mel & I, after putting it off for almost an entire year, decided to go ‘the full British (in lockdown)’. We decided to get… a take-away!!! Holy shit, you think, we get those every day/twice a week/every Saturday/whatever, but you see, we don’t. We don’t in non-Covid and we didn’t start once it all went on, and on, and on. We’ve had about 3 in the last year. All Thai, from our fave little local place. Because Mel loves it and I’m happy just to support those smiling people.

It’s not a snob thing, not getting take-aways, its not a dietary consideration (heaven forbid), its just kind’a, under our radar. And also there are conceptual problems.

For me, the words ‘take away’ are just synonymous with ‘get a curry’. Why on earth would anyone ever eat anything else, given the option? Firstly, I love curry. Secondly, I love curry. Thirdly, I love chilli. Fourthly I love curry. And fifthly… there is no fifthly. It’s a horrible word to even say.

Mel doesn’t like curry. She hates chilli, pepper, paprika, anything ‘hot’. She wants ‘extra bland’, as Sanjeev Bhaskar once brilliantly put it. So we could order the ‘Heston Blumenthal take-away extravaganza’ for about 600 quid, then cook it ourselves (snail porridge won’t make itself, ya know!), or the ‘pretentious fucking eaterie special’ for 350 quid (including service). Or we could get a curry. For 20 quid. Hmmmm…

And Mel was IN! Every now and again, either due to the guilt of husband deprivation or perhaps its something lunar, she wants, or is prepared to eat, a curry. I was on the case before you could say ‘Uber eats’. And it was 20 quid, and it was a fucking feast. And wonderful. And because its so low in calories we washed it down with cold beers (what else), we had joined the British nation.

Then it got better. We ‘binged’. We actually watched 2 tv programs, like, one after the other. With only 3 stops to make tea and do wee-wees in between. I know, that’s not a ‘binge’ by normal standards, but we’re trying. And then… then we did some of the hardest jigsaw puzzling ever, to the accompaniment of Married at First Sight, Australia. Because for this puzzle, you need the inspiration which only tattooed Aussie morons can bring.

What a night! Fucking wild!!!!!

Happy (should be) hungover Sunday

A xxxx

OMG!! The Queen has… she’s… well, Harry and Megan have been… they’re… errrr… excommunicated! Severed! Unroyaled! F’rever!!! And I simply don’t know if I can go on without them being… well, being royal. But they are. He’s a fucking Prince; how much more royal can you get???? And yet, there are protocols. There are issues. There are standards. Which define royalty. Which is why commoners like you find it all total and utter meaningless bollocks, whereas to anyone with a title, its really, really, REALLY important. Some inbred Earl up in Worcestershire has just moved up to 1297th in line to the throne. That’s important.

Her Majesty has in a way shot herself in her royal foot. Maybe that’s why she has footmen? Because now ‘there aren’t sufficient royals to go round’. Every regiment has to have a ‘patron’. Which is basically one of the Royals dressed up with a chest full of medals they didn’t earn, twice a year when the big guns come out. Literally. And now Harry and Meg have been ‘stripped’ of their patronages. Harry can still dress up as a Marine because he is one. Or was one. Or retired from; either way, he’s still allowed to stroll down Hollywood Boulevard in full battle dress. Where he’ll hardly even be noticed among the Darth Vaders, Harry Potters, Indiana Joneses, Buzz Lightyears and assorted and sundry drag queens. Meg can… well whatever she likes. No change there.

So I think the Queen should compensate for this loss of manpower by making me a royal. I’m perfectly qualified in that Lila gave me a spare tiara. From her Sleeping Beauty outfit. And wearing that I do feel unquestionably empowered. Positively regal. And I could take some of the strain, fill the void left by Hazza & Megga, inspect a few soldiers, check out a few boats, nod at a passing General. I wouldn’t even need a motorcade to get there. I’d go on my bike. Save a fortune. And all I want in return is a couple of old palaces, an antique carriage adapted to be pulled by Tibetan schoolchildren, (seen the cost of horses?) and ridiculously long-winded and overblown title, like the other Royals all have. Is that too much to ask?

Harry and Meg made a simple choice: continued patronage of the 917th Fusiliers or a contract with Netflix. No doubt which will raise their profile higher. And as Harry’s profile is unlikely ever to adorn a stamp, they’ve probably made the right choice.

Happy Saturday

The 97th Baron of Rutlandshire, patron of the Pretorian Guard, slayer of Olaf the Incorrigible, First Lord of the Rungs, Earl of Grey, Lucasian Professor of Aardvark studies at Peckham Poly…

Xxxx

Having so flippantly mentioned the other day about ‘going to Mars’, it would appear, as usual, that everyone is now jumping on my bandwagon. Mars is the place to be. It does in fact seem that Jezero Crater is the ‘new San Tropez’. It is New York for the next millennium. Everyone’s going there. And yesterday, ‘we’ landed. In fact, not merely ‘landed’ but fucking nailed it!! The most difficult landing in Martian landing history (all 3) and it went like a dream. The probability of that happening by chance is as remote as that of Mel parallel parking first time outside Brent Cross. Though to be fair, you don’t have to re-enter the atmosphere in Hendon. Nor travel 100 million miles to get there (though some of us wish you did, then you’d never have to go). 

This photo is rather funny. For those  of you unfamiliar with the work of the Chabad organisation, they are the Jewish equivalent of the St John’s Ambulance (spritual branch only) and McDonalds. Chabad is a charity which arranges kosher stuff for those traveling to far away places. So you don’t  need it in Golders Green. Even though they are there. But should you go to, f’rinstance, Patagonia or the Meekong Delta or even Edinburgh, and you’re there, in the middle of the wilderness, starving hungry BUT not prepared to forsake the laws of kashrut, then ‘Chabad will provide’. If they ain’t there, they’ll send it there. For those of us prepared, in times of crisis (that’ll be mealtimes) to forsake such requirements, we never need Chabad. But for those who care about such things? Its brilliant. Anywhere you go in the world, you’re never more than 3 minutes from a man with a black hat holding a pre-wrapped, Beth Din certified meal. Hence; Mars.

So NASA arrived yesterday, Elon Musk craves settling there and the Emirates space craft is just weeks away from the Red Planet too. Where they already have plans for a 3,000 room, 97-storey, 7-star hotel. With a submarine to take you to the underwater restaurant. For when they fill the crater back to its former glory. Even though there’s no actual ‘water’, as such, on Mars. Just lots of  places where water used to be, millions of years ago. But those Emiratis don’t agonise over mere details. They’ve ordered 47 trillion bottles of Evian. Initially. 

Spurs play in Europe; massive win; Bale unplayably wonderful; Fabulous result.

I’m livin’ in 2012!! I was happy in 2012. So that’s all brilliant. And we won 4-1 at Wolfsberger. Well, not, like, actually ‘there’ because Austria has been officially closed due to covid so they played in Hungary. But still, those 4 still count as ‘away goals’ which, in Europe, as we know, are actually 8 goals. That’s impressive. I couldn’t be happier if Arsenal got relegated.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Where ya goin’ fer yer ‘oliday, then?
Oh, I’m going to Dubai for a week, got a mega-deal, 965 quid including flights, meals, masks, tests, PPE and hospitalisation if required (ventilator option, add £225), and THEN, we’re gonna have 10 days in Heathrow for just 1750 quid. Plus meals. Or actually, plus the same meal every day. Plus two tests at 150 quid each. Plus any psychiatric help you might need after spending 10 days in a 12 foot square, windowless box looking out of a sealed window at where the planes would normally be taking off.
I’m really looking forward to it.

Ok, so you’re not actually allowed to ‘go on holiday’, not under the Boris dictatorship. I can see why. I get it. I really do. And to be honest, wild horses couldn’t drag me away. Or wild drag-artists couldn’t horse me away (LGBTQI joke, if they’re allowed), but I’ll keep my personal fantasies private, for the moment. And if I went away, where would I go? I crave freedom. So I could go to Burma. Hong Kong maybe. North Korea. All offer way more freedom than we currently enjoy in the world’s oldest democracy. And I’m not getting all Piers Corbyn about this (GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID!!!) or Jonathan Sumption, because once invoked, the C-word (covid… or coronavirus), suspends normality, reality and, quite often, sensibility. But that’s the world we’re living in, we have no other. Until Elon Musk sorts out Mars for us. 

And we’re not booking holidays for this year either. Yet. Its all too precarious. Too fraught. Too subject to last minute changes of a rather restrictive, punitive and ‘orrible nature. I’ll be happy enough when they let me back on the tennis courts. In (hopefully) just a few weeks’ time!!! That’ll feel like a holiday. An hour’s holiday. More than enough. Even though I could do with a week on a beach somewhere. Socially distancing, which is the only way to do ‘beach’ anyway. And a trip to see the babe in Berlin would be nice, but… but… but…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Dateline Saturday, 13th Feb 2021

So we’re eagerly awaiting the ‘match of the season’ at 5.30 tonight. Spurs at Manchester City. Perfect time. Just after my afternoon tai chi session (online, obvs., that’s why my iPad keeps getting new screens after I punch the old ones out) but early enough in case we… errrr… need to… want to… well, its early enough. Liverpool had already lost at Leicester after the latest in goalkeeper, Allison’s, ongoing competition to see how many goals he can gift away in just one week!!! Prizes for everyone.

But we don’t care about Liverpool. Even Jurgen Klopp doesn’t care about Liverpool. He’s given up the title chase (as if) and therefore can probably count the days before he’s sacked.

We care about Spurs. Don’t WE???

And how hard can it be to go to the Etihad and simply thrash those upstart Manc mercenaries? As we showed at Spurs, earlier in the season, beating them 2-nil really comfortably, really easily, really… whatever. Not like much has changed between then and now, has it?

Well, only 2 things really. The first is that City have won all 15 of their subsequent matches. (As we have to say:) in all competitions. We had got the last of their shitty spell, which saw them in the bottom half of the table. And now they are unplayably brilliant.

And the second thing that’s happened is that my team has gone to shit. Whether Morinho’s plan is failing or just player apathy/uncoordination/covid I don’t know. What I do know is that I only watch matches between the fingers of both hands held in front of my eyes. Our attacking lacks the potency of the early part of the season. Our ‘wall’ of defence has turned to wet paper. Even Lloris has gone back to ‘liability’ again. As he does every now and again. Not up to Allison’s standards but few are.

Yet the thing about football which we all (apparently) love is its sheer unpredictability. The fact that records concerning a string of wins will be broken sometimes. As there’s as much chance of Burnley breaking it as Chelsea. So I remained optimistic. Because ‘anything can happen’. Right? We’ve got Harry Kane, FFS, he can do magic.

Timeline Sunday 14th Feb 2021

Happy fucking Valentines fucking Day

A xxxx

And long, long ago, at a time when no humans were around, our entire world was one complete land-mass. All the continents stuck together… for warmth. Like a brood of puppies all the nations clung to each other. This was in the days before mobile phones were invented. In fact it was 335 million years ago. The European Union wasn’t so powerful back then and America wasn’t… wasn’t America. There was just a fucking great lump called Pangaea. No-one had to ask ‘where you from, then?’ Not that there was any ‘one’ to ask. But there were creatures. Lots and lots of creatures. Big ones. With teeth. Not friendly. Roaming round looking for trouble. Well, looking for food. Which, if you were a smaller animal, pretty much did equate to ‘trouble’. And then, 175 million years ago, the continents started to drift apart. To move around the globe. It was too crowded. Noisy neighbours. So with the tectonic plates drifting round, the continents slowly went to their rightful places. Where the animals continued to evolve, but now in separate and completely dissociated environments. Leaving us with what we call ‘animals’ and Australia filled with what are known as ‘marsupials’. It just happened. God did it. He decided that because Aussies were going to be really outdoorsy, active type people, their animals should have inbuilt ruck-sacks/papooses.

And that’s why Australians today are so different from ‘us’. From normal people. We evolved from normal mammals, like monkeys, and they came from kangaroos. And I’m not making any judgments, but who would win a game of chess? A high thinking primate or Skippy the Bush Kangaroo?

It also explains why Married at First Sight, Australia, is filled with total dimwits. Who answer any and every question with ‘oh, 100 percent, mate, 100 percent’.

And also explains why the chairman of KPMG had to quit this week. Not just because he’s an Aussie, but pretty much because he’s an Aussie. A people who tend, like animals, to react to only what they can see or hear, what they can kick or punch, what they can eat or barbecue. The concept of ‘concepts’ is a bit beyond them. Which is why Bill Michael stated that ‘there’s no such thing as unconscious bias’, in a video conference to his company. No-one can have some subtle (or not so subtle) reaction to races, colours, religions, on an inner level. No such thing. According to Bill. What he didn’t follow up with was: ‘even a sodding Abo knows that!’ But only because he pulled himself up.

There is an argument to be made that all non-indigenous Aussies descend from European stock. Ok, criminal stock, but European criminals. And its a fairly good argument. But you wouldn’t want it to spoil a good story.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I don’t think we talk enough about state sanctioned murder. I really don’t. I’m not talking about those primitive countries who still impose ‘death sentences’ on naughty people, that’s just the result of unevolved, primitive societies, like America, where the ‘eye for an eye’ mentality overrides the ‘thou shalt not kill’ bible thing but only on demand. I’m talking about international hit squads going into other people’s countries and ‘taking someone out’.

Like the Saudis did with the journalist Kashoggi in Turkey because they didn’t like him. Like Kim Jong Un did with his own step-brother in Thailand. Like the Russians do pretty much every week with someone or other, Skripals, Navalny, Litvinenko…

All messy, all shabby, all a bit… amateur. Though you kind’a have to think that with the Russians, if they wanted you dead, you’d be dead. If they want to give you a ‘nudge’ or a warning, they just put you on the brink of death on life-support for a few months as a casual ‘reminder’. In case, like, a text message wouldn’t do the job. But if Carlsberg did executions, they’d be Israeli.

They went to Iran, they executed Mohsen Fakhrizadeh and they came home. Probably had to quarantine, take a test, blah, blah, blah. I’m not saying I condone the action, if I was Fakhrizadeh I’d  be understandably pissed off. But we’re not (currently) talking about the ethics (mainly because there aren’t any), just the mechanics of the event. Because this man was not some random Skripal wandering round Salisbury looking for a pizza. This was the head of Iran’s nuclear everything. A man surrounded night and day by security, who travels only in convoy, who is protected completely 24 hours of every day by his own little army.

The Mossad studied his every action for 8 months. Meanwhile they smuggled into Iran (how hard can it be?) a massive robotic machine gun. Thing weighs a fucking ton. Literally. So they smuggled it in bits. Little, bite-sized bits. And eventually, they had enough of it there that it would probably work. So they strapped it to the back of a flat bed truck and, getting between the man’s car and his lead vehicle, deployed their weapon in a somewhat aggressive manner. Firing 13 shots into Mohsen’s car.

And here’s the amazing bit. The target person was unsurprisingly killed, or we’d be talking about the price of eggs right now instead. But his wife, sitting 10 inches from him, was unhurt. Physically at least. As were the security men riding in the car with him. Which in my mind makes this ‘the hit of the year’, and wins a golden… golden… bullet? gun?? coffin??? Whatever. Because they didn’t blow up the car with all inside. They didn’t rocket his office building. There was no ‘collateral damage’. They just took him out.

And it was wrong. On many levels. The only mitigation being like the old question: ‘if you could have murdered Hitler in 1930, would you?’ Because Fakhrizadeh was not some scientist searching for renewable energy to save the planet whilst warming his population. He  had one aim. To build a nuclear bomb. Which in turn had one aim. Which was at Tel Aviv. Overtly stated and oft expressed. Iran wants to nuke Israel and Fakhrizadeh was the man responsible for making that happen.

Would you have murdered Hitler? 

Happy morally equivocating Friday

A xxxx

Brighton & Sussex University Hospital will no longer refer to
‘breastfeeding’. Instead they will say ‘chestfeeding’. Or ‘milk from
the feeding mother or parent’. Rolls off the tongue. Like breastmilk
does, all down the t-shirt of the non-specified parental unit of
unknown gender identifiers, but tits essential. Similarly there will
be no assumption that the person who just spent 47 hours thrashing
around in agony forcing 10lbs of writhing baby out of a tiny little
cervix, is a ‘mother’. She is a ‘birthing parent’. Did I say ‘she’???
Holy shit, what was I thinking. IT is a birthing parent. No
assumptions. No prejudicial terms. There’ll be no ‘midwife’, just a…
mid-thing? mid-person?? Or how about: ‘an event coordinator’. Well why
not?

And you know how ‘right on’ I am; you know I’m so woke I’ve gone all
the round and back to sleep; you know that there is simply no minority
anywhere, even if its just one single person in the whole world, for
whom I wouldn’t change every fundamental we currently hold sacred,
just to avoid upsetting their sensitivities in any way at all. But…

But it does seem like as we’re trying to re-write the entire world
history to eliminate anything and anyone to do with slavery, the
Empire, overseas rule and any connection to any Churchill, we’re now
moving our somewhat obsessive attention over to biology. And as all
those busy home-schooling will undoubtedly know; there’s a big
difference between the arts and the sciences. Because it is much
easier to rename a building, or an entire village, than it is to
remove a penis. One involves a lot of red tape, the other a lot of red
blood. Not the same at all. And the (original) purpose of all animals,
the actual reason they are here, and the only reason they arrived here
to even have the conversation, is procreation. You can philosophise
the meaning of life all you want, but if a biological act hadn’t
produced you, it would definitely affect your philosophical
aspirations. None of which relates to ‘how you identify with your
pronouns’.

Yet it is just so wrong.

Because the person giving birth may no longer identify as a female. It
may consider itself something else. Womb and breasts be damned. They
are (apparently) meaningless concepts in the face of our right to
define ourselves according to… according to… something other than
‘mere’ genitalia and secondary sexual characteristics.

It would appear that in a institutionalised effort to reduce any
possible offense to a tiny minority, we are approaching the
logic-defying realms of total insanity.

But I maintain an open mind.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There’s a report out, 157 pages long, by ‘Historic England’ which lists, basically, slavery shit. This is a list of homes, castles even, schools, hospitals, pubs and sometimes entire villages, built by those financially benefitting from the transatlantic slave trade. The benefactors were either slave ship owners or ran plantations in America or the Caribbean.

And quite frankly, I take this as a call to arms. All us right-on, woken-up, anti-vax, anti-big-pharma, LGBTQIA (plus any more initials added to this ever-increasing acronym since publication) supporting, pronoun quoting, statue-toppling, portrait-burning, bust-busting, take-a-knee-ing imbeciles must stick together and do what we’re best at! Which is making frankly ridiculous protests, destroying beautiful objects of collective ownership and, most importantly, re-writing history! I could NEVER live in a village built by a slaver. Even if it is 300 years old, of incredible beauty and feeds the poor. NEVER!! BURN IT DOWN!!! We must not only react and reject all such horrors, all those revolting stately homes, useless schools, vile hospitals, but BE RID OF THEM FOREVERRRRRR!!! 
Signed, 
Lord Ponsenby, Tobacco-R-Us Plantation, Georgia, USA (he, she, it, them, us)

Australia doesn’t have slaves. Instead it has morons. Who get married to people they’ve never met before. Yes, series 6 of ‘Married at First Sight, Australia’ is now available, all 653 episodes. All of which come with a guarantee that ‘nothing will happen’. But if something should, we’ll show it endlessly for the rest of every episode. Which they do to heighten tension. Because there is, quite frankly, nothing more boring on tv than watching two people, deeply in love, being nice to each other. Who the fuck wants that???? We want to watch nasty, we desire sleazy, vile and horrendous. We want physical, as well as emotional abuse. And we want it NOW! This series is so bad it should come with a warning. “TOTALLY ADDICTIVE; KEEP OUT!!!” But there’s a fatal flaw in the concept. That the people you want to see because they’re so awful and horrid, leave early. So that all that remains is… is… is… nice people!!! Which is no program at all. Mel could just watch me all night if she just wants ‘nice’. 

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

When I left Los Angeles in 1982 I stopped in New York on the way home. For about a month. Lived with my mate Joey. It was on Long Island but it was like being in Saturday Night Fever. Everyone had Italian names. Everyone had real, Italian grandmothers who wore black and looked like retired olive pickers from Tuscany. And everyone was ‘connected’ and spoke of their ‘connections’ with pride.

The morning I arrived Joey picked me up from JFK, after the all-night ‘red-eye’ flight, and took me straight to a park. Where a bunch of his friends (Bellucci, Vespucci, Fabrisi, Tagliatelli et al) were going to play ‘football’. Great. I love football. Oh, not that football. The other one. The one normally played in armour. But we instead opted for shorts and t-shirts. And yet, because they were Italian, and young, and still pretty drunk/stoned/wasted from the night before, and definitely a bit stupid, it was decided to play ‘tackle’ as opposed to ‘touch’. The latter meaning that to stop you all they have to do is touch you and you have to stop, the former; you tackle. Proper. Stop me IF YOU CAN!

It’s worth pointing out that these were Italian Americans. Real Italians would definitely have played ‘touch’ so as not to crease their suits.

I scored a touchdown. Everyone did. At least 5. There were only 10 of us playing. But mine felt so good. I’d seen it on the tv (you simply can’t avoid NFL in America, it is on EVERYWHERE) and now I’d caught the ball and run it in to score. Outrunning half a dozen drunk Italians. I was very proud.

Tonight is Super Bowl 55. (Just FYI, the FA cup is 149 this year). And it features the one and only Tom Brady. He’s the quarterback (it really doesn’t matter) of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. And he’s married to Gisele Bundchen. But the incredible thing (ok, Gisele is pretty incredible) is that Tom is 43 years old. And the most highly decorated player in NFL history (decorated with those ridiculous and revolting Super Bowl rings they get). And playing his 21st season of the most injury-prone sport in the world. And the focus of the game, the focus of the injuries, the focus of every defensive player, is the quarterback. Put him down, take him out, kill him, whatever it takes. Yet Tom has survived that pounding for 21 seasons. The NFL average career is 3.3 years.

So whatever you feel about American Football (probably not much) you have to have a thought for Tom Brady as he vies to win his 7th Super Bowl.

Because I’m the biggest NFL fan now that I’ve given up ‘football’ football because it is hateful and horrible. My malaise is so bad that I barely enjoyed Arsenal losing to Villa yesterday. That bad.

Happy Super Bowl Sunday

A xxxx