Andy's Glasses

a blog through the eyes…

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March 6, 2021

Reading list…

I read the Times. No idea why, its historical. But I like it, obviously, or I’d read something else. Even though I actually pretty much hate all other newspapers. Especially the Daily Mail. Which is why I force myself to read the Sunday edition just to know what ‘the other side’ thinks. Although really, that ‘other side’, doesn’t think so much as just ‘react’. I’m too left wing and too young to read the Mail or the Sun. I’m too right wing to read the Independent and too Jewish to read the Guardian. I never saw the point of the Daily Express. Even though their eponymous building is London’s finest shrine to Art Deco, which I love. But can no longer wander round because since Goldman Sacks took it over you need CIA clearance to enter. Even a year after the bankers left it empty. But we also get the Jewish Chronicle. One of the oldest papers in the land. Mel likes it so she can see who died this week. Sounds morbid but that probably accounts for 90% of their subscriptions. (Old joke: woman: “I vant to put an obituary for my husband. I vant to say: ‘Shlomo Cohen; died’.” Don’t you want to say anything else? How nice he was, good father, wonderful husband, that sort of thing? “He was a lousy father and a terrible husband. ‘Shlomo Cohen; died’.” Well look, the price is fixed for up to 10 words, why not add something? Pause on the line. Then: “Shlomo Cohen; died. Volvo for sale”.)

The Jewish Chronicle has other stuff too. And as my paper was late arriving and, like every dinosaur who ever preceded me, I refuse to read my paper online, because then its not a fucking ‘paper’, I browsed the JC. And I learned something new. The hard lefties in my country simply hate the fucking Jews. All of them. All of us. Israel in particular but by a long way not exclusively. Ok, that’s barely new. After the Corbyn years the entire nation is familiar with constant and massive overt anti-Semitism. Which was ‘never racism’ to which Jeremy was famously (over and over and over again) opposed to in all forms.

The first article was about an ongoing saga relating to Professor David Miller (hard left; Syrian chemical weapons denier) at Bristol University, who is an evil and vile person, not content with persecuting Jewish students, he sees fit to pit all other students against them whenever possible. And the University does… nothing.

The second article was about the BBC (moderate left, issues with unbiased reporting) having a panel to decide whether Jews are an ethnic minority. Like, what else would they be? Electric cars? No. Trees? Hmmmm. Part of the aardvark family? Doubtful. As a ‘race’ is defined by physical characteristic and an ‘ethnicity’ by learned ones, unless you can find babies born wearing a black hat and white fringes, I’m gonna stick with ‘ethnicity’. But the BBC choose to debate the validity of this. (They need to read “Jews don’t count”, David Baddeil’s new book, which unfortunately came out a few months too soon to include this stupidity in its content).

And the third article was by far the best. The Labour Party employed a man to control their social media. At which he’s something of an expert. There are no complaints about his work standards. But plenty once they discovered that he’s not only an Israeli(!!!!) but served with the army there as an IDF intelligence operative. So now the Labour Party, supported in this by John McDonnell, big surprise, are trying to get rid of the man. On the grounds that he’s… Israeli. Nothing discriminatory about that. Other than the rabid discrimination. Everyone’s getting lawyered up and it won’t end well. But because most people are so inured to these type of events, its doubtful that it will upset too many. Outside of the JC.

Happy Saturday, or ‘shabbat shalom’ as they say in the Socialist Worker.

A xxxx

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March 3, 2021

Nowhere man…

I’m going nowhere. It’s brilliant. I barely have to leave my couch. I’ve put the kettle on one side, a little fridge on the other for beers, and I keep all the empty bottles nearby for… ya know. I just fall asleep in front of re-runs of Match of the Day and wake up to Oprah. I haven’t worked out how to wash there just yet, so I haven’t had a shower since Tier 4 started back in December. For ‘safety reasons’. Because after 12 months of Netflix and take-aways, I’m now morbidly obese and hence a greater risk both from the perspective of covid and to the structural survival of the couch. Work is fine, because as yet, they can’t smell you on Zoom. Only with Zoom Plus (available April 9th). I do exercise though. I do three HIT classes a day. Without getting up. They’re easy. I must be really fit. Though I split my trousers 6 weeks ago. Haven’t bothered replacing them. They can’t see your underwear on Zoom either. And to be honest, you really wouldn’t want to.

It’s holidays I miss. I just want to lie on a beach and think about anything that doesn’t involve Covid, coronavirus, vaccinations, tiers, isolation, quarantine, the NH-fucking-S, Boris or Manchester City. Yet I haven’t been away for 14 months. The longest, holiday free period since I met my first wife. Ok, my only wife, I just like saying it like that. Keeps her on her toes. But the thought of the process of just, kind’a, getting there and back is so daunting, so un-holidayish, so downright… horrible, that I can’t even think about booking for June when “its all going to open up” (subject to terms and conditions… lots and lots of terms and conditions).

So its nowhere for me. Other than tv. Our only escape from the grim realities of the new world order.

So we’ve just finished Money Heist. Spanish bank (of sorts) robbery series. Watched it in the original over-dubbed because Mel’s Spanish is pretty poor. Though possibly not as poor as the almost ruinous dubbing. But its redeemed by two things. A fantastically clever plot, verging on the ridiculous but never quite crossing that line. And the fact that the cast are beautiful. The goodies, baddies, cops, murderers, hostages, all look like ‘Tokyo’ above. Well, the boys look a bit different, I s’pose. So if you think you’d like kind of ‘Inside Man’ (movie with Clive Owen and Denzel W) mixed with Baywatch, then Money Heist is for you.

If not, just watch 2 minutes of ‘Married at First Sight; Australia’ and regret it for the rest of your life.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

tunnel
March 1, 2021

good days…

So having lost the rugby on Saturday, all our hopes were on Sunday’s football. Yours, mine, everyone’s. In particular on the massive match-up between Spurs and Burnley. The game everyone was talking about. In my house. And Lila’s. Even little Joey now will respond to ‘COME ON YOU…’ with a little ‘Spu-urs’. He knows not what it means, nor does he care. But, as in all forms of operant conditioning, he knows that if  he says it correctly he gets a Mars bar and an ice lolly, and if he doesn’t, he gets a slap and goes to bed with no supper. What is known as ‘tough love’. We all have to learn right from wrong. 

And the Burnley game wasn’t ‘big’ in the normal sense of being important for the league, or solidifying a position or anything like that. It was just BIG. Because all Spurs games are BIG. Especially as the only team we’ve beaten of late have been the hapless Austrians of Wolfsberger. And beaten them big. Twice. But you know about flattery and deception, right? So the ‘Gareth Bale and Dele Alli  show’ needed to be proven workable against… better opposition. Against… English people. Well, foreign people but English teams. Just different foreign people. Better ones. Bacially we needed to win something, against someone, and do it properly. 

I’m not sure Burnley could actually be  described as ‘properly’, no more than the banged up Leicester side who had lost to Arsenal just minutes before the ‘big game’ kicked off. And let’s face it, Arsenal winning is never going to put any real football fan in the best of spirits, is it? But it was Burnley who came, so that’s who we played. Its the rules. And we played brilliantly. Not perfectly, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Gareth Bale played like he used to. Like we wanted him to. Like he can. With a smile on his face, an absent crowd who adore him and in the bosom of his only true ‘family’.  And tagging Gareth Bale alongside Harry Kane and smiling Sonny, with Lucas Moura flitting round and Tanguay Ndombele opening up the spaces was just awesome. Ok, we couldn’t put that team against Manchester City, but thank fuck that’s not who we played. 

3 points, big win, Gareth Bale, vaccinations. Life is looking up. 

Happy Monday

A xxxx

AE515D29-DDB0-4AB8-BED7-4F5EE4AB55D8
February 28, 2021

Inclusive…

These are days of almost rabid inclusivity. If that is not a contradiction, probably is, which is why I’ve never seen it before. But if inclusivity is (doh) including everybody, regardless of differences, then it becomes rabid when people just stretch those differences to sometimes quite ridiculous levels. “Well that form wot I filled in from da Council never listed ‘one-legged Mongolian, trans-gender-mind-change-then-back-to-straight-before-coming-out but now celibate, omnivorous former vegan asthmatics’! It’s discrimination! My fuman rights is being abused!!!”

But to be a little… contrary? Risqué, peutetre, I just want to take stock for a moment. And possibly consider some worthy exclusions.

I’m most currently concerned with the United Kingdom. My very own Great Britain. Well, the Queen’s very own, but she let me borrow it. After a very un-zeitgeisty exclusion of her own grandson and his… schv… his… wife. Because Great Britain consists of England, the good bit, plus what we collectively term: ‘the liabilities’. We have Northern Ireland, and we all know the endless joys which that particular gift just keeps on giving.

Then there’s Scotland. Currently being torn apart internally by the battle royal between the vile Nicola Sturgeon and the revolting Alex Salmond. Currently taking place in a courtroom near you. If you happen to live in Edinburgh. For my money, bring back hanging and take them both to the gallows. But do it slowly.

And now Wales. Formerly the ‘nice one’ of our little ‘empire’. And they had the audacity to beat us at rugby yesterday! What a fucking bunch of ingrates. Even the referee was Welsh. He changed his name from Daffid Llewellyn, adopted a French accent for the day worthy of Cluseau and led the Welsh to a cheating victory. On his own. Other than the other 15 who were quite brilliant.

Then onto Europe, whilst we’re excluding unworthy no-goods. The ‘family’ I never wanted to abandon and yet now I’m so glad I did. Because I’ve been vaccinated and they haven’t. None of ‘em. Well, a few percent. Because their united government made a political decision that they didn’t want no stinking Astrazeneca vaccine made by them ‘orrible Limeys. They want good, European vaccines that can overcome coronavirus and garlic in one go. And unfortunately, other than the Pfizer, there aren’t any. The French one is no good and no-one else has one.

Thus Angela Merkel proclaiming to her nation that ‘she would never have the AZ vaccine’, and Macron conducting a very scientific study of that drug and concluding that ‘it doesn’t work on the over-65s’, based on… errrr… based on the price of Camembert, has led to a near-zero uptake of vaccination among our 365 million closest neighbours. And to quote from HER MAJESTY MY QUEEN!!!!!, no less, they’re not just letting themselves down, but EVERYONE ELSE TOO. Because until they all have it, we’re not safe. And I need to go to Germany to see my baby.

Other than that; yeah, everything’s great, thanks for asking.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

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February 24, 2021

Roadmap…

A roadmap used to be… a map of roads. We called them ‘A to Z’s and everyone’s car was filled with them. Today we use Waze, or similar, which not only has every road in the entire world, moon and now Mars (2021 edition), but will also tell you how many cars lie between you and your destination, who is in each one and what they had for lunch. Thus the word ‘roadmap’ became totally redundant in 2004.

But nature abhors a vacuum and Boris hates an unused word. So he took ‘roadmap’ out of the dustbin, dusted it off and gave it magical powers. Metaphorical powers. And thus the new ‘roadmap’ is the modern day version of Moses leading the Children of Israel to freedom. Out of slavery. And guess who’s gonna play the leading role? One clue: fat blonde.

So this is how our saviour will organise our liberation from the yokes we carry, from our constraints and restrictions.

March 8th.
Schools open. All those covid infested but asymptomatic kids get let loose to infect any of their mates who as yet is not a carrier. Teachers must NOT under any circumstances, get vaccinated. It would upset… the… errr… well, they mustn’t, and that’s IT!!!

March 28th.
Andy can play tennis again. Nothing else matters. Three people can sit on 4 park benches, drinking coffee, but not if it has sugar. Six people from 3 households can still ignore each other, if they didn’t know each other before Covid. And house parties can start but are NOT allowed to finish. Until…

May 22nd.
When football starts again. Not that it ever stopped but this time the crowds can return. No more than 9 at any stadium. Each half. Non-essential shops might re-open, then again, might not. Hairdressers can open because Boris has taken ‘shaggy’ to a new extreme, verging on the ‘crazed axe man’ look he pioneered in 1973.

June 7th.
You can drink outside the pub. But mustn’t go inside. Not even to take a pee. This may limit alcohol sales, or increase street urination, but either way, inside is OUT!

June 29th.
Everything returns to ‘normal’. The tubes will be rammed, the roads blocked, Oxford Circus station closed due to overcrowding, 327 flights scheduled from Heathrow. Theatres re-open, cinemas finally get that James Bond. Hugging is back, snogging with strangers to be encouraged, masks binned. Restaurants open for indoor dining but you have to cook it yourself. Like you have been for the past 18 months.

Note. All these dates are final and legally binding. Unless the statisticians deem otherwise. The same statisticians who came up with the wonderful algorithm for GCSEs last year. So make sure you wash your hands when performing calculations.

Stay safe. Protect Moses.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

li helm
February 23, 2021

records…

Lila’s been reading books again. I’ve tried to make her watch tv but she bloody insists. And the books she loves, currently, are by the brilliant Alan Ahlberg. Its a little series, Mr Brick the Builder, Mr Cosmo the Conjurer, Mrs Plug the Plumber, lovely. We had them from when Lila’s mum was 3. Almost 12 years ago. (That’s only funny if you don’t live in Liverpool or Wolverhampton). And I think they need updating. Modernising. Bringing in some contemporary relevance. So I’ve written a few for her, and for all children who need a FUCKING REALITY CHECK!!! SNOW WHITE AND FROZEN CAN ONLY GET YOU SO FAR, FFS!!!

Mrs Prostrate the prostitute
Mrs Dipso the drunk
Mr Stilleto the stabber
Mr Covid the cougher
Ms Botox the bitch
Mr Willy the wanker
Mrs Worst the WAG
Mr/it/Ms/ Perplexed the pronoun
Mr Priapic the porn star
Mr Eurine the European.
Mr Corbyn the Cu- the Communist
Mr Liverpool the Loser
Available from a bookseller near you. 

Liverpool lost their 4th straight home game on Saturday. The first time that’s happened since 1929. Almost a hunnerd yars! And to Everton, of all teams. Who haven’t won at Anfield since 1989. The records were tumbling, along with Jurgen Klopp’s failing credibility. It can’t ALL be about Virgil van Dijk. That’s not to take anything away from Everton, who were brilliant. And Carlo Ancelotti, their superb manager, who knew what to do. The team who have been impossible to beat, in the stadium which is impregnable, is failing miserably. In fact so miserably that the only place to find more misery at the moment is in north London. Records aren’t being broken, specifically, its just sounding like a broken record every match. 

Jose ‘it ain’t my fault, I’m still a God’ Morinho, is STILL the best manager in the world. Obviously. Mikel Arteta is doing a brilliant job at Arsenal, they just keep losing too. Though to lose to Manchester City is no shame. I’m sure all Arsenal fans were delighted that their match was chosen to bring back Kevin de Bruyne for a runaround. Like they’re not good enough without the league’s best superstar. 

Spurs were abysmal in the first half of the West Ham match. Totally abysmal. And although much better in the second, we failed to score the equaliser when, 3 months ago, we’d have hit 5. But we have to take positives. Apparently. And we actually can. Gareth Bale is starting to look like a footballer again and less like a golfer on his day off. And Erik Lamela shone like the star we’ve been waiting 8 years to emerge. 

But the message really, to all us struggling clubs is: DON’T SACK THE MANAGER. Its stupid, short-sighted, reactionary and dim. This is the long game. For Spurs fans, very long and seemingly much longer every year. 

Happy Tuesday

Mr Spurs the Suicidal  xxxx

47017D5F-4B13-45AB-B8D5-B2BD8EF11743
February 21, 2021

Catch up…

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a night! Fucking wild!!!!!

Happy (should be) hungover Sunday

A xxxx

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February 20, 2021

Harsh…

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

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

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

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

Happy Saturday

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

Xxxx

mars
February 19, 2021

brilliant…

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday

A xxxx

jo shop
February 16, 2021

holidays…

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

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

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

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

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