Andy's Glasses

I’ve said it before, but I’m going to say it again, particularly for the 67 million Americans (and counting) who must have missed it the first time round. Donald Trump is a tosser. But a tosser of such juvenile, verging on infantile, inane, moronic, almost insanely narcissistic, AND narcissistically insane proportions, that he becomes The Tosser. The one against whom all others must be measured. And will come up lacking.

The man has declared himself ‘the winner’ of this election. Even though he’s losing. And he won’t let the mere trivial fact that lots more people voted for his opponent, which is fairly irrelevant, or that said opponent currently has more college votes by some way, (very important) detract from the unarguable ‘fact’ that He Has Won! Yeah, more people may have voted for the other guy but I won! Because… because…

Trump thinks its his right to win. And any possible obstacle to that end point must, ergo, be wrong. Thus ‘democracy’ must be wrong if it failed to send the Orange One back to the White House. And therefore accusations must fly as to why that is so. And legal suits will ensue to ensure that it is rectified back to ‘right and proper’.

This is classic narcissism on an industrial scale. If I didn’t win then the system is broken. So we’ll sue that system until I do win.

By declaring ‘major electoral fraud’ Trump has thrown the entire American voting system under the immense bus of his personal vanity. Even though there is, as yet, not one iota of evidence of fraud. Only that he is not winning. So it must be fraud. Obviously nothing to do with the fact that he’s the most divisive, moronic, toxic dude ever to legitimise racism and misogyny whilst holding high office. But heh, I make no judgments. I don’t even get a vote.

And just as well because what the fuck is going on in Pennsylvania and Georgia that it could take over 3 days to count votes? Should we buy them a calculator? Philadelphia has been on 99% for 48 hours. It’s almost as much an embarrassment as their President. I mean, in China, they have an election in which 1.6 billion vote and the outcome is known immediately. In fact its known beforehand. Chairman Xi won. All the votes. Almost as democratic as the Trump way.

Happy Friday,

A xxxx

It’s a big day all round really. In America they’re counting the votes and we should have a result some time around… June, possibly August, depending on how long the legal action takes. So that’s very exciting. Wake me up when someone dies. At the time of writing both candidates are claiming victory. Don’t know how that’ll work in practical terms. Amazing really that something as fundamental and basic to the American Way as demo-cracy is such a problem to implement. They’ve had long enough to practice after they threw us out. And all you have to have is the ability to add one more.

Over here its our last day before ‘Lockdown re-dux’ so we’re all out eating in restaurants, drinking in pubs and having weddings (for 6 people… the party, not the actual wedding, that would be illegal, except in Utah), and playing tennis. Because the bastard mother-fucking government just yesterday morning chose to ban tennis during this forthcoming (lack of) action. Tennis. A game so naturally distanced, so remote, so far, far away, that if the opponents come within 5 metres of each other its all gone wrong. But its banned. Along with golf. So you’re allowed to have a long walk, but not dragging a golf bag along with you. Makes sense. Periodic arm-swinging increases the spread of coronavirus by… by… by at least 7.

But you can no longer meet people. Not of your choice. Only your family. And ‘support bubble’ type stuff (that’ll be Lila and Joey then). Though you can, outdoors only and not for too long, meet ‘one other person’. But who is he? Or she? What are his/her pronouns? Is it the same person that everyone has to meet? Or do we get to choose our own? You can only meet up with one other person. His name is Kevin McMahon and he lives at 47 The Grove, Salisbury, Wilts. Do we have to make an appointment then? Before he books up totally for the month? Come on, Kev, just gimme 10 minutes on the Heath, otherwise I have no-one!!! (But my bloody family!!)

And I’m just not sure how effective this new lockdown will be. It’ll be very effective at ruining at least half of all pubs, bars and restaurants. It’ll be the kiss of death for most of the events and tourism-related industries, and it will murder retail in the Christmas run-up. But will people treat it with the same reverence we did the first time in March? Hmmmm…

Happy Last Day of the Universe

A xxxx

I’ve been in consultation with the Premier League, the Football Association, FIFA, EUFA, Sepp Blatter, Michel Platini and all others in various prisons throughout greater Europe to ascertain that we, as in England, have now moved from a ‘big 6 club’ situation to just a ‘big two’. No longer can the words ‘big’ and ‘six’ be used in relation to football in the premiership without legal action forthcoming.

This has been a long time in coming. Well, ‘long time’ in Covid world, which is not really as long as in ‘real time’. And it basically happened at about 8.30 last night when Gareth Bale (hallowed be his name) hit the winner against Brighton, elevating Spurs to second place in the table. Or, as we call it, ‘just one below our rightful place’. (Well? If Liverpool can bemoan their ‘30 years of sorrow’ when they didn’t win the league, as if it was some kind of right, try fucking 60 years!!!! Scousers don’t have exclusive rights to whingeing about their sense of entitlement, even though it often seems as if they do.)

And so, in finding ourselves right at the top, in the ‘breakaway group’, it has been decided that the appalling Manchesters no longer warrant big club status. Arsenal don’t deserve anything for their paltry win at Old Trafford, other than contempt. And Chelsea are too horrible to be included in anything that doesn’t involve the criminal courts.

It may be true that we are in fact only one meagre point above about six other teams, half of which have a game in hand. But that really misses the whole ‘big 2’ issue by a million miles.

So as the new lockdown, which isn’t really a lockdown, but in practical terms it is (direct interpretation of the new rules and regs, which will be different by bedtime tonight) comes into play, Spurs are hanging off the shoulders of Liverpool, who really won’t be able to sustain a worthwhile campaign this season because Virgil van Dijk is missing. And thus, they might as well abandon the season, due to Coronavirus, and give us the crown now. I think it safe to say that, unlike Liverpool, we’d take it anyway, anyhow, anywhere, any time. ‘Tainted’ works for me. What time does the bus leave Haringey Town Hall?

Happy Monday (possibly your last one til Christmas… New year… June ‘21)

A xxxx

Ok, so here’s a question for anyone who ever bought an album. Like, a real, vinyl, big, flat, black plastic thing with a hole in the middle. Designed specifically so that the protective cover would be the totally perfect surface for rolling a joint on. If it hadn’t been for cannabis, records would have been little pyramids. Honest.

Anyway, you buy an album. Why? Because you love the band? Because you’ve heard it at your mates? Because everyone’s talking about it? Possibly. But generally its because you’ve heard one track, maybe a single taken from the album, maybe it was a track on the Old Grey Whistle Test, maybe, maybe. And so you bought it. And so very often then realised that, aside from that brilliant track, the rest is a total disappointment. And as albums were a ‘major investment’ at £1. 50p (in today’s money, £4,274.58), that scenario really pissed you off.

But when you bought an album and every track was, like, brilliant, every song amazing, life-changing, hairs-standing-on-ending, then that was the dream.

The first I remember is probably Sergeant Peppers. Though I was just too young to really appreciate just how brilliant it was. But as I aged, I learned the wonder and the relative rarity of a ‘perfect album’.

The first time I listened to Steeley Dan’s Pretzel Logic, on my way to sell double glazing to the good people of Swindon, who didn’t even realise they needed it, in Gary’s fabulous Triumph TR6, smoking Rothmans all the way down the M4, made me a better person. As did putting Elvis Costello’s My Aim is True on the turntable for the first, mind-blowing time. The energy, the wonder, the sheer brilliance and raw power of punk-era rock and incredible lyrics (“I know this world is killing you”), OMG.

Before those came two albums of such perfection that I’m still shuddering, 49 years later. Ziggy Stardust and Lou Reed’s Transformer. And I kind’a have to add Bryan Ferry’s These Foolish Things too just because.

Songs in the Key of Life, by Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon’s Graceland, Combat Rock by the Clash, Stevie Nicks’ Bella Donna, just… just… just…

Remain in Light wasn’t the Talking Heads finest album but it came out just as Natalie was born. And David Byrne had just sprogged too, so it was all about the timing.

Then came an album by someone I’d never really liked, more because of what they look like than anything music-related, and it was a paradigm shift. The Style Council’s Cafe Bleu. Much as I loved The Jam, Paul Weller made my skin crawl. But that album. It was simply, brilliantly, uniquely, wonderful. And still is.

Last night I watched a documentary about it, and about him. He still makes my skin crawl, just his horrible accent is bad enough, before the suedehead/mod beginnings, but as a musician and songwriter, he remains remarkable. And from the aggressively angry Jam to the soulful, heart-warming Cafe Blue was such an incredible distance to travel.

Ok, let’s hear it for ‘perfect albums’.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Jeremy Corbyn is now intending to take legal action against the Labour Party over his suspension. And bizarrely, he has a very strong case. Because I, and my legal team (Lila, Joey, Sheister and Co.), have scrutinised every word in that Party’s rules, minutely and with fine toothed combs and nowhere is it written in the ‘suspensions and disqualifications’ section that you mustn’t, wilfully and persistently, be a total c**t. So therefore, in the absence of a judicial review, Corbyn will be reinstated accordingly. Leading to a massive rift in the Labour Party, so profound that it won’t survive. It will split into what will be henceforth and forthwith be known as ‘The Labour Party’ and ‘The Virtually Communist Corbyn Party for Antisemites, Nazis, Bullies and all other Shitheads’. Unfortunately, ‘the money’ (Len McClusky) will go with the latter. Leaving a proud and decent political party, full of… decency and pride and… errr… penniless.

There was a meeting last night of ‘all the usual suspects’, being Momentum, John McDonnell, Diane Abbot, where they all agreed that the antisemitism issue was just a nothing which was blown out of all proportion by the right wing media and the fucking Jew, Christ-murdering, baby-eating, miser bastards. Of the 237 people assembled, 229 voted to have Corbyn reinstated, with just 135 opposing. Diane Abbot did the count. Obviously. There were 7 abstentions.

The best way to solve any problem is to deny it is a problem in the first place.

If only Boris could do that with Coronavirus. Trump is trying, and doing quite well, losing just 1000 people a day who are dying with the virus. The same virus he promised would be ‘gone by Easter’. Because he doesn’t know how to cope with anything that you can’t do a deal with, bully, shout at, write tweets to or grab by the pussy.

Another lockdown. Another furlough scheme? Depressing. Never mind, Christmas is only round the corner…

Happy soggy, wet, no-tennis Saturday

A xxxx

I went swimming yesterday morning. Actually, I never swam one single stroke. I went to the swimming pool yesterday morning. With Mel. Which would have been fine, in a way, I’d have done my 7 lengths before boredom had me thinking whether drowning was in fact such a bad way to go, then got out and waited for Mel to complete her 100, as she does every morning. The problem was that we took Lila and Joey with us.

I tried to explain to Joey, as he insisted on being carried into the pool, that social distancing rules preclude such activities, but he was having nothing of it. Reckons he can’t even swim. As if. Won’t wear our Peppa Pig float suit, because its like going into the water in a suit of armour. A waterlogged plastic one. Won’t use arm bands or a float. And who can blame him. They’re for babies. Oh, forgot…

Lila can almost swim. And when I say ‘almost’, I mean… she can’t. At all. Not in any way shape or form, even though I’ve been taking her for her lesson every week this term. If she’s not ploughing her way across the English Channel by January I demand a refund.

But to be honest, its not the pool that’s the problem with little kids; its the changing rooms. Showering with Joey is a pleasure. But sooooo fraught with danger and Mel was little or no help. Though she was in hers with Lila. We neeed 7 other people just to form a ring round Joey to save him from himself.

They banned Jeremy Corbyn from ‘his’ very own Labour Party. Holy shit!!! But he, like, owns it! He was the boss! Banned! Thrown under a bus by his new boss. The bus that has on its destination board: “Kier Starmer, 10 Downing Street”. And for what crime was Corbyn guilty? Well, nothing. The Equalities commission found him and his party guilty of ‘crimes against Jews’ but really it wasn’t that which was the problem. Not for Sir Kier. Corbyn merely enabled, encouraged, participated, engaged and shared platforms with any and every antisemite who thought to publish, shout about, abuse, harass or bully anyone ‘of the faith’. No crime in that. Then he personally was involved in ‘disciplinary decisions’ which should have been totally independent of his office. That’s fine too. Should be encouraged. In any dictatorship. What Starmer found unacceptable was that Corbyn’s first words after hearing the Commission’s damning verdict on His party were to deny anti-semitism was a problem, was to blame the press for over-inflating it, to accuse the right wing of his own party of the same thing. Same as he’s been doing all along. Though what should have elevated his punishment from banishment to death was when he repeated, for the 35,729th time: ‘I am opposed to antisemitism in all forms…’. Because then he becomes just someone who, as for the past 5 years, simply isn’t listening.

Good Friday, well, fairly good

A xxxx

If you’d gone into a coma in January and just woken up; well, obviously, you’d be begging to be allowed back into that coma, but if they didn’t let you, there’d be a whole new world to re-enter. With different words. New words. Or old words realigned. So I think its worth offering a few good, useful working definitions of some of the words and phrases now in common usage but which didn’t exist last year.

Pandemic.
An epidemic changes to a pandemic when two things happen. Firstly, when it becomes global and secondly when Boris Johnson is in charge of it. And epidemic is exclusively medical. A Pandemic is when the powers that be elevate it to a problem in each and every facet of life. Preferable term: shitstorm.

Lockdown.
The ‘lock’ is effectively what happens to the population who are locked in. And the ‘down’ refers to what happens to the economy as a consequence. Preferable term: lockdisaster. Alternatively: shitstorm.

Quarantine.
This involves going straight home from the airport and going nowhere for 14 days. Except maybe to walk the dog. Or someone else’s dog. The goldfish. Otherwise NOWHERE. Ok, maybe the pub just for a quick one. Or two. Then HOME. Then out again. It’s just finding the correct balance between civic responsibility, personal sanity and stocks of alcohol.
Preferable term: a 2-week bender.

Bubble.
This is the selected group of people that you care insufficiently about that you’re happy to infect them. Alternative term: anyone you know.

Rule of 6.
This refers to the 7, 8 or 9 people who are allowed by Boris to meet in certain situations. People arriving at your house but parking down the road do NOT count as part of the 6. Nor do others who arrive by other means. For Christmas the Rule of 6 means no more than 27 people together in one house, bed or sofa. Adhering to social distancing, obviously.

Banned words.
Handshake.
Hug.
Birthday Party
Conga chain.
Football fanS.
Moshpit.

I hope this helps. Otherwise, try Comas-for-us, who offer special family rates.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

And Spurs go marching on. I’m not gloating. Not smug. Not yet anyway. Another few wins and that will start in earnest. But a win at Burnley. And an ugly win at that.

We must firstly thank our manager who now has a won 10 lost 0 record against the lowly Lancastrian side for all 17 Premiership teams he’s managed. And although this is still very early days for any predictions, I’m going to anyway. In this, the most unpredictable season of them all. Where the only real consistency has been in the astounding results.

This weekend Arsenal lost at home to Leicester who were previously in a bad patch. Chelsea and Man United drew, as did Manchester City with West Ham, the perennial (fucking) drawers. Top team Everton lost but Liverpool managed to win.

So I take the league currently like this. There’s a divide. The top 14 and the bottom 6. Strictly, in terms of points and gaps it should be 15 and 5 but as the 15th team is Manchester United I’d rather include them with Fulham and Sheffield United at the bottom, just for purposes of upset, annoyance and sniggering. Or, ‘statistical significance’ as we should call it.

And its a fabulous league table, with Aston Villa, Wolves, Crystal Palace and Leeds ahead of Arsenal, Chelsea and the tragically disappointing and disappointed Manchesters. Shame its not a true ‘north-south’ divide, then it could be blamed on Covid, which is fast becoming a ‘northern problem’. But that would be too simplistic and convenient. And the very thought of all those nasal Mancs whingeing about it makes me want to throw my hearing aids under a bus.

Spurs are currently 5th, just 2 points off the top. Possibly those 2 (fucking) points that were (fucking) stolen by (fucking) West Ham last (fucking) Sunday. But I carry no scars. It’s done. Forgotten. Grrrrrr…

And all this with Gareth Bale barely touching a ball in anger. His mere presence on the bench scares teams shitless. He scares me shitless. In case he comes on and isn’t any good. Even though he is a GOD.

Yet talk is now of ‘can Spurs win the league’? ‘Is this our season?’ Because once the dust settles (if it should ever settle this season and part of me hopes it won’t) there’s only Liverpool and Spurs. And Liverpool have lost Van Dijk, their talisman and all round best player. Without Virgil they are NOTHING!! Other than a few brilliant midfielders and the most feared attack in the world. Otherwise NOTHING!!!

Therefore the Premiership is ours. And should that pan out not to be the case then its outright theft and should be punished by law.

Yours impartially

A xxxx

It’s the mating cry of the Covid politician: “its just weeks away”. Whatever it may be. More testing, test and track, new system, we’re just weeks away from that!!! Wow. Fucking efficient this government. Or they will be in a few weeks time.

And the latest, this very morning: we’re just weeks away from a vaccine for NHS staff. Holy shit! Or even, holy grail! The Coronavirus vaccine. Well they kept that quiet. Ok, not quiet, but just hid the fact that there is now allegedly a viable vaccine, where all we’ve been seeing is disastrous failures at producing such a thing, testing being halted for health reasons and, of course, anti-vaxers. Most interesting term. There are no support groups for the ‘anti-antibiotics’ or ‘anti-heart-medication’ lobbies, but bring out a vaccine and… and… and a certain type of person cries ‘murder!!’ That certain type being currently of the David Icke and Piers Corbyn variety. Two very worthy, learned and credible… morons. Although ‘moron’ implies a total ignorance, a kind of passivity, and these two, among others are positively active. In a stupid and blinkered way.

Piers Corbyn is Jeremy’s brother. Presumably the ‘thick one’ who didn’t become leader of the Labour Party. And to be thicker than Jeremy C is something. Whereas David Icke was a footballer, so he knows all about vaccines, and medicine in general, having strained his hamstring in 1976.

But Icke is now elevated to ‘conspiracy theorist in chief’. And has woven a fabric of spiritualism and even science fiction around his world of insane ramblings. Trying to turn it into a British version of Scientology, almost, but using a 4-4-2 formation. And for a conspiracy theorist, he is a very poor judge of conspiracies. He had such a strong belief in the totally discredited and fraudulent book, The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, that he self-published it. Obviously anti-Semitic conspiracies don’t count.

So you merge and anti-Semite with the brother of the country’s erstwhile chief antisemite (that’ll be Corbyn the Elder) and lo and behold they found that 78% of those on the anti-vaxers web pages were also posting antisemitic rubbish. I haven’t studied their postings but logically, if all vaccinations are bad and all Jews are bad, then possibly all Jews are vaccines? No, that don’t work. Then the vaccines are there to fund the Jews. Possibly. Or that if you take the vaccine you become Jewish!!! A well-known medical side-effect. I really don’t know what the link is. Other than hateful, stupid people. Always a good place to start in such cases.

I won’t be the first in line to take any vaccine, for sure. I like my head and have no desire to grow another. And if the vaccines work as well as the increased testing or test and track, then God help us all. But once its tried and tested, why the fuck would any sane person NOT have a vaccine?

And there’s the conundrum solved. ‘Sane person’. Ahhhhh, now we know.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

When I’m in the house on my own, I play Absolute Classic Rock on the radio. Not just because it’ll really annoy Mel when she gets home, normally during the guitar solo on some Black Sabbath track, though that certainly helps. But mainly because I love old music. The corollary of which is that I probably don’t like much newer music very much. Which is not true. Not strictly. I love Taylor Swift. Possibly as far from ‘absolute classic rock’ as you can get without taking the drugs away. When Mel comes in she tells Alexa off and gets her/him/it (not so much a ‘pronoun issue’ as an identity crisis) to play Ed Sheeran. The diametric opposite of absolute classic rock. Though I can take Ed, in very small doses. He’s a talented dude. But when you arrive back from tennis, which you played in the dry, and it starts raining on the way back, and you open the door to the Cars, Just what I needed, then you almost start to believe in divine forces, that possibly, the 72 billion deluded souls who actually believe in souls, may have a point.

And if anyone can tell me what the above charge document is for, please do so immediately. I sent a copy to Jeff Bezos this morning. Along with a letter. Threatening him with… well, how can you threaten the world’s richest and most influential man? With shame.

Me and Jeff are old pals. I’ve written to him before. And heard back. From Jhanna and Carrie and Michelle, but they’re all his people so its like I’m talking to Jeff, but with hair. And they tell me how they’ve made it safe and how ‘I’ll never be out of pocket with Amazon’ and how great they are at resolving issues. Yet this charge remains, uncredited. Even though no such charge appears on any list of orders, purchases or anything else on my account with both the .co.uk version or the .com. And I’ve spoken to so many customer services people, and abused them verbally, if I’m honest, out of sheer frustration, that I’m not going to call them again. Though my number is probably barred now. Americans are almost like normal people until it comes to swearing. Then they become the most prudish, proper, pedantic, puritanical plonkers. They just don’t fucking get it.

So I’ve changed my approach. From being the most annoying person they’ve ever dealt with, I’m not the most annoying and swearing person they’re ever going to meet. Fucking assholes.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx