Andy's Glasses

So I’m in Toronto. And I’m watching the US Open quarter final. Why? Because there’s a Canadian involved. Auger-Alissime is young, gifted and Canuck. Therefore we have to be ‘involved’ in support of the entire nation for one of its own. I wouldn’t normally be watching the US Open, on the grounds that it is NOT Wimbledon. But me mate Dave is so engaged with ‘his boy’, that we’re watching. It’s his ‘Emma Raducanu’ moment. I hope he has greater longevity that our Emma seems to be perpetually struggling with.

But we’re leaving tonight. Catching the late night out of Pearson Airport, landing by 10am tomorrow in London. Fantastic. British Airways. Booked it last October. Great. What could possibly go wrong?

Got an email at 4.30: “your flight has been cancelled; we’ve booked you onto an Air Canada flight tomorrow, Thursday, night. You’ll be fine…”

Oh well, that’s fine. It’s ‘only a day’. So Lila and Joey can pick themselves up from school on Thursday, go swimming and walk home afterwards, that’s no problem, it’s about time they were a bit more independent. The Ocado delivery guy will just have to stand on our doorstep for 24 hours to drop the food; he won’t mind. And work on Friday is only work; if we’re a few hours late for our respective days; ok, 5 or 6 hours late, that won’t matter too much. We can just hang out with our friends for another day. We’re good at outstaying welcomes, freeloading, sofa-surfing (as if), we’ll just ‘hang’. Except they’re off to the wilds of ‘the countryside’, where the lakes are tomorrow. Oh. We’ll camp on the front garden until 10 o’clock tomorrow, no bother.

I spoke to BA. Ok, I spoke to a guy in Delhi who works for BA. And I think works for various electric supply companies too, he sounded really familiar. And after several arguments, a lot of shouting and an equal amount of begging and crying, we’re flying tonight, Air Canada.

Holy shit, that was just soooo stressful. Just when we were in the most relaxed of Toronto cool modes after the fabulous wedding and spending some quality time (for them) with our friends.

Who knew Toronto had a beach? And not just a beach, a massive, yellow, soft-sand, humungous beach. Because we’re on the banks of Lake Ontario, and although that’s not a proper ‘sea’, it’s as big as one. In fact, Toronto is, obviously massive, but massively wonderful. And we had the best time ever.

Happy Wednesday (we hope, haven’t taken off yet)

A xxxx

I’m in Toronto. Its fabulous. Hot, sunny, clean, lovely and… obviously, big. It’s Canada, ergo, it’s big. But it seems much bigger than it really is because when you walk (as we did this morning) 20-odd ‘blocks’, you go through 20-odd intersections, and therefore you wait for the little white walking man 20-odd times. And you have to wait! No-one dares cross on the red man. It’s fucking fatal! Even though every nerve in my London born-and-bred body is not urging but DEMANDING that ‘there’s nothing coming, just GO!!’, you resist. Because you have to. So the journey takes 10 minutes longer than it should if you were running between cars, round buses, under big trucks, like you do at home.

We walked ‘downtown’ for a walking tour of ‘old Toronto’. Which my mate Dave, who moved here 45 years ago from Montreal, laughed at. There is no ‘old town’ he said. Yet there is! Dave!!! There are buildings here that go back as far as 1962. Which are older than all the newer ones. So there. And it’s interesting, as all walking tours are, even if they have to make shit up. Who would ever know? And there’s industrialists, and beaver pelt dealers who made good and alcohol producers who almost went out of business during Canada’s own ‘prohibition’ but were saved by Al Capone, who came to buy their booze to sell in the USA. Which, even if he tried now, and paid the tax on it, would be subject to tariffs. Obviously he never paid taxes, which was how they ‘got him’ in the end. So blame the Canadians. Why not?

Anyway, we walked to the ‘old town’, did a 3 hour walking tour and then walked the 3k back to the hotel. If I was ‘that sort of person’, who we all hate, always counting fucking steps as if it makes you somehow morally superior if you can’t afford to take Ubers, I would tell that we walked 23,000 steps today. But I simply wouldn’t be so gloatful as to even mention it. #fuckinghero.

We’re having the best time here. We arrived from Newfoundland, leaving all the retarded ones behind for the slimmed down beauty of the Toronto chic. We went to our pals for a ‘little dinner’ for about 50 people who’d all flown into town. But 48 of them weren’t as delayed as we were. Last night there was a party for about 100 people, which was fabulous. Tonight is the wedding. There goes the diet. But who cares? Calories don’t count in Canada. And speaking to a few ‘locals’, as I have been, I may have to change my mind about Canadians. They’re really not as bad as you’d imagine.

Happy Wedding Day

A xxxx

We’re leaving Newfoundland. Its over. Living with the whales (didn’t see one), the moose (yeah, right), the Caribou (are there?), beavers (no, really) and the trucks. They all drive trucks here. Big ones. Massive. But I get it, there’s lots of unpaved roads, ‘we’ all have boats and caravans jet-skis and stuff what needs trailing. So you need at least a 6-litre V8 to pull that. And with ‘gas’ less than half what it costs at home, why not? I would. A convertible one. Which you need when it’s -40 for half the year. I just saw a truck with a 6.4litre ‘Hemi’. For non petrolheads that won’t mean much, but to me, it’s like finding Jesus.

But what a place this is. It’s just fabulous. All of it. Absolutely loved it here, despite the lack of the promised mythical creatures. I did see a squirrel. Red one. All by himself. And the days perfectly alternate between grey and really rainy, and bright, sunny and gorgeous.

Like all places which are ‘islands’ in the metaphorical as well as geographical sense, you get the feeling that life kind’a stood still since 1957. What was good enough for ‘American Graffiti’ is good enough for Newfoundland. Also, there’s insufficient population to create the image of city sophistication, which they wouldn’t want here anyway.

I’ve often said: ‘I could live on hamburgers’. And I virtually have. Ok, there’s quite a bit of cod round here and it is the best cod you’ve ever had. So I sampled that too. And they have reached a level of understanding of foodiness that everything doesn’t need to be deep fried in beer batter to be a meal. Many places offer ‘pan fried cod’ as the ‘healthy’ option. Not saying it’s not good, but for a Londoner, would a ‘drizzle’ of balsamic kill them? If the batter was laced with pomegranate molasses would it be a crime? A dash of z’atar? A blob of tahini?? Just so I can ‘rave’ about the sheer cosmopolitan-ness of it all. But just as Newfoundland seems about a million miles from anywhere else, it’s also about a million miles from cosmopolitan. And that is a massive part of its charm.

Get on a plane. Or two. Or just get up to Nova Scotia, take a 7 hour ferry and drive right here. You will not be disappointed.

As I sit here in the airport on the sunny day option (yesterday it pissed down), I’m gonna miss it

Happy but sad Friday

A xxxx

Do you have any idea how many Moose there are in Canada? Answers to the nearest 10,000 please. Do you know how many we’ve seen in the last 5 days? None. They’re hiding. The nearest you can get to a moose is to eat one. Not a whole one, they’re big, but moose-burgers are on sale everywhere. Moose steaks. Antler pie. (I made that one up). Have those fucking Canadians made them extinct by over-eating?? Like they did with the Auk???? Or are moose just, like, really shy and timid, even though they’re fucking humungous, or are they banned by their agents from having photos taken without contracts being signed?

We’re in Gros Morne national park. It’s nothing like Marble Arch here. No moose is likely to get hit by a bus or a taxi because they have neither around here. And if an e-bike hit a moose, it would bend. Instead, they have forests. Mountains. Trees. Grazing land. Lakes. Everything your average moose would choose as his perfect ‘happy place’. And over about a million acres, so the moose won’t be cramped or crowded, like fighting over a little patch of grass. But not one has been seen. Only the pictures of them on every road with the sign reading “CAREFUL: MOOSE!!!”, at which I shout “WHERE?????”. Show me the moose I might run over and I’ll stop and take a selfie. Me, Mel and Moose. I have it all planned. I’ve even shouted at the forests that “I’ll eat a moose burger if you don’t come out!!!”, but I think they have a problem with my accent.

Therefore I no longer believe in mooses. I think they’re a product of someone’s imagination. Which is why they look a bit weird. They’re made up.

So we consoled ourselves with ‘second prize’ here. We took a boat ride down a fjord. Ok, it’s not big and furry with massive antlers but it was quite pretty. Ok, it was fucking spectacular. The fjord is an inland, fresh-water one. I would explain, like the lady on the boat did, but I think it’s too geological for you, to be honest. It was called Western Brook Pond. Obviously a ‘pond’ because it’s not big enough to be a ‘lake’. It’s only 16km long. Tiny. Pathetic.

Everyone talks to you here. Everyone. It’s so friendly as to be mildly unsettling. Though I actually like talking to strangers. It’s the people I know I have issues with. Or possibly that have issues with me.

Happy last day in Newfoundland

A xxxx

For the last part of our Newfoundland ‘adventure’ we’re in Gros Morne national park. It’s on the northwest coast of Newfoundland and is so big that anywhere else it would be a ‘continent’, here it’s just a ‘park’.

We left Fogo Island. We jumped on the bargain-of-the-year ferry. Ok, we were the fourth from last car they let on. You can’t book it. They cram about 70 cars on and then it’s full. First come first served. Phew. Fucking massive ‘phew!!!’ Then a quick 5 hour drive (it’s soooooo big here) to the West Coast. And if the rest of Newfoundland is beautiful, which it is, round here is absolutely spectacular. Mountains, inlets, forests, all together. Just ‘wow’, wherever you look.

And so you don’t think we’re on some princessy, tarty ‘excursion’ type, cruise-linery, 5 star trip, I’ve shown you where real people had lunch yesterday. We stopped mid-way to gas up, get a coffee and enjoy our pre-prepared (by us) lunch, in the car, in a rainy gas station car park by a junkyard. Well ‘ard. Newfoundland is sparse in such facilities so when you see one, you stop and use it. It may be 100 miles before the next.

In that gas station, the old hypothesis about island inhabitants reared its ugly head once more. ‘Ipswich syndrome’ is when a fairly isolated population suffers a reduced gene pool, thus enabling recessive traits to become dominant. The two guys in the gas station had that ‘inbred’ feel about them. In that ‘high six!!!’, kind’a way. They were friendly (ish) and helpful, but one or two lightbulbs short of a chandelier. Possibly 3 or 4. I asked how to use the coffee machine, having never previously, in my wide and varied life, bought a self-serve coffee in a Newfoundland gas station. I know; inadequately educated. He looked at me and said: “ ‘ain’t ‘ard”. And he showed me. For which I am grateful. I like coffee. But lovely and friendly though the Newfoundlanders are, and they are, there are many whom you view through a lens of gritted teeth and think: ‘really?’

Having said that, this place is so worth visiting. Even though it’s fucking impossible to get here and the weather’s in the most part, shit.

Am I over-selling it?

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I wish to complain to the corporation of Newfoundland, possibly the kingdom of Newfoundland, principality, whatever, whoever runs this place. We took the ferry over from the big bit of NL to Fogo Island. 2 of us, obvs, and the guy never even asked if we might possibly be ‘seniors’; he just fucking assumed it. And I want to check that over here, ‘seniors’ start at, like 45, maybe 50. Otherwise, I want to go back and punch the guy. Also, that crossing cost us $22.25. Which is a lot of money. Though it did include the car, but still. So I said we wanted a round trip, to which we were told that it was for the return journey too. Twelve quid. Four journeys. That is a lot of money for old people to find. Why, it’s just over £3 per journey!!! Oh, then there’s the car, I s’pose. A tube journey costs (I think), £3.40. I’ve never asked if I can take my car to Kennington on the Northern Line, but I’m going to.

We did a hike on Fogo. It’s called ‘the Auk trail’. The ‘auk’ in question was a flightless bird which, like all big, fat, slow-moving, slow-cookable, flightless birds in world history, become history. Extinct. Eaten by Victorian age travellers to complete annihilation of the species. There’s only two left in the entire world. Both made of metal. One over here (just above Mel’s shoulder) the other facing it in Iceland.

This was a really wonderfully laid out ‘trail’. All you have to do is find the ‘trail head’. Which, making no excuses, is not easy to find. None of them are. They’re all in places too insignificant to come up on either Google or Waze. But we found it!!! All by ourselves!!! And hiked for about an hour over rocks and cliffs and paths, to find the (fucking) auk. Which was blue and possibly a bit cuddly. But metal ones aren’t cookable. However, the place where the statue was put is a true wonder of geography and geology. Possibly gynaecology and genealogy too. A little cove of beautiful rock formations. The sun was shining, the sea crashing in (it only ‘crashes’ in Newfoundland, there is no plan B) and we sat there for about an hour. It was outstandingly beautiful. And then the birds (you know, those big, white ones) were diving for fish from about 100 feet up. It was simply awe-inspiring. You start to ask ‘the big questions’, about life, your place in it, your meaning, purpose, God, and whether Spurs will sign an attacking midfielder before the window closes next week.

Now we’re off to catch the very expensive ferry.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We’re on Fogo Island. Off the north coast of Newfoundland. Look on a map. Newfoundland is a tiny ‘bit’ on the east of Canada. It’s bigger than England. Fogo won’t be on any map until you zoom in. So I thought we’d be on one of those little cartoon islands with a palm tree stuck in the middle (I know, palm trees are pretty rare up here) and maybe an old man with a really long beard who was marooned here 25 years ago. But in fact, this ‘tiny’ island is ‘massive’, as tiny islands go. It’s ‘tiny’ Canada-style.

And there’s the problem. Everything here is massive. Including most of the people. Newfoundland is just full of overweight people. And we’re not talking ‘carrying a few extra pounds’, even a few extra kilos, cos it’s very ‘metric’ up here, obviously. No, we’re talking about Florida levels of waddling. Ok, it gets cold (serious understatement) so maybe their laying on a bit for the winter to come. Or maybe it’s a lifestyle thing where eating becomes the sole activity. Or the cod activity really cos the seas round here are full of it and it’s fab. But when you go into a supermarket (and yes, they do have them, even on tiny little Fogo, population 2,500), everything they sell is BIG! They had chocolate almonds, a particular favourite of mine. But they only come in 900gm bags. That’s 2lbs to you and me. Who the fuck needs to eat 2 lbs of chocolate almonds?

The people of Newfoundland, that’s who. Along with supersized bags of crisps, fucking buckets of peanut butter and moose meat. Seen the size of a moose??? Ok, they don’t eat that, but it’s the principle. Of bigness. Though they are a very friendly people. They just talk to you. They love Mel’s hair. Obviously they’ve never seen Harpo Marx. They love the accent. “Oh, you’re Scotlandish/South African/Australian…”, and they talk funny. Canadians all talk funny. Even our mates from Toronto talk pretty funny, but up here it’s a different level of ‘funny’. And when you’re on Fogo you encounter levels of ‘funny’ fast approaching ‘downright wierd’. They sound more Irish than Canadian but drop all their ‘h’s and use odd words. Basically, they needs subtitles. But are very charming. And they all drive massive ‘fuck-off’ trucks. They couldn’t fit in anything smaller.

This morning the sun has actually come out. Turning the merely beautiful into the downright spectacular. Windy as hell, but sunny!!! I’ll take it. We shall hike and trek. And inevitably get lost. As we did yesterday after our easy hike, finding the car. There ya go. Sometimes you have to ‘go the extra mile’ to prove your incompetence.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So what do we know about Newfoundland? It was built in 1863 by Billy Newfoundland who came here for the fishes…

We know nothing. Let’s face it. It’s just here. And is quite magnificent. Ok, a little sunshine wouldn’t hurt but for whatever reason, that ain’t happenin’ this week.

We’re currently in a place called Twillingate. Known as ‘iceberg alley’ because virtually all the year you can see icebergs a’floatin’ by. Virtually all the year, just not this bit. But Twillingate is wonderful. Population (I’m guessing) of about 74 (now that poor ole Kenny finally gave up in the spring…) and it’s a tiny peninsula on the north coast, poking out in to the ocean. And on about three sides are fabulous views of rocks being bashed up by the sea. The fourth side is the forest which covers all of Newfoundland. And into which, this morning, Mel & I ventured forth. In heroic manner.

Why heroic? Because we can get lost walking to our local corner shop at home. Stick us in a forest and we have, quite literally, no chance of getting out on our own. We’ve been lost on more ‘well marked hiking trails’ than there are moose in Canada. There’s barely a country in the world we haven’t got lost in.

This morning was no different really. We followed the trail until we weren’t. That’s fine. Coastal trails are sort of ‘self defining’ as long as you avoid the water. So we eventually found the lighthouse, which is gorgeous. And as you stand there, at the edge of this part of the world, that fucking wind hits you. It’s actually like someone took out the ‘north pole’ and slapped you round the face with it. And yet in sort of masochistic way, it’s pleasurable. As all forms of exercise are essentially masochistic anyway. To anyone, like me, who’d rather be in front of Netflix with a bag of crisps and a dip. Maybe a beer.

We came back along the road. There’s only one here. Route 340. No heroics required.

Then we popped back to our B&B (in which the central heating is on) and I learned that once again Spurs had beaten Manchester City at the Etihad. My morning is complete. My life is complete. So I’m going ‘back out there’. Which is the easy bit. It returning which causes the difficulty.

Happy trekking,

A xxxx

So we’ve gone to Canada. Those Canadians have really gone out their way to stop us going. First they set fire to Newfoundland, well, one end of it, so we had to rearrange. Then having done that mammoth task, Air Canada went on strike. And to get to Canada is easy, because British Airways aren’t on strike and they’re British so therefore perfect. But to get up to Newfoundland you can’t exactly use Ryanair. Its Air Canada or Air Canada. No-one else goes there. They ended the strike yesterday. The flight attendants were chronically underpaid. According to one protester’s placard: ‘delivering pretzels for peanuts’. I like that. Was immediately sympathetic to their cause. But only once it was sorted, obviously. Then we had ‘passport—gate’ last night when I couldn’t check in. Won’t bore you but the BA site can’t handle Canadians, like my wife. I could have left her at home, or taken a different woman. A BRITISH ONE!!! And they’re all much younger. But instead, I called BA and spent a super half hour on the phone to Delhi getting it sorted. But there ya go. First world problems.

But I need to go somewhere bleak and distant and vast. I need the distraction of the open seas. The quiet and solitude (ok, as mentioned, I am taking Mel, but other than that…). I need to escape. From…

Eberechi Eze.

Because, quite frankly, I’m devastated. A word I never use lightly, but often just to exaggerate or attract attention.

I wanted Eze at Spurs. I saw him last year when he came to White Hart Lane and beat us single-handedly, just literally ‘running the game’. And I wanted him. Needed him. Desired him deeply. He was ‘our kind’a player’, but much more effective than any of ours. Efficient. Productive. Then, when Madison went lame before the season even started, out for a ‘long spell’, Eze became the target. Because everyone knew he would be the perfect fit in a position we were deficient. So Thomas Frank said ‘get Eze’ and Daniel Levy spent the next month doing his usual ‘transfer combat games’ of seemingly arguing, to the point of exiting the deal, over who gets the coffees in? And then, after all the agonies and bluffs and tactics, we’re right on the verge of agreeing terms with everyone… and Arsenal nick him. We dilly dally for 30 days; they get an injury to Havertz and 6 hours later Eze’s on the tv pointing sickeningly, maddeningly, at his new Arsenal shirt. On the back of which reads: FUCKING JUDAS!!!!

There is an alternative version of this tale, sort of the other ‘closing doors’ moment, in which Eze was always going to play for Arsenal. Presumably he has a passion for runners up medals. So he and Palace strung Spurs along, with false hopes, either to up the ante, money-wise, or because he was waiting for Havertz to be injured. (??) He played for Palace on Saturday. You don’t do that when you’re 70% sold to another club. But he knew he was never going to that club.

Whichever reality was real, he’s not ended up at Spurs. But that’s no problem. We just need someone else. Who looks like Eze, plays like Eze, scores goals like Eze, but is a decent person with a moral integrity which would preclude him from joining ‘them’.

But I’m not bitter…

Welcome to Canada

A xxxx

My name is Andy and I haven’t taken the tube for 3 weeks!!!
Hello Andy!

And that’s a good thing for Tube Trains Anonymous, but as a former addict, it can only be seen as a bit bizarre. This is England, FFS, it’s supposed to rain. Often. Annoyingly. Disruptively. Frustratingly. (We have so many descriptions for rain here; it’s like the Eskimos with their snow. Or whatever you’re supposed to call an Eskimo now). I’ll only abandon the tube for my e-bike when there is a day full of ‘zeros’ in the rainfall column of the BBC weather app. And the first day rain is forecast is next Tuesday.

But the fact remains that our verdant isle is not quite as verdant as it once was. Its more our ‘greeny-brown isle’ as the grass dries up, the crops suffer, the (fucking) flowers in the (fucking) garden need (fucking) watering every (fucking) night. A task I enjoy.

We should import some water from Pakistan. Have you seen the pics? Entire villages under water. Death, destruction and landslides. All the work of everyone’s favourite drink; water. So whilst Spain is suffering drought and wild fires, and Newfoundland made me change my holiday plans(!!!) due to their fires, our crops are dying and yet poor Pakistan seem to be the beneficiary of all the water we all need. Though that nation, as they’re so quick to tell us at every mention of the disaster, produces less than 1% of the world’s carbon emissions. I haven’t checked that figure, I tried counting using a big telescope from my garden but gave up at ‘6’ when the football came on. And those 6 might have been coming from their neighbours, India, who are quite massive producers of carbon. Obviously nothing even close to China’s emissions.

Unless you’re an American Republican, you simply can’t fail to attribute all this shit to ‘global warming’ produced by China. Sorry, produced by carbon emissions. Even the biggest ‘climate change sceptics’, like me, should ‘wake up and smell the coffee’, except the coffee bean crops in Brazil and Colombia are desiccated by drought.

The glaciers are melting, the storms increasing, the summers hotter than hell, the rains humungous and its so fucked up you almost need Donald Trump to ‘do a deal’ between the dried out deserts and the floods to sort out some sort of compromise. As, quite frankly, the old ‘God’ seems quite incapable of keeping things in control. Sadly, Trump is a non-believer, so we won’t get much change out of him.

I’m doing my bit. We have an electric car (don’t ask where our electricity comes from; it’ll only upset you) and my ‘racing car’ only does a few miles a week and then only to upset Greta Thunberg. I travel by e-bike, I (sometimes) eat lettuce and hardly use any coal. I can do no more.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx