Andy's Glasses

I’d just like to stay with the televisual theme for a little while, which is appropriate as THERE IS NOTHING ELSE WE’RE ALLOWED TO DO without risking arrest. And its almost a case in point, having referred to the addictive nature of even the most banal, trite, trivial, mindless and almost brain-dead of tv offerings. And nothing exemplifies all those adjectives more than ‘Married at First Sight’. For current purposes (as its the only ones I’ve seen) we’ll deal with the ‘Australia’ sub-group of the species.

The premise or ‘experiment’ as they loftily call such a shag-fest in Australia, is a simple one. Take two people who’ve never met before, tick a few ‘dating app’ type boxes and let them meet ‘under the alter’ for the first time. What could possibly go wrong? Ok, its not a ‘real’, like, ‘legally binding’ wedding, but there’s white dresses and top hats and families and rings and stuff.

Then they spend time working out whether they actually like their new ‘mate’. (In all senses of that word, particularly in Australia). Oh, and rather than get bored watching one couple making tea and arguing about toilet seats for 3 hours, there’s 10 couples. All living through various forms of optimism, delusion, frustration, realisation and disappointment. Loads of disappointment.

The younger daughter is temporarily back with us from her new native Berlin and when not working she can often be found in front of the tv upon which are groups of young people slagging each other off. There are 4,652 programs involving such social studies, all of them totally moronic.

Except Married at First Sight. Which is brilliant. Because these people are Australians. The nation least in touch with its emotional side. Where, if men have empathy for women it manifests itself by the purchase of a bottle of white wine to accompany the 54 crates of beer. The place where, if men ‘get’ women at all, they have to keep quiet about it. They don’t ‘wear their heart on their sleeve’, unless its a tattoo and the heart in question has a dagger through it.

So now we ‘binge’ on this series. Only as a study, NOT because we like it in any way. We watch it, even though its way beneath us, as an intellectual exercise in what rubbish ‘other people’ might watch.

So for God’s sake, DON’T watch MaFS. One minute is too much. 47 hours not enough.

Happy binge-watching

A xxxx

I’m not the world’s biggest tv watcher, (he says with the air of intellectual superiority alway implied in such a claim.) I’m too busy with further education, reading book things, learning encyclopediae and generally being a swotty, geeky, creepy git. I could be a tv watcher of premier league quality, but there’s too much ‘shit’ to do. So I become very selective.

I always watch the news. Have it on series record, in case I miss anything that Sophie Rayworth might need to tell me. Though I must admit that Coronavirus has almost cured me of my obsession. I now fast forward through the Covid reports because they are boring as fuck and we’ve quite literally heard everything they have to say about it before. Several times. Thousands of fucking times.

And my other obsession and my only foray into the world of any kind of ‘reality tv’ is the Bake Off. I don’t do the singing version, the sewing version, art, dancing, talent, pro-celeb mountaineering, Britain does Open Heart Surgery, or sailing. Only baking. Because its food. And I can just about tolerate Paul Hollywood whereas Simon Cowell makes my skin crawl. I try not to cry when someone goes home every week.

But you only need to watch something once. Because then you’re hooked. If tv is not addictive then its not working. So when people do the ‘you must watch…’ thing, it just means that they’ve watched it, and it hooked them. You may get hooked, in which case that’s a ‘brilliant program indeed’ or you hate it, and its shit. The only exception is Darts. Which unquestionably is shit, but watch one little arrow hit the target and you’re obsessed forevermore in a world where treble 19, bullseye, double 17 is only way out. (Not recommended for Diane Abbot).

So other than football, which doesn’t count, and Rockumentaries, which are compulsory, and dramas, which I like, and the news and box sets and everything else I like, I don’t watch much telly.

Happy viewing

A xxxx

Phew, what a relief, the pandemic’s over. Finished. Beaten by medical science. A couple of German Turks, or Turkish Germans (think: Mezut Ozil in a white coat) who run Biontech have, with a little help from Pfizer, made a vaccine which is ‘90%’ effective against Coronavirus. To put that in perspective, Joe Biden is 90% effective against Trump. Ok, poor analogy, we want optimism and hoorah, not boring and JUST FUCK OFF!!!

And this is the game changer. No more shouting at friends because no-one knows what two metres really looks like without floor stickers. No more dinners in the garden in the rain. No more restrictions. I can spit on the roads again. We won’t have to sneak into Lila’s house fearing the Covid Police and nosy fucking neighbours. The word ‘bubble’ can go back to rhyming slang, where it belongs. And you can hug again. In fact hugging will be compulsory. With strangers. With the tube driver. Shop assistants. Policemen and, more importantly, police women. So we can try to regain some of the essential humanity of… humans. NO MORE MASKS!!!! Although ugly people will still be advised to wear them for safety. Of others.

And this vaccine will be available before Christmas. Because it has tested 97% effective in turkeys. And they’ll have 40 million available. But you need 2 each, so that’s 20 million people released from slavery and constraint. Oh. But Britain alone has 60 million people. The world has 7.7 billion people. Maybe give smaller doses, spread it round a bit. Hmmmm. Where’s Diane Abbot when you need her? (Answer: you NEVER need Diane Abbot). But Britain has already ordered… about 5 million. So that’ll take care of the NHS workers, who really need it, and my dad, because he’s 96 this week, and… and… and that’s it really. We’ve run out 6 weeks before its available. Vaccines are like toilet rolls; you have to get in early and panic buy.

The tests have been successful, they just need to perform a few ‘safety checks’. Like, side effects. Issues developing from the guinea pigs. Like newfound linguistic skills. Dark spots on the skin. Light spots on the skin. Extra testicles growing. Any mental activity involving Elvis. And then and only then will it be fit for use.

And there are others just around the corner too.

Coronavirus? Oh yeah, I remember that…

Happy Liberation Day… almost.

A xxxx

The football league table was invented in 1873 by Ronnie League-Table, after whom it was named. And every week Ronnie would sit down, at 5 o’clock on Saturday, when ALL that week’s games were over, with a quill and an abacus, and perform his calculations for the teams’ positions. But now its different. Not only are matches played virtually every day, but they also use the ‘as it stands’ table. Which updates with every goal scored. So even though matches aren’t over and winning teams can still lose or draw, until that happens, they have their precise position, as it stands.

This picture is the one from yesterday, just after Harry Kane scored Spurs goal at West Brom. The photo arrived from Spurs Paul with the message: STOP THE COUNT!!!!

If only. Unfortunately it was merely a snapshot, and 28 minutes later Leicester scored at Wolves and ‘as it stood’ went top of the league. Where they are now.

But football matches are much more important than presidential elections. And no amount of law suits can alter the league table. I’ve tried. On grounds of diminished responsibility. Pleas of mitigation. Based on morality, when Chelsea or Manchester City are involved, obviously. But the courts aren’t interested. Football has its own ‘court system’ anyway and its called VAR. Unfortunately it is total shite and not worth the cost of the tv screen.

Liverpool played after Spurs and could have gone top with a win at Man City. But it wasn’t to be. Even though Etihad Airlines sponsor the video refs. In cash. And City duly won a really dodgy penalty but amazingly the never-failing Kevin De Bruyne actually failed to score it. But the draw was sufficient to keep Liverpool below Spurs. Even though Leicester’s match had by then finished and they were top.

Yet the best was yet to come. I didn’t watch it because I would never spend 15 quid on pay-per-view to watch Arsenal. In case they won. However, they didn’t win. They rather catastrophically, rather beautifully, rather… wonderfully, managed to lose 3-nil to Aston Villa. Who I noted, when I did see hilights later on BBC FOR FREE!!!, were just brilliant. And played… well, played like Arsenal once did, all speed of attack and fabulous, flowing, one-touch wonder. And Ollie Watkins. The ‘kid’ who’d put three past Liverpool, yesterday scored 2 against Arsenal. Bless him. Until he scores against Spurs.

Ahhhh, delightful Monday. Because for those 28 minutes, I was living the dream. Its time to ‘believe’!!!!

A xxxx

If you buy a newspaper purely for the annoyance you know it will give you, then you can’t really be surprised that you end up angry. And if that paper is The Mail, then really, what the fuck do you expect?

On the front page of today’s Mail on Sunday was no mention of the American Election. The one the world has been waiting a week to be resolved and the immense relief arrived yesterday.

Yet the Mail chose to lead with its ‘FREE INSIDE!!!! Lose up to 7lbs in lockdown with Slimming World’. And even pushing its ‘12 page eating plan’. Food is big our lives, I get that. Overeating is even bigger (fat-joke) I get that too. The main headline was how the government are searching Ministers’ phones to try and find who leaked last week’s lockdown news before it was announced. There was also a picture of the Queen in a Royal Mask. Well, a regular black mask but it becomes ‘royal’ as soon as she puts it on, obviously. She went to lay a wreath on the grave of the unknown soldier. For remembrance weekend. Though it appeared she was the only one who remembered as no-one else was there. All normal such activities falling under the rule of 6, or just 1 if its a Queen, or possibly its a Tier 4 thing, or a ‘sporting activities’ ban, golf, tennis, darts and wreath-laying.

You had to go to page 7 for the start of the ‘11 page election special!!!!’ To find out that Biden won. Well, that’s what 359,999,999 Americans believe. The other one thinks differently. The other one is so deluded that he believes he won the election, ‘by a lot’. Wow. That’s amazing Don, ‘a lot’, wow.

But the real reason for the Mail’s stance is that they are massive Trumpites… Trumpishers… Trumpaphiles, whatever. They fucking love him. So the editor (who was probably at one time a fundraiser for the British National Party and now chairs the ‘Blue-rinsed lives Matter!!!’ campaign) chose not to honour Biden (a virtual communist in the eyes of the Mail) and so relegated him to page 7.

Note to self: cancel Mail on Sunday subscription, its not good for you.

Happy Sunday (Spurs could go top with a win this afternoon. At least for a couple of hours, but ITS A START!!)

A xxxx

I’d like to speak on behalf of all American citizens. Even though I’m not one. Never have been. And wouldn’t become one for all the Cadillacs in Detroit. Possibly all the hamburgers in California though, in case you’re thinking about asking me. Because otherwise I think my bodyweight is too low for full citizenship.

And I’d like to offer a massive thank you to President (for the moment) Donald J. Trump. (And I just learned that the ‘J’ does NOT stand for ‘Jerkoff’. How did they miss that?) Because ridiculous presidency aside, what Donald has shown the world is that the Home of the Brave, Land of the Free (other than to vote by post) and richest, loudest, most… everythingest nation in the Universe (the mere ‘world’ is simply not big enough for all that everything), is incapable of running an election worthy of the term.

The Greeks managed it 3000 years ago without computers. The Europeans (including, for one more month or so, Britain) are masters of the vote. Third world nations filled with illiterate people, manage to perform elections easily and, for the most part, correctly. Impoverished African nations do it simply and effortlessly.

Yet America, who can send men to the moon (allegedly) and put on The Super Bowl every year, simply can’t get their shit together at voting time. They’re still counting fucking votes in Pennsylvania. Four days after the event. Same with Arizona. Georgia they managed but… they’re doing it again, just to check. There are a whole bunch of ‘military votes’ (soldiers overseas) which won’t be counted until November 10th. I mean, I mean, I mean… didn’t they know in advance that there was going to be an election? Weren’t they told the date? Was it a surprise? A secret?

If you have an election on Tuesday, you should know the result on Wednesday. That’s it. Anything else you may have to do should be done before. Like postal votes. Like military votes. Like election fraud. Oops. And then the system would be safe from stupid and senseless allegations by cry-baby bad losers intent on litigation.

So, thanks Don,

A xxxx

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