Andy's Glasses

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

I saw a video the other night. A group of doctors from all over the world on some ‘Medical Truth’ forum, speaking out about… THE VIRUS!!! like what else? And it was interesting and it was different and it appeared to be very informed. They basically said ‘Covid is the flu, the world should not be in a state of total fucking emergency and total economic meltdown over a few people coughing’. Obviously China is no longer in any kind of meltdown whatsoever because unlike the namby pamby ‘west’ they can lock up an entire nation for 4 weeks with no bread (or rice) or water because they have a humungous army who don’t care who they kill. Or why. And perhaps (ALERT: POSSIBLE FURTHER CONSPIRACY THEORY WARNING!), when they started the epidemic, they already had their own exit strategy. Ooooooh, controversial. I’ll ask Alexa, she’ll know. But probably won’t tell.

And this video, on one of my little WhatsApp groups, was immediately shouted down as ‘a conspiracy theory’. ‘Where’s the validation???’ they cried. And I thought, ‘validation’… hmmmm… I thought.

Because how ‘valid’ is the vast sea of numerical bollocks that’s thrown at us every day by our government? They hurl numbers of increasing cases at us, without ever mentioning the rather important factor of HOW MANY TESTS THEY ARE DOING. They compare rates to March/April, when we know they’re testing millions now but struggled to reach 100,000 back then. But these are not ‘cases per so many head of population’, these are just raw (and consequently meaningless) numbers. Even ‘deaths’, normally a rather concrete matter, are dubious. Because they are deaths of people who tested positive in the last 10 days. Their last 10 days. Might have died of cancer. Car crash. But if they’d tested positive, its a coronavirus death. Test & trace is  a disaster because of the incompetence of the very people ‘in whom we place our trust’. 

I liked the Truth Doctors. It was credible. Based on the unarguable fact that thousands and thousands of people die of flu every year. And also because we’re going to soon have to count suicides among the dead. As ‘the good little things’ in our lives are steadily eroded, jobs lost, finances destroyed, by the current, government enforced ‘conspiracy’. How many will die of the cancer because their treatment was stopped?
The only difference between ‘a theory’ and ‘a conspiracy theory’ is that you choose to believe the former but not the latter. The only over-riding consideration is that they’re probably both total bollocks (within statistical significance). 
Happy Rainy Days
A xxxx

I read this in the paper yesterday and (totally fucking cracked up) was greatly moved (tears rolling down my face) by the sheer love and sacrifice that committed parents make for their children (ok, catching breath again). But any parent does such things, with regard to a child’s health, education, general wellbeing and a million other associated issues. But without wishing to sound all ‘JK Rowling’ about this, “very supportive of my pronouns”??? WTF??? They give him an extra vowel for his birthday? Few consonants for Christmas? Here, son/daughter/object-of-indiscriminate-gender-child-person, we’d like to give you a highlighter pen to underline precisely what you might be called on any given day. Even though you have a penis, don’t menstruate and wear a beard.

‘Personal pronouns’, to give them their full title, are just that. Personal. So… it(?) may think of his/her-self as a particular gender-or-non-binary thing, but that’s inside its own head. Others choose to ‘inflict’ pronoun usage on what stands before them. Unless we abolish his/hers/him/her/he/she for everyone in the world so as not to upset the 0.000321% of undecideds who might take offence at being referred to in the feminine merely because of a pink ball gown and massive tits. 

I appreciate that my views are predicated on the fact that I’m a ‘baby-boomer’ and thus they are entrenched in another, more ignorant frame of reference. And that any form of extremism, including in matters of political correctness, actually stimulates my ‘gag-reflex’ in a particularly strong manner. 

And  I’d rather talk about personal pronouns than football. I’d have been happy talking about football yesterday, but only up to 5 o’clock. When Spurs were still 3 nil up against West Ham. Were walking on proverbial water. Could do nothing wrong. All going swimmingly. In fact even at 6 o’clock, when we left the restaurant where Lila had eaten her supper, Joey had redistributed his around ours, and several nearby, tables and was running up and down the street screaming at the ice cream poster outside a different cafe, We parted from the babes, and their parents (we’re ALLOWED, innit, cos we do CHILDCARE BUBBLE, innit? so we can eat indoors as a 6!!!!) still 3 nil up. But in the 5 minutes it took to get home that was 3-1. Then 3-2 before I’d even closed the fucking door, and 3-all in the greatest footballing disaster that can’t be blamed on VAR, for-like-EVERRRRR!!!
Not very happy Monday
A xxxx

If you buy a ‘lectric car, a proper ‘plug in’ one, it needs to be charged. That’s kind’a how it works. Charge it up and, like your phone, or iPad or the zillion other things we spend our lives charging, it’ll let you down when you really, really, REALLY don’t need it. And you can use a normal charger, which will take 73 hours to charge the car up to 14% usage, or you can buy a ‘supercharger’ which will give you 80% charge in 20 minutes. Maybe 30. So you can drive your G-Whizz at up to almost 9mph without worrying about it just dying on you. Not that you’d probably notice.

The picture is what ‘superchargers’ used to be. And in some cases can still be. That ridiculous chrome ‘thing’ sticking out of the bonnet of the Dodge Charger (the one used in the original ‘Fast & Furious’ movie in this case) is a mechanical device which forces masses of air into the car engine at great pressure, making it burn fuel more quickly and consequently go faster. But like… a lot faster. And I do appreciate that forcing a car to burn twice the normal amount of petrol as it would normally is not a very zeitgeisty thing to recommend. Particularly as ‘normally’ for this particular car is about 9 miles per gallon.

In about nineteen seventy-something, God, or Porsche, invented a turbo-charger. We’re not sure who, they’re still arguing over the rights. Turbos are different. They recycle exhaust fumes back into the engine to push more power out the other end. And they’re fine and dandy and even efficient. But they ‘lag’. Which means you put your foot down to overtake a lorry and… and… and three seconds later you pick up speed. And turbochargers don’t make any noise. Just a feint whirring. With superchargers you get no ‘lag’. You put your foot down in the above car and your only hope is that it stays on the ground. And whilst you’re worrying about take-off, the noise is a spectacular reminder that you are driving a lethal weapon.

I’m not recommending a return to such values, like speed, fun, enjoyment and driving insanely and preferably with chemical stimulation, that is the most un-Covid concept ever! But…

Sadiq Kahn, poxy little dwarf shit-for-brains Mayor of all London has a problem. Other than the preceding. No tube and train travel means no income for TfL. So the congestion charge (“its not a TAX, its for pollution; honest!”), already hiked to 15 quid a day and 7 days a week, is possibly to be extended out to the north and south circular roads. No, its not to raise money; its about congestion and pollution. And he’s right. The air’s shit. So why stop there. Why not extend it out to the M25? Or better still, to Paris, Brussels and Reykjavik? That’ll show those Europeans whose boss.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Gareth Bale is home. In England. Even though he’s Welsh and lives in Spain. But ‘home’ is where the heart is. Not necessarily his heart, that’s probably in Cardiff or Swansea or Anglesey. But my heart. And those of all other Spurs fans. So much so that he chose that very symbol as his personal goal celebration. Ok, he used it in Madrid too, not as often, but he didn’t really mean it over there. You could tell. I could tell. But in anticipation of his possibly playing tomorrow, I thought I’d better decide if he’s any good. Or rather, how good he was, back in the day. The Spurs day. And YouTube found me his 10 best goals. And so, for all Spurs fans (even those who purportedly support other teams but deep down wish they could outwardly support Spurs, like most Arsenal fans, half the Man United fans, that’s the ones who live in north London, hopefully no Chelsea fans, otherwise we’re very welcoming) I can tell you that Bale was every bit as wonderful as we remember. Better even.

The 25 yard, 30 yard wonderstrikes I’m sure his left foot can still achieve. And there were many. But a lot of his goals were about the speed, the power, the sheer Bale-ness of not just driving at the opposition but totally steamrollering past them (to mix my metaphors) like a Ferrari. And I can’t help but wonder if he can still do that. Because he’s 7 years older. And footballing years, due to injuries and the strains, are like dog years. They’re worth 7 of ours. So although he’s only 31, in footballing years he’s 73.

The number one of his top 10 goals, according to YouTube, was scored against West Ham. Coincidentally the team we play tomorrow. Gareth hit the winner in the 90th minute. That was 8 years ago and West Ham still haven’t got over it.

And even though the ground will be virtually empty, there will be a united cry heard from all over London (and beyond) of ‘Bay-all, Bay-all, Bay-all…’ for the entirety of the match. As soon as he comes on. If he comes on. Or even if he doesn’t. We chant it every night in our house just because.

Liverpool play Everton today in the ‘Covid Bowl’ to decide who can infect more people in a 90-minute spell. Up there in Tier 3.

Down here in Tier 2, I can still play tennis but only on my own. Spurs Paul came on and played for an hour after I’d left the court. By himself. In accordance with the new regulations from midnight. Having cleaned the court with a wet wipe first.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

There is UPROAR!!! Ok, its not a very big one, compared to so many
others currently being uproarious, but it warrants a few exclamation
marks just for sheer stupidity. Because they’ve cast Gal Gadot
(Wonderwoman, and oh, such wonder) to play Cleopatra, The Queen of
Egypt, in a remake of… well, all the other Cleopatra movies made
over the years, except ‘Carry On Cleo’, which was different. Possibly
better. More sophisticated.

Gadot has been accused of ‘stealing’ an ‘Arab’ or ‘black’ role. Well
who from? I want to ask. Elizabeth Taylor??

As when anyone mentions ‘Cleopatra’ to me, the image that springs to
mind is that of Elizabeth Taylor, hair black, deep fringe, kohl eyes,
headdress. I realise that this is imagination appropriation on my part
but I’m just being honest. I have no idea what the real Cleo looked
like and I don’t really care. She was in all likelihood nothing like
as beautiful as Taylor, certainly not the awesome ‘babe’ that is Gal
Gadot. And I say that in the most non-objectifying way possible. Even
if it don’t sound like that.

But on another level its even more stupid. Cleopatra was Greek. From
Macedonia. If she was around today she’d live in Palmers Green, in the
house next to where George Michael grew up. She certainly wasn’t an
‘Arab’ and definitely not ‘black’. She was Southern European/middle
eastern. Which is totally different from being an Israeli. A middle
eastern country in Southern Europe. So I can see their point. Egypt is
in Africa. Just about. Hangs on by the thread of the Suez Canal. So if
they wanted to cast Whoopy Goldberg as Cleo, that’s fine by me. Or
Halle Berry. Even Angelina Jolie, who has played ‘colour’ before (and
that ended really well). But the powers that be chose Gal Gadot. Not
because of cultural similarities, not because of middle-eastern
heritage, not because her ‘colour’ was about right, but because she’s
a fucking actress and its her job to play whoever they ask her to
play. Be that Cleopatra, Michelle Obama or Kim Jong Un.

Basically, LEAVE HER ALONE!!! SHE’S TOO GORGEOUS FOR ALL THIS SHIT.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Don’t get me wrong: I love the Beatles. John Cooper Clarke is a very clever man. I adore Jodie Comer from Killing Eve. But there’s something about Liverpudlians…

They can be very demanding. They have a sense of entitlement which creates the necessity to whinge a lot, which accounts for the accent, which is essentially, one big whinge. Even now, as Covid rips through their City, rather than appreciate the need based on the fact that half of Liverpool will die at the current rate, the Scouse reply is always “da’s typichal, da’ is; we get da pubs closed. Iss persechution!” Not accepting that their need may be greater, but that they are being singled out for punishment.

And now we have Premiership-gate. The latest shit-storm to engulf our beautiful game. Which started as a plea from the English Football League. Save our clubs. The ‘lower divisions’, starved of match attendance by the crisis, is on the brink of total financial collapse. Can’t the Premiership, with its obscene levels of wealth and expenditure, help out? The annual salary of one single Manchester City player could keep afloat the entire Division 2 clubs for 10 years. Well, something along those lines. So they asked for money, for help.

Because although the Premiership is a stand alone thing of joy and wonderment, it is still part of the league system. And really, an aspiration for the whole thing. So Bournemouth can come up and play for a few years. Watford can come and go, come and go, come and go. West Ham can hang on and hang on and, unfortunately, hang on. Leicester can come up and win the bloody title.

But that’s all romance. And this is business. John Henry is the owner of Liverpool and a man whose whole life is entrenched in football. Unfortunately, in American Football, which is less about romance, nothing about history, everything about money. And for years he has had a plan, ‘Project Big Picture’, which would see the biggest of the Premier clubs basically take control of the whole thing, doing their own deals, particularly with tv rights, where the big money comes from.

So John Henry, along with those other… other… what’s it called when you make shit loads of money and everyone else loses the shirts off their backs but its vaguely legal? Oh yeah, along with those other clever Americans at Manchester United, put up a plan to ‘save English football!!!’ in a magnanimous way. Giving 250 million quid to the lower league teams. Awww, that’s kind.

Is it? In return these two, along with the other 4 ‘big’ clubs, take control of all the money in the Premier League and ‘redistribute’ it along lines of… of… of… of ‘we get the lion’s share and the other teams can scavenge for the rest’, sort of thing. Less vague. More totally fucking air-tight and sealed in law forevermore, amen.

Reduce the size of the Premiership. Less matches. Get rid of the League Cup. Then with all that extra time and energy, the big six can devote the time to playing big sixes from other European countries. Not like ‘Serbia’ and ‘Russia’, but proper Europe. Like Spain. Where they only really have a big 3, possibly just a big 2, because their league already runs on the lines proposed by Henry & Glazer. Neither of whom is even Liverpudlian. Yet still feel the need to bemoan the system and demand their entitlement, as if they were.

I don’t like this one bit. Damned Yanks…

Happy Tuesday night. Even City boys get busy sometimes.

A xxxx

So this is what’s happening: the North of England is to be closed due to Covid. Of, course, this will be in ‘localised areas’ but basically, from Northampton upwards, its shut. The people of Bolton and Blackburn and Wigan, all of whom support third rate football teams, are already in a kind of ‘mini lockdown’ where meetings between 2 families are banned, pubs closed indoors, blah, blah. And they’re restricting their movements as much as possible. So they don’t bring their horrible diseases down here. Similarly in the north east, from Newcastle down to Norfolk its all bad news. So might as well shut down at least half of East Anglia as well.

Yet I’m not sure this goes far enough to safeguard us. I think we need to start sending northerners who live down here back where they belong. There’s obviously something in the northerner which is more ‘Covid-friendly’ or receptive or spready, and either way, we don’t want it, ergo, we don’t want them.

Virgin are going to run a series of trains from Kings Cross and Euston, one way only, taking these people ‘home’. Even if, like my own dear wife, they’ve lived down here for more than 40 years, anyone who still says the word ‘bath’ with a short ‘a’, rather than a ‘barth’, frog-march them to the station and shove them on board. ITS THE ONLY WAY TO STAY SAFE AND PROTECT THE SOUTH OF THE COUNTRY, THE GOOD BIT.

Football matches between northern and southern teams will now be streamed live on tv, 25 quid a time on pay-per-view, but using FIFA 2020 instead of real players, using professional gamers. You’ll hardly see the difference. Except it will be more skilful. And some of the tattoos will be not as complete until the upgrades come in.

Of course these new rules, regulations and suggestions are subject to change. Approximately every hour. Possibly less. But we, your government, can only try to react to the ever-changing landscape that this pandemic produces. Therefore at times we do tend to appear as a bunch of laughable headless chickens running round contradicting each other. We can only crave your indulgence and protect the NHS. Oh, and lives.

Stay safe. Stay south. Unless you’re a northerner. Then GO HOME!

A xxxx

Isn’t Amazon just the best company in the world? Like, you, just, kind’a, order shit, and, like, it just fucking arrives! Like, geezer in a white van brings it round, like, 20 minutes before you ordered it! Amazing. That’s why they call it ‘amazon’, cos its like ‘amazin’, innit? And, my Kindle, right? It’s got, like, loads and loads’a books on it. But, its, like, thinner than even one book, right? So how they do that? More amazin. I just love Amazon. I (and I speak for the entire global customer base here) like it a Trillion dollars worth. And we love Jeff Bezos 175 billion dollars worth too.

Yet surely the mark of a company is when it goes wrong. As everything has a natural tendency to do on occasion. Ahhhh, returns and refunds, Amazon is just brilliant. As you press ‘return’ on your computer the money is instantly back in your bank and the doorbell rings with the driver to pick up the dress that doesn’t fit, the toy you don’t like, the Thai bride who smells a bit.

All brilliant. Love Amazon.

Then I got an email. ‘Your tv is soon to be delivered to Doral, Florida. Go to ‘manage my account’ if any problem’. Yeah, that’s phishing. You go to manage my account and it is a hotline straight to Moscow data hackers who’ve stripped your bank account and maxed out all your credit cards before you can say ‘oh, this isn’t Amazon’. So I ignored. Then I had a couple more emails. Ignored. In fact, deleted! Dangerous stuff. Alexa’s mates spying and stealing.

A few days later I actually ordered something and went to set the delivery address. And, among my numerous addresses on file was one in Doral, FLA. Have you heard of Doral? I hadn’t. Even though I apparently watch tv there. Or will do once its delivered.

So I phoned amazon.co.uk and spoke to amazon.delhi and told them about this, linking the emails to the address, which was not one I’d ever entered. Oh, you need to speak to amazon.COM about this as its a US problem. But I don’t have an account with them, I have one with you; UK, India, whatever. You have to log on to amazon.com. I tried. It keeps coming up with a(n) OTP request. One Time Passcode. Which it doesn’t send. No email, no text, no telegram, no OTP. So I can’t log on, so I can’t speak to amazon.com.

Well, you need to speak to amazon.com… and basically this went round and round and round. Because they don’t listen, they’re not paid to listen, only to do precisely and no more than their computer tells them. Thinking is simply out of the question for these poor soulless creatures.

And my Amex account was charged £146.46 for a delivery from amazon.com. Presumably for my new tv to my new home in Doral, Florida, once I work out where it is. Though don’t know how much of a tv you get for 146 quid.

After 2 hours of banging my head against various (virtual, obvs) brick walls with amazon, I phoned American Express. Hung up the phone just 2, short, reassuring minutes later, simply knowing that this would be sorted out. By people. With minds of their own. And the care for their customers’ concerns that Amazon don’t have time for because they’re too busy counting their money and working out ways to avoid paying taxes.

On one of the many, worthless emails I received from Amazon, was “the Earth’s most customer-centric company”, written without irony (American, innit). I turned and vomited as I read it. And wrote to Jeff Bezos to see if he knows where Doral, FLA might be.

Happy online purchasing

A xxxx

This is a wonderful photo. A metaphor for declining standards in the world, a potent symbol. And nothing is more potent than 2 Barbie dolls. Ok, one Barbie and one Sindy, if you’re that pedantic and anal about such things.

The Sindy on the right is Mel’s poor, wretched, doll, whose hair was cut off in a Les Mis moment about 50 years ago. The Barbie on the left is only about 25 years old, from Lila’s mummy’s days when such things were important. But Barbies don’t age; you get that, right? They’re like, ‘born’ at some undefined point of girl/woman-hood, somewhere between teen (the skateboard years) and the young woman (meets Ken, the rest, history). And they ‘die’ at precisely the same age, not a day older, nor younger, not a wrinkle, no grey hair (unless Joey’s been at the paints), no cellulite. Just a bit of faded plastic or, more normally, decapitated. Because the necks are always the weak point. Though little Joey has in fact totally redefined the meaning of anything’s ‘weak point’.

But Sindy (could have been a vintage Barbie, they were always the same) was a little girl. Dressed (yes, its original) as a nurse. No make up. No bust. Just a little girl doll full of sweetness and innocence and little girliness. Goes to church on Sundays. Eats ice cream. Without checking the calories.

 The Barbie is, basically, a slut.

In the 25 intervening years someone at Mattel had decided that little girls no longer wanted to play with facsimiles of themselves. They wanted to play with something more aspirational. Possibly with the teen/adult that they might become. And the presumption was that every pre-teeny gel wants to live in Geordie Shore. Or Jersey Shore. Made in Chelsea. Or (fucking) Esss-ixx. So they gave them curves. Not the full J-Lo, but curves. And replaced the nurses costume and the cheerleader and the ballet gear with pencil skirts, tight bodices, tight pants and thongs. Ok, not thongs, Barbies don’t have underwear, they are in permanent ‘commando’. And they come with a face full of make-up, fake tan and best of all, feet that can’t stand on the ground. Why? Because they’re angled at 45 degrees, permanently. So they can wear ‘6-inch’ heels. All the time.

But the Barbie, as mentioned, was from the 90s. If you extrapolate (that’s a statistical term, not a deviant one, unless that’s a standard deviation, one from the norm) to a Barbie one might buy today, she would come with a 36-inch (scale) chest, with boob-job scars, child-bearing hips and an assortment of dildos. Because she’s probably ’empowered’ and ‘doesn’t need Ken’, or any man. She should have gender issues. Possibly bisexual. Possibly pre-trans. So she comes with a suit and tie as well. And a football. Which she can’t kick unless they do something about the angle of her feet.

This is an extract from my new book, The Sexualisation of Toys and why didn’t it fucking happen 60 years ago!!!!!, published by Sheister, Shuster and Shweinhundt, 2021.

Happy Friday
A xxxx