Andy's Glasses

Wot I’ve seen this week. By Andy. A brief review of wot I done in the realm of watchin’ stuff on the tv. So you’ll know what’s good and what’s shit. And that may help you grately. In your life.

Last night we ‘partied’ hard and long. But because of our year(s) of enforced confinement, our resultant agoraphobia means we party hard and long, but not very many of us, and only at home. Possibly in the garden, but only if its warm. So the party started with a jigsaw session. Because yesterday they released Rachie from quarantine! She came over last Sunday from Berlin, and the rules are so strict that you now have to piss away at least 500 quid on tests to be allowed release from the shed. So we got a take-away, shared a bottle of Prosecco and watched ‘Palm Springs’. One of the many movies to have been released in covid times. Palm Springs is Groundhog Day Redu. So the entire concept is surreal. If you don’t get or like surreal, don’t bother with it. But if you do, if your entire life has been leaning in that very direction (and steered ever more Dali-wise by the ‘pandemic’) then you’ll love it. I did. Mel hated it. And protested in the normal way, by falling asleep.

The previous evening I watched Tottenham Hotspur, a north London football team, play the Everton’s of Liverpool. In a match so horribly vile and rotten and shitty that I wish to pass no further comment at this time and will save my testimony for the trial. Which there really should be.

I also managed to squeeze in Midge Ure and Kim Appleby looking at ‘music of the 80s’ but in Scotland and Ireland. And that was fantastic. Because as the punk movement in Britain gave way to the horribly electro ‘new romantic’ Duran Diarrhoea and other voiceless wonders, the Scots were getting political. And there were loads of great bands making great music about joblessness and deprivation and the working class struggle. Mainly playing it to a bunch of over-entitled English kids whose only concern was whether they could dance to the beat without their face paint running. Then came the Proclaimers who re-wrote the entire ‘pop-star’ and ‘nerd’ handbooks.

In Ireland it was different. Lots of great bands, particularly from Dublin, all playing music based on traditional Irish sounds. Including U2, Thin Lizzy, Boomtown Rats. Great program. Shame they didn’t just slip into the early 90s for ‘my favourite ever song’ (one of 344) and the most politicised, Zombie by the Cranberries. Sung in almost unintelligible Northern Irish accents, the protest against ‘the troubles’ in the Province is as potent as it is powerful. But man, does it ‘rock’.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Some people ‘possess the screen’ when they act. Some simply ‘own it’. Not because of any perception of beauty. Otherwise they’d never have given the Oscar to Frances McDormand, and will probably give her another this year too. But go see Fargo, or Four Billboards, and you’ll know what ‘star presence’ really is. In such a beautifully understated way. Robert de Niro has it. Dustin Hoffman. Brando, obvs, Saoirse Ronan had it as a kid in ‘Hannah’ and it grew and grew. It’s a type of ‘magic’ that can’t be taught.

In the 70s I went to see a lot of movies. And the 80’s, 90’s… But I was ‘young’ and you’d think had different criteria. Yet certain actors would have us rushing to Leicester Square, where movies always ‘started’ in the UK back then. Because you simply couldn’t wait for the next Bruce Lee movie and the thought of it being out and waiting even longer, as it took about 4 weeks to get from Leicester Square to the Gants Hill Odeon, presumably by a blind man with one leg walking unaided, was unacceptable. And even though there is a very strong case that the early ‘Kung fu’ movies of his, like Fist of Fury and The Big Boss were just complete shite, over-dubbed tragically into English with contemptible storylines, only there only to create a framework in which Bruce could kick the shit out of hundreds of Oriental people, we simply loved them.

But back to proper acting, we would also rush to the West End for anything starring Gene Hackman or Charles Bronson. Gene because he is magical on the screen, and Bronson because he was made of wood. Hardened somewhere in the Slavic region. Just before they permanently removed his smiling gland. But Bronson starred in many films. He was a scriptwriter’s dream. Because they only needed to script him one word at a time. The fewer syllables the better. And the epitome of a Bronson movie was Death Wish. The ultimate revenge flick. And it was brilliant. I never bothered with versions 2, 3, 4, ‘with a vengeance’, ‘in Tokyo’, 7, 8 or ‘the ballet’.

And now they’ve remade it. Reversed it, gender-wise, and made the avenger a gel. Carey Mulligan, to be precise. It’s called Promising Young Woman and the protagonist sets up ‘rapist’ type students/men/boys and does bad things to them. Effectively making it Death Wish goes #metoo with PC values, women-in-charge, gender-irrelevant, choose your own pronouns. Part 1.

I’m gonna watch it. And so should YOU!

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’m down to my last 9 Cadburys Easter eggs. I did a stock-take yesterday. And at average rate of consumption that supply will last… errrr… probably until Monday. Possibly Tuesday if I ‘ration’. And why is this relevant? Well, I actually try and keep absolutely everything I write totally irrelevant, as well as inane, trite, pathetic and worthless. Where’s the fun otherwise?

Anyway, chocolate. Most important thing in my life. And I’m glad to note that others are finally taking it as seriously as I do. Although my limits on ‘chocolate’ generally begin and end with Cadburys, we have a family tradition at birthday time. 97% of British families share this too. We celebrate with a ‘Colin the Caterpillar Cake’ from Marks & Spencer’s. Ok, so 97% of staunchly middle-class suburb-dwellers, champagne Socialists and Tory party members. We may have other cakes as well, we may have parties on occasion, we may do all sorts of things. But when we get together and there’s a birthday nearby, the lights go out, the tension mounts and into the room is carried a Colin, lit up by a million candles! Ok, normally 3, whatever the value of the birthday, just because you almost have to use a drill on the chocolate to get the candles in there and who can be bothered?

And a secret that is no secret, (I don’t even ‘love’ Colin’ that much!!!). The chocolate is ‘inferior’ (read: ‘Not Cadburys’) and even speaking as the man with the sweetest teeth ever implanted to replace those rotted by a lifetime’s sugar, its too sweet!!!

However, tradition is everything, so I love Colin from a ‘cultural perspective’.

And then Aldi, those upstart, downmarket, German(!!!!) supermarketeers from… Germany!!!, introduced ‘Cuthbert the Caterpillar Cake’. A cheap, poor-person’s, working class, Aldi-shopper type product of decidedly inferior nature. So M&S are taking Aldi to court of the fact that Cuthbert is not merely a Colin-imposter, but an instance of cultural appropriation!, if not outright Class War!!! And I whole-heartedly support their actions in this. You can’t just make a chocolate cake shaped like a larval insect and hope to  get away with that. 

Happy Friday

A xxxxx

Have you seen my new shoulder? This is a picture of it. Haven’t got it yet, just going round the showrooms doing a bit of shoulder-shopping. I think the silver’s nice really. Though black might be closer to the colour of my soul and definitely my heart, I like the more bling look of shiny things. I’m going for the Hokey Kokey 2000 model, with four-barrel carburettors and a turbo-charger, wide wheels, leather trim and 4Gb of WiFi.

The time has come, the day has dawned, the end is nigh. The old shoulder has served its purpose (ie; moving my right arm around) for 64 years and shall be retired with full… dishonour. Because basically, having consulted the finest of consultants in consultation, we have collectively concluded a catastrophic degree of fuckage in the region. The multiple dislocations suffered many moons ago have produced a horrible degree of Osteo-arthritis. In the joint. Which really is no longer much of a ‘joint’, more a big, horrible tangle of bone-on-bone and shit. Though apparently, the insistent playing of tennis in recent and present times, has actually helped. I thought he’d say ‘tennis!!! Are you fucking insane?!?!’, but he didn’t. He said it has kept every thing around the shit-shoulder working better than it would have. Ooooooohhhh, that’s good. How often does stubborn insistence and total ignorance in the face of all common sense result in medical benefit?

And its easy. You don’t even need an anaesthetic. Just an aspirin, a whisky and you bite on a bit of wood, saying ‘cut me!’ Like they used to perform orthopaedic surgery in Mutiny on the Bounty. I want a ‘retro-op’. Ok, I want all the drugs that exist, all free, whilst the insurance is paying. And then just a few… months? Weeks? Years???, of slings, immobilisation, restricted use, resting and other horrendously disabling restraint and I’ll be back…

Well, not just ‘on court’ but back. Not having to be careful picking up a cup, not having agony whilst brushing my teeth, taking off shirts, lifting a child, reaching for… anything.

I’ve had another scan and await more input. And then… and then…

WE CAN RE-BUILD HIM!!! Better than before. Bionic Man lives!!!, in NW11.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Football used to be about kicking balls around, maybe scoring goals, committing a few fouls, swearing at the ref, you know, football. Then along came the ‘Premiership’ in 1992, bringing with it loads and loads of cash. Because there were more televised matches. And with money comes accountants. And statisticians. All looking at where their money is going, where it should go, what produces the most value and who is a total waste of the stuff. Football fans became bombarded with analytical statistics. To the point where now, before they’ll issue you with a season ticket, you need to prove actuarial competence. So you understand what the fuck they’re all talking about. Because the answer to the comment: ‘did you see that amazing pass by Kevin De Bruyne to make that goal????’ used to be ‘yeaeaeaeah; brilliant!!!’ or possibly, ‘he’s a Belgian bastard!’. Now the answer is ‘and he’s got an 82% pass completion rate, the third highest in the league, 5th in Europe, BUT his overall score, taking into account goals scored and tackles made puts him top in all European countries, except Scotland, where only Celtic get to score the goals’.

And every day someone comes out with a new statistic. A new number, having thought of something else to count. Mainly for the sole purpose of upsetting Spurs fans. The one I read on Saturday was ‘most points lost by conceding goals in the 90th minute or later’. And my lovely Lillywhites head that table. With pride. So being ‘Spursy’ is actually statistically valid. How chronically depressing.

But with statistics like that, really, we should have been relegated. Numerous times. Yet we haven’t, rather staying ‘ever-present’ since the league began. Which means that although we drop all these ridiculous late points and, it must be said, quite a few much earlier points, we also have times when we win lots and do great things. Because we’re not only ‘present’ in the league but also always ‘up there’. Near the top. Ish. Other than now. Therefore we are probably one of the most inconsistent teams around. Sheffield United are totally consistent. They lose to everybody. Except Manchester United, but we’ll put that down to Covid. So their fans have no expectations, no aspirations, no fucking hope. Which you can accept and enjoy the ride for what its worth.

Whereas Spurs fans are filled with eternal hope. But the inconsistency means that it is never fulfilled. That inconsistency is the only consistent thing. Which actually makes things worse for us than for Sheffield United.

Its not disappointment that kills you, but hope. (The unofficial Spurs motto). And thus, as another season dies the death of a thousand cuts, I think we need a new analysis. The most depressing club to support. As proven by psychologists, statisticians and crying Spurs fans.

Otherwise! Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So I wrote about Prince Philip, as was my divine duty, my right, my moral obligation, my… whatever. He died, I said ‘goodbye’, not that I’d ever said ‘hello’ but that’s the nature of obituaries. You don’t have to know everyone who dies, just to know OF them is sufficient. To make you a ‘mourner’. Which is why they have books and online portals for such ‘mourners’ to offer condolences and tell everyone how much they’re going to miss… whoever. Then you lay some flowers, with 22,846 other bunches, against a wall in Westminster and go back to wait for the pubs to open. Tomorrow! Unless someone else dies in the meantime.

I was not alone in writing kind words about our most Edinburgh of Dukes. No. A few newspapers printed the odd word and even a picture or two. Or three. Thousand. Or more. Endless photos, stories, tales of his youth, his navy days, his marriage, his (alleged!!!) affairs, his children, his grandchildren… fucking everyone and everything he ever did. And in 99+ years, that was quite a lot. The BBC also went into ‘famous death’ mode and extended their news bulletins, whipped their ‘specials’ out of the pending file and went into full Philip meltdown for the next 53 hours, suspending all other broadcasting.

This may be because the Philip archive, both in print and film, has been growing for about 73 years since anyone first heard of him, and had reached the point where storage had become a problem, so it just came bursting out in an explosion. Especially as, since he came out of hospital a few weeks ago, editors have been sitting with their fingers poised of the red ‘PRINT!/AIR!’ buttons.

So now the inevitable. ‘There’s too much stuff about Philip’. ‘He weren’t that great’. ‘Only a bloody consort’. ‘I’m bored with Princely rubbish’.

So for all those moaners, tomorrow the newspapers and tv stations are having a special day. A no-Philip, coronavirus and Brexit special! To let them know exactly what they’ve been missing whilst we’ve been crying over big Phil. Maybe just a few pages about the ‘troubles’ in Northern Ireland. Something we’ve all really missed in the last 20 years. I’d quite forgotten how much I love a burning bus.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Parenting is a skill. An art. For which there are no rules. Which is why I was so good at it, I fucking hate rules. (Hence my deep and profound love of all things ‘pandemic’, for which there have been more rules in 13 months than in the previous 472 years combined). And when I say ‘good at parenting’, I suppose it all depends on your standpoint. Like, when does ‘just let them do what they want’ slip over to ‘gross criminal negligence’? When does ‘enough rope to hang themselves’ result in hanging? Is a high-powered drill a suitable toy for an almost-2 year old? He’s only holding that because my gun’s at the workshop and he got bored with the samurai sword. Children need to learn limits, rather than have them arbitrarily imposed by parents, or in fact, even grandparents. Especially grandparents. Joey likes to ‘drive’. So rather than just sit there like a… like a… like a child!, I give him the keys and get him to start the engine first. He’s gotta learn to do things properly. Or he’ll ‘never learn at all!’.

One things for sure. He’ll never know Prince Philip. Who died, tragically, at the age of 99. Shame. He didn’t survive to get a telegram from the Queen. But I’ll miss him terribly. For Joey and Lila he’ll just be yet another ‘dead royal’ who’ll appear in history books along with 42,000 others. For me, his passing (hate that word in that context, but it just seems appropriate at this mournful time) represents the end of… errrr… the end of the Queen’s husband. A straight talker who called a spade a spade. And, unfortunately, also called a Chinaman ‘slant-eyes’, Indians ‘darkies’ and every other ethnic minority some other form of insulting, discriminatory and abusive term. And I really hope, though never heard such a thing, that he had abusive terms for Jews too. Because anything that is a red line in the world of ‘woke’ gets a green light from me.

Philip was born in Greece and in his early adult life, ran the family kebab shop… oh, alright, he was born ‘royal’, just not our ‘royal’. His father was the prince of Greece and Denmark (puzzling but true) and his mother was a Battenberg. She was yellow with pink stripes. Honest to goodness. With a buttercream centre. Royalty meets Bake Off. He joined the navy, married the Queen, who wasn’t the Queen yet, just Liz-babe at that time, and spent the rest of his life walking four paces behind her. He was the first man to win a gold medal Duke of Edinburgh award, so they named him after it.

But he did it with style. And, more amazingly, when you consider the nature of his actual ‘role’, he did it with an individuality and with charm and incredible wit. He could have spent 73 years as a Dennis Thatcher. Mr Background. Seen but never heard. But Philip didn’t. He spoke his mind. Often with disastrous consequences, but heh, he sleeps with the Queen; who’s gonna tell him off?

He was that most unusual thing; an interesting royal. Now that mantle passes to his son, Andrew, who is ‘interesting’ for different reasons. Like, ‘of interest to the police’.

RIP Duke of Edinburgh.

A xxxx

Ok, so I have a bit of a problem. With Easter Eggs. An obsession. Addiction. Thus when Easter finally arrives it creates a panic. Because that signifies the ‘end of life, as we know it’ and there’ll be no more Easter eggs til next year! What we (me, myself and I) call ‘the doomsday scenario!’ When I’m forced onto the wagon of abstinence by thoughtless and cruel retailers. But the other side of that Easter coin is that the remaining stock has to go. You can’t sell Easter eggs outside Easter. It’s agains the law.

I walked past the little Tesco on Fleet Street yesterday on my way to work, not needing anything. Then I stopped, walked back and went in. And I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. As I was faced with an Easter egg wall. A truly massive display, in prime position, of Cadbury’s Easter eggs. Piled up, the width of the aisle, must have been over a hundred. And marked with a sign that said: “50p”. Holy shit. Or perhaps, ‘holy grail’. Fifty pence for the ultimate ‘superfood’. But lacking my wheelbarrow, forklift, Transit van or even a bag, I decided to return later. Which I did. And by then there were about 15 left. So I bought 6. Had to. Couldn’t get more in the bag.

Yet this is the weird bit. There aren’t any people around in the City. But like, none. The odd soul. Tumbleweed. And me. So where did all MY fucking Easter eggs go? Who else bought them? When you don’t see more than 6 people on the street all day. When the little Sainsbury’s along the road hasn’t even bothered to reopen since the first lockdown. And yet 85 eggs had disappeared. Did the staff eat them? A few are pretty hefty. But even I’d struggle to eat, say, 20 in a day. I called the police. Then I called X-Files. Disappearing Easter eggs is a paranormal phenomenon. And is very worrying in case some alien motherfucker from Mars pulls up in his flying saucer over my kitchen and uses his tractor beam to relieve me of some of my hard-earned and well-protected stock!!! War of the World’s? More: War of the Eggs. And I would win. 

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that there aren’t seven-legged, three-headed, green-and-yellow monsters from Mars who love chocolate. 

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Ok so its the back end of the football season. The final run in. The exiting bit. When the decisions get made. Who goes up, who goes down, who suffer the indignity of mid-tableness, who wins the cups and, the biggest of all: who goes into Europe next year. So this is what you do, if you’re still fortunate (mainly due to the misfortune of others) enough to be ‘in contention’ for something. You win your fucking games. That’s it really. There’s hours of debate, endless billions of wasted words analysing all sorts of statistics and records and averages; all of which means precisely fuck all. All you need to do is win.

West Bromwich Albion showed exactly that with Saturday’s visit to that portal to Hell known as Stamford Bridge. Chelsea with their new, super-boring manager, have not been beaten in 14 matches. 12 of them they haven’t even conceded a goal. Numbers which have the statisticians drooling. West Brom are floundering. As they have been all season but worse. Because they brought in Sam Allardyce to ‘keep them up’. It’s what he does. Normally. He is the absolute ‘break glass in case of emergency’ manager. He won’t excite the fans. He won’t play like Barcelona. But if its sheer, bloody-minded pragmatism mixed with just a necessary soupçon of extreme violence to consolidate it, which you want or desperately need; Sam’s your man. Yet he had thus far failed to ‘secure’ anything. Leaving West Brom second from bottom and total shit.

A match made for the bookies. So obvious.

And yet it wasn’t. It was wonderful, marvellous, delightful and the kind of game that makes you realise why you can still love the beautiful game, just for matches like that. Because West Brom didn’t just defy the odds. They took those odds and incinerated them. They were simply brilliant to watch and deadly in effect. Ok, Chelsea were down to 10 men but that wasn’t West Brom’s fault. So they won 5-2. And it was simply fantastic.

Then Arsenal lost to Liverpool. Which didn’t do Spurs many favours, league-wise, but is always nice to see. Just because…

So the scene was set. Regal Spurs went to lowly, shitty, awful, hopeless Newcastle. And a win would have put us 4th in the league. Where we want to be, need to be and DESERVE to be, just because…

And we couldn’t hold on to our 2-1 lead and ended up with a draw. And what fucking use is that??? I didn’t even stay home for the end, instead going round to torture Joey (above). I needed to ‘vent’ on someone.

I’m going to start another #metoo movement. Perhaps a #methree or a #mefourfourtwo for football fans who are victims of historical and current abuse from their clubs.

Happy Monday (grrrrrrrrrr…)

A xxxx

That BITCH!!!!!! Meghan Markle/Windsor/Duchess is in yet MORE trouble! As she should be for upsetting Piers Morgan. Oh, and the Queen. Prince Philip. Well, all the royals, except Harry. She invested money into a company promoted by ‘bestie’, Oprah, which makes Oatmeal lattes. For the pretentiousness of that alone she should be shot, but in fact, it gets WORSE! Much worse. The oatmeal in question (what’s wrong with fucking milk? But what do I know?) comes from Xinjiang in China. Where the Uighur Muslims are persecuted, enslaved, murdered and brainwashed (not necessarily in that order) by the Chinese in possibly the greatest human rights/ethnic cleansing tragedy since Bosnia. And thus Meghan, the queen of ‘ethically sourced’ and ‘woke’ and all things nice, is getting cheap oatmeal made by Uighur slaves.

And there’s only one thing worse than buying slave produce. Which is probably not buying slave produce.

Boycotting is the ‘big company’ version of ‘cancelling’. It happens when nations or corporations decide that we, as a nation, as a collective conscience, as a group of companies, must make a moral stance against something appalling. And just like cancelling, it is self-protected by the wonderfully unarguable: if you question this then YOU ARE PART OF THE PROBLEM, FULL STOP.

If the Uighur slaves are no longer needed to produce stuff because no-one’s buying it, they will probably just be murdered or sent to ‘camps’ from which, in China, no-one ever emerges. As happens to thousands of them anyway. At least the slaves are still alive. But you’re not allowed to use any type of sense or logic or argument of any kind against such issues. I fully expect all my statues to be pulled down or defaced for just writing this.

There has been a ‘boycott’ on Israel products for years. Other than the really good stuff, like iPhone components and medicines that people, even the ultra-woke, can’t live without. So all stuff from ‘the occupied West Bank’ is boycotted. As a consequence, Ahava, the company who basically shovel mud out of the Dead Sea and sell it in Selfridges and Harrods for £75 a sachet as the ultimate skin/beauty aid, were ‘boycotted’ for producing ‘on the West Bank’ and were thus forced to relocate onto the Israeli side of the Dead Sea. Which resulted in the loss of gainful employment for hundreds of Palestinians.

It’s sometimes good to look at ‘the big picture’ rather than at some thumbnail sketch hastily drawn in a pub in Hoxton by a really ‘woke’ geezer with a beard down to his naval, just to see if you’re totally right-on behaviour will actually have the desired effect or in reality just the opposite.

I wanted to write about football today. But this just split my yin from my yang in such a way that my chakra was displaced, my karma brutalised and the entire feng shui of my life felt off kilter. So I’ll do it tomorrow. After Spurs have played, possibly a good thing, possibly not, but really, its about Chelsea. It’s all about Chelsea. And the ‘game of the decade’.

Happy sunny Sunday

A xxxx