Andy's Glasses

Let’s invent a scenario. An unlikely scenario. In fact the most unlikely scenario anyone’s imagined since the great plague of 1665.

Let’s say that a virus ‘escaped’ onto the planet, sent by aliens. Ok, I mean ‘alien’ as defined by UK Borders, rather than by Isaac Asimov or anyone in the eponymous movie.

So this ‘alien’ gets the virus in Chaiaiaiaina. Either (china)man bites bat or bat bites (china)man, same difference. And it spreads. And spreads. And goes ‘viral’, as well as in the literal sense, with the speed of a Donald Trump tweet about shooting protesters.

When it arrived on these shores the government procrastinated, deliberated, considered, calculated, postulated, obfuscated and masturbated. (On the grounds that they’re all a bunch of wankers anyway.) During which time the virus escalated beyond control. At which point the debate ended and the path was chosen. No longer deemed viable to go for ‘herd immunity’, we need to lock down. And we did. And the government paid our wages and gave us gifts and mortgages were deferred and shops and offices and factories shut down as the state took over, told us what to do, how to do it, and they’d pick up the bill. But it only worked in such a profound manner because the government used a ‘project fear’ technique, refined in the Brexit ‘debate’ (read: ‘FUCKING LIES!!!!’) They scared us shitless with images of hospitals unable to cope, virus-infected bodies lying foaming on the pavement in Regent Street, pointed top scientists at us who told how ‘YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIEIEIEIEI!!!!’ if you don’t adhere to the rules.

Fast forward 9 weeks and we’re all busy sunbathing, gardening, walking 2 metres apart and enjoying ‘retirement’ even if we’re only 25 (as if). Wages paid by government, just like work but… without having to work. Let me think how I feel about that. Ok, done it. Thought it out (3.2 seconds) and I like it. Let me get it straight: I can either go back to work, risking life and limb on the tube, touching people(!!!!!!!!!) and being in constant danger. Or I can stay doing nothing and perfectly safe whilst still getting paid. Hence, 3.2 seconds.

So how do you get out of that? How can you ‘reduce the fear’ or make people feel comfortable again, having employed horror tactics for the last 3 months? And basically controlling the propaganda in the most negative way imaginable. How do you unwind all that?

Well how about finding a sacrificial lamb? Someone so high up that everyone knows him/her. Someone known to be cleverer than clever. And make him do something that seems stupid, illogical, contrary to every forced zeitgeist we now all know and adhere to. But which, in one stupid trip to Durham, with a side journey to Bernard Castle, made us all instantly re-think our own personal deprivations and wish them ended. Gave us all the righteous indignation to think ‘well if he can fucking do that, WHY CAN’T I?’ And thus created a desire to ‘return to normal’ that otherwise would be lost in the next episode of whatever Netflix serial pushes your buttons.

It’s a theory someone told me about. And the more I think about it…

Happy ‘what if’ day

A xxxx

Lockdown is eased today! Which I initially thought: what the fuck??? Like, why announce last wednesday that easing will take place in 5 days time? Why not ‘now’? Why not ‘from tomorrow’? Ahhhh, its to stop people gathering on the beach at Bournemouth over the weekend, ahhhhhh. And how did that work, exactly? Oh, there were crowds! People in their millions! Sunbathing! Swimming!!! So-sha-lize-ingggg!!!! Didn’t they read the small print? Or in fact the big print which said, and I quote: “gatherings of up to 1 person can still meet anywhere anytime except in a hairdressing salon. Two or more people can pass within 2 metres but one has to be shot immediately afterwards. Three people’s a crowd. Four people from 2 families can meet up at no less that 45 yards for no more than 14 minutes. BUT NOT TIL MONDAAAAAAYYYYY.”

Unfortunately this doesn’t allow for ‘the Cummings factor’. Which basically took all the previous rules, from number 1 to number 21,547, and gave them all, together, separately and sequentially, a big FUCK YOU!!! Altogether now: “I’ll do what I want, I’ll do what I waa-aant, I’m Dominic Cummings, I’ll do what I want”. Works with “… everyone hates me, I’ll do what I want” as well.

So yesterday. A day premature. We went to visit Mel’s brother. Because he’s old and needs some caring. Even though he’s her younger brother. Not the point. We needed to offer care. From the required distance of 2 metres (UK) or 1.5 metres if he’d moved to Holland or just 1 metre, almost kissing distance, in Berlin.

Ok, I didn’t so much go to care for the bro-in-law but to check the wellbeing of his E-type Jag. It’s very old and has ‘pre-existing conditions’. Well it had pre-existing conditions in that a woman (no judgments, no comments, just a fact) ploughed into it while being driven round a roundabout. So 18 months and a full, back to metal re-paint and straighten, it has been reborn. Into a world ridden with coronavirus!!!

And as much as I adhere to the greenest of all possible world scenarios, personally fund anti-emission causes, only walk, cycle or hug trees and store farts in little jars in case I increase methane gas proportions in the atmosphere, I love a fucking monster car.

And the E-type just perfectly fits the bill. Because as well as being universally regarded (me AND Austin Powers) as the prettiest, sexiest, most gorgeous car ever conceived, when they upped it to 5 litres of fastness and 12 cylindricals of wonderment it qualified as an official monster supercar. One of the first.

It’s fast. Very fast. Not new Ferrari fast, not new Porsche fast but 1970 amazingly fast. Which you’d have to term ‘dangerously fast’. In that it has no drags, no 22 inch low profile tyres, no ground-hugging optimisation. It just has… power. It does have brakes but they feel very 1970 as well. Braking was never the point of this car. And it shouldn’t be now. You drive for the power, the brakes are other people’s problem. Social distancing wasn’t a problem in that era, so we may have been within 2 metres for some of the ride. Possibly.

Wind up windows, a non-motorised soft-top and a four-speed manual. 5th gear wasn’t invented until 1982 and the other 6 never came til last week.

But it is beautiful. Eye-wateringly beautiful.

Happy day of new freedom. Phah!

A xxxx

For all those who have temporarily ‘paused’ their sky sports subscriptions (and if you haven’t, just email them and they’ll give you a credit from the last match played), it is fast approaching the time to… un-pause!!! Because on June 17th (the day after my birthday, if you’re interested, and car showrooms are open from Monday for my pressie; McLarens on special offer since they laid off 200 workers) football’s coming back!!!!

The first match is that between Manchester City and Arsenal, as a kind of a test, because no-one cares who wins, who contracts illness or who dies. They’ll be ‘taking one for the team’. Just not neccessarily their teams. It probably won’t be played on ‘neutral ground’ because no-one cares about Arsenal nor Manchester City and their fans wouldn’t get off their sad and sorry furloughed arses to travel anyway. And with absolutely nothing of any relevance to anyone dependant on the outcome, they’ll play it wherever. Liverpool fans will moan at the injustice.

The idea of the ‘neutral grounds’ is that if the match is ‘important’, not like ‘track and test’, which is important but won’t be ready for June 17, nor possibly July 17 either, then they worry fans will go to the ground anyway. Even though they can’t go in and watch the match. And its true, many fans are indeed that stupid. If Dominic Cummings was a football fan, he’d go just because he can. And although they initially said that all London derby matches would be on neutral territory, preferably up north somewhere, they’ve now decided that they can be played at their scheduled venues. Liverpool fans will moan at the injustice.

Liverpool matches, ‘which may decide the league title’ will definitely be played on neutral grounds. Because no-one anywhere wants 20,000 drunk scousers on their doorstep, even, so it would seem, at Anfield. But with their first title for 30 years (zzzzzz) on the line and the possibility of finally living up to their ridiculous sense of over-entitlement, its a fair guess that their fans will turn up anywhere, to celebrate. Not like they have jobs to go to or any other distractions, like families or loved ones. But the police will be keen to break up crowds to prevent Covid contact. Liverpool fans will moan at the injustice.

How the league finishes, if it finishes, if it just dies and fizzles out, if they abandon it altogether, pass it on to next year, wipe the entire season away, whatever, there’s just one certainty. Liverpool fans will moan at the injustice.

Happy 2.5 weeks to football day

A xxxx

I’ll come clean. Childcare is an issue. For Dominic Cummings. For Lila’s mum. For me. Possibly all for different reasons. But similar outcome. Which is: social distancing is all well and good as a general, over-riding concept or principle, with good intentions and part of a deeply flawed and pretty ill-conceived plan (other countries have done sooooo much better), but, quite frankly, it ain’t for me. Or possibly; it must involve a degree of flexibility? Certain individual circumstantial controls? Whatever. What happened was: day 3 of lockdown, possibly day 2, the mother of my grandchildren called not so much in despair, more ‘on the edge’ of something. Because Lila, the most wonderful child the world has ever known or even considered could exist in any parallel universe, and Joey, the ultimate end point of human evolutionary wonder, had gone ‘to the dark side’. Not that they were bad, naughty, horrid, just… DEMANDING!!!! Constantly, incessantly and sweetly, but just… it was HARD. So we made a decision. It took approximately 12.31 seconds. We would help.

So firstly we had to socially distance, obviously. Hmmmmm. How do you do that with Joey. Who can’t walk yet but can climb his way into a thousand accidents-waiting-to-happen each hour. You can’t catch a falling baby from 2 metres. I’ve tried. They get broken. And Lila. There aren’t sufficient weapons in the world to keep me 2 metres from Lila. So that was social distancing out the window. Better that than Joey out the window.

And I appreciate I am in a vulnerable class. I have a chronic and incurable degenerative condition. It’s called ‘ageing’. But I put on a brave face, and a Captain Hook hat and run round the garden with Lilabell. As if nothing else mattered. Which it doesn’t.

So we look after the kids for part of virtually every day. Not because they need the help, even their mum’s initial panic subsided quickly and morphed into efficiency and capability. But because its the best thing ever. Playtime.

Therefore, much as Dominic Cummings is a nob and an imbecile, albeit the cleverest imbecile in the country, possibly the whole Continent, pulling the ‘childcare card’ was an instant path to empathy. So he thought. The problem being that I can flaunt rules if I choose. The only people who can’t are those who make them.

I may not be the best cook in the world. I’m certainly not the best pastry chef ever. I struggle with ready made stuff. But sandwiches? I stand alone in the world of sandwich makers. On a pinnacle.

Like this one. Because until they open the cafes and sandwich bars in the city again, I need to take food when I go into work. A challah roll, the size of a compact car. Cheese. Lots of cheese. Tomato, coleslaw. And ‘secret ingredients’. So secret I’ll tell you. Hummus, chilli mayonnaise (life changing) and Branston pickle. Oh my, but it was good.

Happy Days

A xxxx

Ahhhh, Dominic Cummings; the gift that keeps giving. Now elevated to national hate-figure and pariah, the devil incarnate (he always had it in him), and the embodiment of the expression: when you’re in a hole, STOP DIGGING. Or he should be. He’s bright enough to know that pathetic excuses will be viewed as such by the general public. Who may not share his stellar IQ but who do indeed recognise that if something smells like shit and looks like shit, then it probably is. Add that to the initial ‘crime’ of doing precisely what he’d not merely told us not to do, but pretty much enshrined it in the law. Tosser.

Which is where some ambiguity comes in. Because the other day I referred to the man as ‘Dom’. For years my pet name for me mate, the eponymous one. Who also happens to be a tosser, so I can see the problem. So for the purposes of MY Dom, or anyone else living in such an egocentric world, the use of the word Dom on these pages henceforth and hereafter will refer exclusively to the headline in every paper one we’re all interested in and not the other one who no-one gives a shit about.

I hope that clarifies.

So Dom goes up north, always a capital offence in my book, before you’ve even got out the car. And he did so with Coronavirus, making him an idiot. Like, the day after telling everyone in the country DON’T GO NOWHERE!!!!.

He made his excuses, we’re all fine with that (phah!) and now we’re onto phase 2. The Day Trip. To Bernard Castle. A local ‘beauty spot’. And going there whilst infected. Getting out the car. Walking round! (And if this instinctively appals you, the thought of such behaviour, just take a moment to think how far we’ve all ‘come’ in the last 10 weeks).

But then the excuse. The reason. And, pretty much the laughable and ludicrous nail in the coffin of his current career. He ‘wanted to check his eyesight’. Ok, fair point, don’t want to be a danger, so here’s what you do: look at something. The end. And as a professional in the eyesight department, I know such things. Go outside if you like, look down the road. Look up at some trees. He was on a farm FFS, nothing but open spaces with distant things to view. Alternatively you can:

Get in a very powerful car and fire up the engine. Make sure you have at least 1 four year-old child strapped (loosely) in the back. Put your wife in the passenger seat; the one where most people die in car accidents. And drive. If you reach the end of the road and no-one is dead yet, but you’re still ‘uncertain’, drive a further 60 miles just to make sure that the ‘test’ is a success.

Dom’s crime is that he thinks he’s so clever that whatever he does, or says he does, is just beyond question. Either he’s a fucking idiot or he is really convinced that the other 62 million in this country genuinely are.

The Government lost more popularity points yesterday than in any day since Cameron fucked up an election debate with Nick Clegg. Nineteen prime ministers ago. Because Boris joined in the arrogance and, instead of laughing at what his senior advisor said, like everyone else did, he tried to give it a credibility by his endorsement. Making him look like a total nob as well.

And on it goes…

Happy sunny day

A xxxx

Today the esteemed Master Joseph Conway Bell reaches the immense milestone of his first birthday. Yesterday he was ‘zero’, today he is 1. The difference is marked. Yet really, every day is a milestone at that kind of age. He dribbles a bit less. Ok, not much but a bit. He crawls faster, stands more, walks one more step before- JOEYYYYY!!!! and is generally more able, stronger, bigger, better with each passing second. Yesterday’s meaningless babble is today’s proto-word construction. Though only in the ears of a parent/grandparent. And every day is a celebration of life. His life, my life, everyone’s life laid bare by the wonder of Jojo. And he DOES say ‘Lila’, after a fashion, and he does say ‘Pa-pa’ and he does say ‘dis’ quite a lot, and he even says ‘Dominic Cummings is a total tosser’. No, really, he does.

Because even at 1 year old, Joey is bright enough to realise the inevitable. The blatantly obvious. That which hardly needs saying. Dominic Cummings is a tosser. BUT, and this is a fairly big ‘but’, he is Boris Johnson’s tosser. And thus the PM found nothing in Dom-gate to show his mate and ally acted in any way other than ‘responsibly, legally and with integrity’. A statement like that would, in normal political times, mean ‘gone by tomorrow, history by Wednesday, forgotten by Friday’. But normal times these ain’t.

From my own perspective, I couldn’t give a shit where Dominic Cummings is at any given time. Little interests me less. Ok, possibly golf, but not much else. Boris said Dom went to Durham ‘for the safety of his child!!’ Which is obviously bollocks. Also, Dom is basically in charge of the entire country. Boris won’t sneeze without the man’s approval. Except when he had coronavirus but only because he was given a special exemption.

And there’s the rub. Dominic Cummings, through various mouthpieces; the PM, Health Secretary, top medical advisers, told us to ‘stay put and go nowhere’. Legality is irrelevant, it was all about ‘the nation pulling together by doing what its told to do’.

Roman emperors willingly sacrificed their own children for any semi-legit cause; wars, gods, raffles, whatever. I’m not suggesting Dom should have done the same, I’m just sayin’.

But it wasn’t about the child. It was about making his life a bit more comfortable and easy than if he’d stayed in London. And I don’t know Mrs Dominic at all but if she’s as ‘human’ as her husband then that child has no fucking chance whatsoever anyway.

You can’t set the rules and then be seen acting in direct opposition to them. Then you become a hypocrite. You create a ‘you and us’ situation; the cans and can’ts. Which is wrong.

I don’t think Dominic should be sacked; what’s the point? But an admission by someone (him, Boris, Joey, anyone) that he was wrong, some remorse perhaps, would at least remove some of the horrible arrogance which is now becoming associated with the whole affair.

Happy Birthday, JoJo
xxxx

It’s over. Man wins. Shed succumbs to the inevitable force and… becomes a shed. Maybe its Man 1, 1 shed. All but the door. Which apparently, in normal sheds is actually attached. But this is no normal shed. This is a SUPERSHED and thus the door just sits there. Awaiting someone stronger than Mel who is capable of holding it still and level for the 19 minutes required to insert 4 screws. I might go on ‘taskrabbit’ as a ‘shed assembly dude for rent’.

Because I took a trip on Friday to The City of London. I went on the tube. And sat in a carriage with my mask, gloves, face shield, force field, wet-suit, Batman suit, ski-pants, rubber mask, all wrapped in cling-film with two little holes to breathe. No-one got onto my carriage the whole way in. No-one. Empty.

Which is indeed a great way to travel by tube, particularly during a viral epidemic, but it also speaks volume about my city. No-one is going into work. No-one. They’re all lying in bed, setting the alarm for 7.45 to ‘log in’, then going back to sleep for 4 hours. Have brunch, in the garden, social distancing from your 5 mates also ‘working from home’, then check 3 emails before logging off for lunch. After that it’s Netflix time, just 5 or 6 episodes of whatever, before writing three replies and logging off for the day. Then just a quick message to the boss to tell him how ‘I’m so much more productive at home!! It’s amazing!!! Plus I get extra work time without the commute!!! It’s brilliant!!’

No-one is going back to the City any time soon. Only me. Friday was good because I’d arranged to meet several people at assigned times. Other than those people the streets were as deserted as the tube. And whatever happens to ‘end lockdown’, those who CAN work from home will be encouraged to do so til the bitter end. Until the virus is beaten. Until herd immunity renders it impotent. Until Dominic Cummings resigns. Until 2025. By which time they’ll be allowing 16 people to watch live football at the same time! In the same stadium!!

I’m going to become a full-time nanny/shed builder. I can hold a baby in one hand and an electric screw-driver in the other.

Happy Days

A xxxx

As a nutritional expert I have reached a conclusion about a certain class of foods. In my ongoing (lifelong) study of all ‘things wot get eaten’, which has obviously reached new, improved levels since lockdown as we seem to be eating 8 meals a day. The days of a tuna sandwich or a chicken baguette are over. Now we ‘create’ lunches. We have become foody snobs and fine diners. Exclusively. Ish. I make Yotam fucking Ottolenghi look like a man with a hot dog stand.

But the conclusion I reached this very morning was not a salady thing. It was far more important. It was about peanut butter. Because M&S make the absolute best version. You can keep Skippy (tastes too American), everyone else’s is shit, Waitrose very average. But M&S make, for me, the definitive version to which all others aspire and pale into insignificance against. And now they’ve either changed it (I WILL DIE!!!!) or they’ve introduced a new additional one (if there is a God). I just picked it up thinking they’d changed the jar. Then noticed, once I was home, that it had ‘New’ printed on it. As if I someone might view that as a good thing. Then I noticed the killer statement underneath. “No added salt, sugar or palm oil”. NOOOOOOOO!!! I fucking love those additives. And any others they want to throw in, flavourings, e-numbers, colouration, anything. And they removed them. Bastards. And it tastes different. Less… salty, not quite as… sweet, insufficiently… palmy.

So my conclusion is: NEVER BUY ANYTHING WITHOUT ADDITIVES!

And here is my recipe for a typical lunch. The perfect salad.

Marinade haloumi with chopped garlic, balsamic vinegar, soy sauce and olive oil (I mean, come on, that is healthier than… peanut butter), fry in… probably a pan. Until its… done. Prepare a plate with ‘salad’. This must include: lettuce, tomatoes, cucumber, potato salad, coleslaw, boiled egg, avocado, spinach. Add the haloumi, ‘drizzle’ on 4 soup ladles of chilli mayonnaise. Then pick out the lettuce, cucumber and spinach and put in the bin. Sprinkle with a chicken leg or a steak. Add chips to taste. Serve with bread. And another steak. Possibly some sausages.

You can eat healthily in lockdown. It just takes a little effort. And some additives.

Happy day of strange weather

A xxxx

It’s been a busy few months for Boris Johnson. And his Johnson.

They became prime minister, ‘got Brexit done’ (remember Brexit; ahhhh the nostalgia…), caught Covid 19, nearly died, came back to life, like Jesus, and became a father for the 17th time (estimates may vary).

Some minor relief arrived for our overwhelmed PM yesterday when the Independent Office for Police Conduct declared that there was insufficient evidence to investigate charges of ‘misconduct in a public office’ over his ‘relationship’ with Jennifer Arcuri, another loud-mouthed big blonde thing. BUT, they stated, he may have breached ethical standards expected of public officials.

They obviously don’t read the papers much, nor books on political history, they’ve never been to Cliveden and remain mired in some parallel universe where sexual harassment, affairs and scandals are not collectively led by the political classes. Boris’s ‘ethical standards’ are precisely what I’d expect of any politician. In the real world.

Yet its the word ‘relationship’ which perplexed me in this context. Implying that Bo and Jen were hand-in-hand strolling through the park, eating ice creams and picturing their life together after Boris left his (extremely) long-suffering wife and mother of 4 of his children. Whereas Boris stated in his defence: ‘That Arcuri bird? I was just shaggin’ it.’ (I may have changed the actual wording slightly but certainly captured the exact sentiment, of that I’m sure).

Boris found a willing bundle of fun and sexuality and decided, unilaterally, to take it with him on a few ‘business development trips’ to Europe. Sex which is ‘free at the point of delivery’. For him. With public funds to pay for them both, obviously. He was the mayor of London, ffs, gotta be some perks. So he promised her a few grand (100,000 was the amount banded ab out) for business development and took her on a junket or two. What ‘ethical standards’?

Dominic Cummings was found to have committed the less ambiguous crime of ‘being a tosser during lockdown’. Of breaking the rules. Which, essentially, he imposed upon us, given his ridiculous level of ‘influence’ he has over our PM. The ‘rules’ would have been his rules. And its not like he went out to buy milk when he already had one pint of semi-skimmed and a litre of blue-top!! No. What he did was take a train to Durham. From London. To see his parents. 250 miles away. Well, maybe there were good reasons. BUT…

His wife, who traveled too, and Dominic, both had Coronavirus. Both tested positive and had symptoms. And took them on a train ‘up north’ to spread the love.

I’m not big on rules. Lockdown or otherwise. It’s not my nature. But this. THIS!! Without getting too ‘cultural revolution’ about it (another fabulous Chinese export), Dominic should be pilloried and shamed. Unfortunately ‘shame’ is a bit too human an experience to bother Dominic and his somewhat ‘other worldliness’.

Happy today/yesterday

A xxxx

Ok

Sent from my iPad

I’ll start with a question: eh-hem: does anyone out there make a power drill with a petrol motor? If not, why not? Not that my old rechargeable electric is insufficient in any way, just that… just that… just that I like petrol engines. The smell, the noise, the mess, oil down my arms, petrol over my shoes, exhaust fumes in my face, trying to drill guide holes with something powered by a Mustang V8 block weighing more than the shed, I love it all. So I wondered.

Yet there’s one little problem I do have with my electric screwdriver which I share with Tesla owners. When the charge runs out, yer fucked. On Sunday, when ‘project shed’ started in earnest, I had to assemble all the panels. Screw them together. Then screw them some more. Then screw them to the floor, then screw something else to something else. And with 3 screws left, the fucker died. Just went into slooooow-w-w-w-w m—o—o—-o—-o—- and then it was over. Ok, I should have a spare battery, peutetre, but I’ve never needed one in the previous 15 years I’ve owned the tool. But you see, if it was petrol… ahhhhh. Yes, I KNOW that can run out too, yet I have a little ‘can’ made of special plastic and there’s always petrol in there.

So the shed is in mid-assemblage, as you will doubtless note and even more doubtless, be impressed. Yeah, right. The colour was (obviously) Mel’s idea. But I like it. And we stole it from Lila’s house, left over from when her shed was painted.

Yet its not all plain sailing. It’s an exercise in problem solving. And the problem is this: the shed is shit. Not total shit. Just… moderate. The panels don’t marry up ‘perfectly’, the heights of things vary, some bits are warped a bit this way and that. So today, one of my long… errrr… bits of wood, I’ll call it, turned out to be about 1/3rd of an inch too long. Grrrrrrrr. I could saw it, but that’s painful. I could plane it, but that’s worse. Or…

I could get out my circular saw. The world’s most vicious piece of equipment. It can remove an arm in 3 tenths of a second. Fingers wouldn’t even register. It’s old and dusty because I never use it. A builder left it here decades ago. But plug it in and holy shit its so brutal its almost spiritual. Took 1.8 milliseconds to remove the offending wood.

And now I’ve decided, finally, on my first tattoo. I’m going to have it across my chest, just above nipple level. Which is a bit lower than when I first decided on having a tattoo there, I grant you. It will proclaim: I FUCKING LOVE POWER TOOLS!!! In honour of the shed.

Jesus was a carpenter. Got ‘furloughed’ big time. Then unfurloughed himself. Then got furloughed again.

Happy almost penultimate shed-building day.

A xxxx