Andy's Glasses

Like Churchill before him, Boris Johnson is inspiring the entire nation, every man, woman, person, object, thing with multiple bits, undecideds, crossovers, gender fluids and any group I may have inadvertently missed, to fight, fight fight!! this horrible pandemic. We are all being encouraged to stand up, get battle ready, bare arms, join together (no more than 6, obvs) and… and… go back home, lock the doors and stay inside. Hmmmm. Harder job to motivate people to do as little as possible, rather than Churchill’s fighting them on the beaches.

Viruses aren’t like Germans. For a start you can’t see them. They don’t wear helmets. In fact they wear crowns, but only at microscopic levels. So Boris’s job is in fact much more difficult than Churchill’s. To get people to agree to limit their lives in every single respect and aspect. And even then, as has been shown over and over, Boris and his team of incredibly clever and professorial advisers, know approximately the square root of absolutely fuck-all about the spread of this virus. Which is why the rules change on a pretty much daily basis. Along with infection rates.

The main problem we have here, which probably accounts for why we ‘lead the world’ in infected people and deaths, per 1000/100,000/million of population is that we’re rubbish at testing. And without tests you have no chance. Most surprising comment of the last few weeks, and certainly the funniest, was from Dame Dido Harding. The gel wot is in charge of our nation’s testing. Da big boss lady. And she stated, live on tv, that ‘we possibly underestimated test requirements because no-one predicted that rates might rise when the kids went back to school’.

Well I knew. She only had to ask. The man in the butcher’s knew. The bus driver knew. The masked up Uber driver knew. People, whose lives have all been reduced and concentrated into the microcosm of Covid-world, now talk of nothing else. And everyone, from Nicola Sturgeon to possibly someone even more obnoxious, simply KNEW that when the schools reopened it would be a turning point, possibly a tipping point. But the ‘models’ used by the government advisors are waaaaaay more powerful than mere logic and common sense. So, ‘no, we never knew’. So we can’t test ailing teachers, or kids with symptoms, so have to take out whole year groups and force them into isolation.

I’m isolating. I’m in the City of London. The only place left where you’re truly safe from bumping into people. Where you’re at least 200 metres from the next soul.

Happy quietest Wednesday since May

A xxxx

I think HSBC should be praised for the 2 trillion (!!!) pounds worth of money laundering they’re responsible for over a 17 year period. It shows ingenuity, creativity, inspiration verging on desperation. They not only did this activity for companies they suspected of being ‘a bit dodgy’, but carried on even when assured that assumed dodginess was the real deal. That shows true determination right in the face of common sense, of regulations, even of what is actually legal. But carry on they did. ‘Fuck ‘em all!!!!’ they cried as they shifted masses of illegal funds around the world. Millions, billions and, eventually, trillions of the stuff.

So why is it that when I want to transfer £14.73 to the milkman’s bank account for 12 pints of semi-skimmed and a whole grain loaf, I have to find 7 pieces of ID, nine utility bills, 13 different passwords, 4 different user names and receive 7 coded messages by text before they let me do it? If you query this it is stated by your bank that this is to prevent money laundering. I find no inconsistency with this whatsoever.

We had an issue at work on Friday. Drain issue. Toilet blocked. Drain jammed up. Bad smell. Awful. It got even worse before the unblockers came, much, much worse but I’ll spare the details in the interest of keeping your breakfast down. But for an entire day we couldn’t use the toilet. So my receptionist went next door to our mates and used theirs. Whereas I just peed into the sink. Well why not? It’s easy, convenient and I would possibly say ‘a piece’a piss’ but that would be rather crass. However, I did think, at that point, that I’m so lucky being a man. I’m a man, ergo, I can piss in a sink. Now that’s what I call ‘gender fluidity’.

Carlsberg don’t make grandchildren. But if they did, they’d be Lila. Not that Joey isn’t the most wonderful grandson the world has ever seen, even if he leaves a path of destruction in his wake. Yesterday I was on the school run, taking Lila to her nursery. Or ‘university’ as I call it because SHE’S SO BRIGHT AND CLEVER, obvs. I arrived at her house to find her jumping up and down on the spot with excitement. She talked non-stop on the way there, rode her scooter from the car to the classroom, showed me where its ‘parked’, led me by the hand back to her waiting teacher and bounced up the stairs, carrying on the conversation but seamlessly with the teacher. En route we’d passed a little crying boy who wouldn’t let go of his mother and enter the building. Lila was fascinated by this scene. Counts as ‘drama’ in nurseryworld. And yes, she has been known to have a tantrum, does ‘have her moments’ of defiance, but generally, her boundless enthusiasm for absolutely everything is a total wonder. I’ll stop now.

Happy pre-‘nother-lockdown-day

A xxxx

Gareth Bale arrived in the country on Friday. 2 days later Spurs rolled over Southampton at St Mary’s, 5-2. I mean… I mean… I mean that’s a big score. A resounding score. A proper score. The score of dominance, the score of class, the score of… top 4 contenders! If not the league itself, if not the Champions League!! Which, ok, we’re not even in this year, but that is just NOT THE POINT.

The point is that this is football so you can make whatever claims you like, based on the minimal evidence of one meagre 90-minute spell and then everyone can call you a nob next week when it all goes tits-up again.

But such is the magnitude of the ‘Bale effect’ that even when he’s not playing, not eligible to play, injured and out for 4 weeks, as he is, even then, that effect is massive. Almost incalculable. Though if I had to, I’d estimate it at 14.73. Maybe as much as 17.18. Go on; prove me wrong.

And after last week’s crappy performance against Everton when ‘my world was ruined’ (for the 877th time in 60 years), the arrival of Bale followed by this fantastic victory has reset the clock, totally.

Son Heung Min, everyone’s favourite South Korean, scored 4. Harry Kane had 4 assists and then scored the 5th himself. So I just cut this from the BBC site:

With the return of Gareth Bale, Tottenham have the potential for a front three that could rival the very best in the world.

Yep, Firmino, Mane and Salah are sooooooo 2019, Chelsea’s new boys just a bunch’a tossers, Arsenal only have 2 up front and they’re both French and Manchester United’s performance last night, not just losing to Palace at Old Trafford but being completely outclassed by them, means they don’t even enter the competition.

I’m not normally into hyperbole, nor ridiculously overblown predictions based on nothing but hope and totally unrealistic expectations, but this year… this year…

THERE IS NOTHING SPURS CAN’T DO!!!!!

Extremely Happy Sunday. Everyone will always remember exactly where they were when Spurs beat Southampton 5-2.

A xxxx

In today’s big match, the final result was: Covid 1, God didn’t.

Because its Rosh Hashannah, the holiest day of the entire… week? month? Year? Whatever, its fucking holy, is what it is. And as the Jewish year is up to 5781 (we started so long before anyone else, Christians didn’t learn how to count til Jesus taught them, and he was a bloody Jew as well), this is the first time that the New Year celebrations have been… not ‘cancelled’ exactly, but let’s say ‘seriously curtailed’. So seriously that some people, deprived of their annual trip to the synagogue, are even possibly going to be playing tennis instead!!!

And in those almost 6000 years, it hasn’t all been an ‘easy ride’. Yet the New Year was always celebrated. When Ancient Palestine was invaded by Egyptians and Mesopotamians and Babylonians and Assyrians, the Jews of old managed a quick pray before the arrows started flying. When exiled to various ghettos and hostile environments all over Europe, Rosh Hashannah carried on. In the traditional style of religious festivals: you gather, you pray, you EAT! THEN EAT MORE!!!!

But today, because of a ‘cold’, any kind of normal celebrations are illegal. Anti-covid. As opposed to anti-Semitic. Therefore you can only have, like, one person in the synagogue at any one time. And a rabbi. Separated by several metres. No hugging, no kissing, hand-shaking, elbow bumping, hip knocking, foot-touching, nothing. And no honey cake. I unselfishly gave my place to someone more needy.

Because what you do on Rosh Hashannah is add up all the sins you’ve perpetrated in the preceding year. Takes fucking hours. But fortunately, in the last 12 months I haven’t sinned at all. So I’m good, thanks very much, you can have my place. YOU NEED IT!!!!

Japan is in crisis. No-one’s having babies there. The population is ageing at an alarming rate. In 20 years half the population will be over 65. They also live longer than anyone else in the world (its almost enough to make you eat sushi every day. Almost…) so they’ll reach the point where the pension pot runs dry and there’ll be insufficient workers to fill it up again. I think we should go to Japan and make some babies for them. They’ve obviously forgotten how to do it. Or have just become so weirded out by their rather bizarre conservatism, in which its not appropriate for men and women to strike up conversation in bars and clubs, among other strange behaviours, that they’re not hooking up in any meaningful way. They’re great at raw fish and karaoke, no good at pulling. And now the whole nation’s in jeopardy. Which in itself is more than a little strange, because every culture starts with rules for births, deaths, marriages. Kind’a the ‘essentials’. How did Japan miss that? They were too busy making Sony Walkmans, that’s how.

Happy New Year, May it be sweet and healthy

A xxxx

All religions have some kind of ‘second coming of the messiah’. Even though most don’t really remember the first one. Jesus was a good dude but no-one realised how good til he’d died. Then was reborn, then died again. And THEN did he become the stuff of legend. Well, the ‘Virgin birth’ bit helped. They’d never believe that in the Wirral. ‘Virgin births’ every day up there.

The Jews believe that if enough people do enough good things, the Messiah will come down to earth. Like a spiritual lottery win. You’ll know him when he arrives. Old geezer with a long white beard, black hat and shiny coat.

But now and again messiahs do arrive. One such was Jurgen Klinsmann, hallowed be his name. He’d played for Spurs and was already, like, a normal ‘god’, for the classic ‘dive’ goal celebration if not for everything else he did, which was totally wonderful and of genius calibre. He left and then, when all was going to shit down the Lane and the bottom had fallen out of our lives, HE returned among us. Like a normal mortal, but with a German accent. And He turned our season around totally. Whilst all the while being the total uber-mensch that we all remember. Eloquent, wry, witty and charming.

Well now we’re ready for another messiah down the Lane. It’s (fucking) time. After Sunday’s appalling season opener, its perhaps a bit early to write off yet another year, even for lifelong Spurs fans for whom ‘optimism’ means ‘we won’t get hammered too badly’. Yet if God moves in mysterious ways, he still couldn’t outrun Gareth Bale on the wing. No-one could. I hope that his years as a full-time golfer haven’t affected his speed or ability too much, but it would appear that, in answer to all our prayers, Gareth is coming home. Back to the team that didn’t exactly spawn him, but that made him into a player of such status that his move to Real Madrid made him the world’s most expensive footballer. And rightly so. He was, as our forays into the Champions League showed so greatly, totally unplayable. Mocking the world’s best defenders, scoring for fun, making the outrageously impossible look just plain normal. Like any true God should do.

I’m going to pay him 300 grand a week, from my own furlough payments, and Real Madrid will pay the other half. Otherwise he might go hungry.

But for the boost it will give the team, for the added dimensions that we currently sorely miss, for just the presence of Gareth Bale in Spurs kit once more, no price is too great.

Am I building this up too much? I don’t think so. In fact, I barely think at all any more. I just know. Gareth IS the messiah!!!

Happy signing day (I hope)

A xxxx

The rule of six came into force on Monday. I’m relieved. No idea why, it’ll make no difference to anyone. Unless… unless… unless you spy on your mates!!! And report them!!! To the ‘hotline’!!! The ‘scummy, scabby, snitchy grass-line’ as it will be known and as recommended by policing minister, Kit Malthouse. Who, when he was at school, used to ‘tell tales’ and shop all his mates and blame everyone else, and name names!!!

What a tragic state of affairs. We can’t test properly, even though most third world, impoverished countries (like Italy) have no problem. We can’t track and trace. And we can’t prevent the rate from going up. But we can tell everyone to spy on their neighbours and report them to the authorities. Like the Cultural Revolution in China. Like the Stasi did in East Germany. A society becoming devoid of trust.

There’s a whole host of people who are and have always been opposed to any form of ‘lockdown’ on civil liberty grounds. I’m not sure I agree with them totally, but have to admit they have a point. And grassing up yer mates and snitching on your neighbours is no way to endear yourselves to those people.

But there’s more important news around than increasing Coronavirus rates, this week. Gareth Bale wants to return to Tottenham! He actually wants to. According to his agent, Jonathan Barnet, who really doesn’t care where Gareth plays as long as he gets his percentage of the Welshman’s 25 million pound a year salary. You don’t even need that big a percentage either. And if Gareth wants to come ‘home’, we certainly would just love to have him. So that’s perfect then. Gareth might actually get to play in a few football matches as well, an added bonus for him, and much more than he’s done in Madrid for the last few years. So that’s settled then. Oh, the money? Well, I’m sure Gareth would find it a privilege to take a pay cut of around 75% to play for a club where he is loved, rather than reviled. 400 grand a week to be loved by me. Less than I charge Mel.

COME BACK GARETH!!!!

Happy overly hopeful days

A xxxx

I have had a request. A first in the entire history of this esteemed and much respected blog, which always aims to provide honesty, clarity, ‘transparency’ (steps aside to avoid vomiting on i-pad) and impartial, well-balanced… reporting? Opinionating? Ranting??? Whatever. It’s fucking impartial, innit. And will remain so until becoming partial provides a funnier scenario. As with the honesty and transparency shit. It’s only good whilst its funny, then dishonesty and opacity becomes the way forward.

The request came from far away. From the Bulawayo Boy, currently residing in Sydney, Australia, where many a good criminal was once sent. Or rather, all the bad criminals. The ones that were caught. And he has requested clarity on the current farce surrounding Brexit in which Britain is poised to ‘break international law’, reducing our national standing in the international stage and making us a pariah state, like Iran or North Korea, that nobody will ever trust or deal with again. Like Russia, but without the nerve agents.

And I wish I could be bothered to even read all the intricacies and posturing surrounding this latest ‘development’ in the longest political ‘saga’ (read: TOTAL WASTE OF TIME, SPACE AND ENERGY), but now the football season’s started, I simply don’t have the time. And if I’m honest, I was actually thinking of painting a wall just to watch it dry rather than have to delve into this latest Boris-driven-fiasco.

Briefly: the French are total bastards and the Germans inflexible tyrants. Together they created a Brexit plan, signed by a succession of limp-wristed, wishey-washey, Eton-educated ‘Brexit ministers’ and ‘Foreign Secretaries’, as they gave up the will to live, one after the other. We (I speak for my entire nation, even the Welsh, here) will pay the EU about 40 billion quid, possibly 50, maybe 60, depending on which yacht Barnier finally decides to buy, and we ‘leave Europe’ whilst still being governed by 98% of their laws.

So Boris has now said that we RESERVE THE RIGHT to imply our own rules over Northern Ireland trade. Which would be in breach of this so-called ‘international law’ but we actually don’t give a shit because keeping the Irish from murdering each other is a bit more important than some esoteric philosophico-legal construct made in Brussels.

And we want to be able to bail out failing companies with government aid, which again breaches EU laws. Because they are heartless bastards and we are caring and loving to all mankind.

No international laws are breached until either of those actions actually takes place. Talking about driving too fast is not a crime, neither is talking about ‘breaking international law’. But we might do either. Certainly the former.

And that’s it. I could have saved the bother and just replied: ‘it’s all Euro-bollocks’ but its actually much worse than that, so deserved a full response.

I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY NOW, JON-BOY!!!

Happy awful start to the football season day

A xxxx

Sent from my iPad

The new football season has finally started. About a month later than usual but in the circumstances, that ain’t bad. So I watched a bit of Liverpool against Leeds, possibly more than I would have normally because Leeds kept on equalising the score. Which is not the ‘Anfield script’ at all. The Anfield script reads very simply “YOU’RE GONNA FUCKING LOSE SO MIGHT AS WELL DO IT QUICK AND EASY AND JUST PLAY DEAD!!!!”

But then I got bored a bit so went over to a rockumentary of the Doobie Brothers. And (spoiler alert!!!!) they weren’t brothers and none of their names was Doobie. Shock. So you have to respect any band who were named for a euphemism for a joint. The brothers who like passing round a doobie. And I loved the band and their music and it was fab to watch. Long Train Running is one of the best tracks of all time. No debate. No arguments. It must be in everyone’s top 5. And if not, then that ‘everyone’ is actually a know-nothing no-one’.

Leeds pulled back for the third time. Holy Moly! No team scored 3 goals at Anfield in the entirety of last season, and here are Leeds, fresh up from, like Division 4, all northern and dressed in white, with the sheer impudence and audacity to do just that.

I took an early bath. Because we were going out for an early dinner and thus missed Liverpool’s late winner from a Mo Salah penalty. Tommy Doobie had just had a mental breakdown and left the band. Like, half an hour before a sellout show in Chicago. But bath time is bath time, right?

But when we came home from dinner, Match of the Day was on. The first of the season, obvs. Did I want to watch Arsenal beat Fulham? Did I? Well, I was saved from that particular hell by Jimi Hendrix. Well, by another Hendrix documentary, this one about the allegations that his ‘untimely death’ might have been murder. By a woman spy. Blah, blah, blah. A wonderful conspiracy theory that I wouldn’t give the time of day to. But for the old footage of Hendrix, it was worth a few minutes of stupid speculation.

Jimi arrived in London a complete unknown. Chas Chandler of the Animals dragged him across the Atlantic. A brilliant move for both men. And in London things were a bit more ‘free’ and ‘fluid’ that they perhaps are now. Not, ‘coronavirus now’ but any ‘now’. So Chandler took Hendrix to see ‘a band’ play and asked if he might be allowed to jam with them. On stage. At a live gig. And the band was Cream. The world’s first supergroup. It’s like me strolling up to Barcelona and asking if I can join their kickabout against Real Madrid. The difference being, no slur on my amazing footballing talent, that Hendrix was just so brilliant that, having agreed to let him join them, they were simply blown away by the man’s ability. Eric Clapton remembers being simply awestruck by Hendrix guitar prowess. Eric fucking Clapton.

Match of the day went on to West Ham against Newcastle and Hendrix girlfriend was accusing some other woman of stalking him. Definitely time for bed.

Good night

A xxxx

Just the six of us.

Bill Withers said it first. But the numbers have been increased in line with inflation and then reduced in line with the pandemic. And then, and only then, can they be ignored once more.

Here’s the rule. Set by Boris. And Boris alone. No longer any kind of parliamentary democracy, unimpressed with the Belarus model of dictatorship, as being a bit ‘namby-pamby and limp’, Boris is now God. He and He alone will decide what happens, Nick Hancock will agree with him, as if he actually knows something, which is seriously in doubt, and then it is ‘passed’ into law. No due process. No debate. It’s called the law of the Headless Dictator. A perfect cross between a tyrannical dictator and a headless chicken. It works in North Korea, but possibly only because the head in question sports a stupid haircut. There again, Boris… haircut…

And thus the number shalst be six!! Not seven, nor even five. But six!! Is the number of peopleage wot can meet in any one place at one time. As long as said meeting adheres to proper social distancing criteria. Otherwise the Corona police will swoop in and pour a bucket of water over your barbecue! Families of greater than six (see above) will have to cast the weak ones asunder. Or eat them. Inside or outside, six is the number and THAT NUMBER IS SIX. One third of the devil’s sign.

The ONLY exceptions are for ‘organised sporting events’ and ‘religion stuff’. Possibly the sales at Debenhams. Otherwise YOU WILL BE FINED!!!! OR IMPRISONED!!! (They didn’t say how prisons might meet the criteria, unless they are going to reduce the locked-up populations to just 6 in each and free the rest). So my tai chi, f’rinstance, which is up to 12 warriors, in the park, performing our art, does that count as ‘organised sport’ or will we be arrested for being unsixish? Sixual Harassment?

The Jewish New Year is almost upon us. Just one week away. The time when even those more lapsed than me (if such a thing is possible outside of a salt-beef bar) go for their yearly pilgrimage to the synagogue. And this year I decided to sacrifice my seat, at great personal upset, so that someone more worthy might be able to pray in an area sufficient to meet the new criteria. However, there are two places I avoid like the plague, in times of, well, plague. One is hospitals, they’ll kill ya deader than dead in no time. And synagogues. Where our localised ‘outbreak’ of Covid began all those months ago. I wasn’t there that day. Nor any other day since last New Year, if I’m honest, but people who pray are in danger. All that chest beating and frenzy and shouting. Way too much spittle involved for my taste.

So I shall probably spend the new year in deep meditation and reflection. On the tennis court. And blame Covid. Like everyone else does.

Happy Last 2 days of 7, day

A xxxx

This year you may have noticed something distinctly absent from these pages. If you can call digital output ‘pages’. Have you noticed? What’s missing??? Probably not Lila or Joey, they’re still featured. Political intrigue is still… intriguing, football is still football, ok, there’s been a few less reviews of new movies and super restaurants (ok, super kebab shops, whatever) but that’s understandable in the circumstances. What’s missing is beaches. Tropical photos, exotic locations, bizarre creatures (I refer to, kind’a, animals here, rather than, say, Germans), exciting expeditions, underwater adventures, boat rides on magical lakes, cityscapes that leave you breathless, and overseas clubs where men can dress as llamas. Without fear of prosecution or being eaten.

Hi, my name is Andy and I haven’t taken a holiday since December 2019.

“Hello Andy!!!”

I’ve come to Holidays Anonymous to try and get some help, some empathy, some understanding from fellow holiday addicts to work out how to recover. I have a ‘seven step plan’ but every time I see a plane (which is not very often, currently) I have a burning desire to rush to Heathrow and stand in as many long queues as I can find. I haven’t ‘checked in’ for 9 fucking months!!! I miss the security scanner with a passion that burns my very soul. I yearn to stand in a snake line for 74 minutes for passport control. And when I go into certain shops I take my shoes off and put them on the counter. I’m a mess!

We love a holiday. And all we’ve done this year is cancel them. Or have them cancelled. Grand Canaria went in May, we’re supposed to be in Greece at this very moment, on a special ‘child friendly’ resort with the whole fam. And I suppose we might not make it to Kerala at Christmas. Mel insisted we cancel even though I actually really want to extend ‘the full Indian experience’. I want to take it from the usual ‘2 weeks of eating curry 3 times every dayyyyyyy!!!!!’, to joining the second most populous nation on the planet on its quest to out-Covid every other nation on Earth. I want to risk getting the virus there, going to hospital there, and sharing the Indian way of ‘social distancing’ which is to cram 52,000 people into McDonalds. And then I not only want to quarantine for 2 weeks, I want to do it for THREE!

Can you buy masks with Air Miles?

Happy Holi-Days

A xxxx