Andy's Glasses

Rachie’s gone. Or ‘don’ as Lila says. She went red, turned into half a lobster, recovered pretty damned sharpish, so we slung her out and sent her back to Berlin. We even did the unspeakable, the impossible, the never-ever-in-Conway-land unmentionable and ‘took her to the airport’!!! Just to make sure she really left. We never do airports. It’s just the worst thing ever. The traffic, the crowds, the parking, the waste of time… so Coronavirus actually gave us the solution to every one of those problems. No traffic, no need to park, lots of time and crowds? Crowds??

We didn’t want her to get a cab. They’re driven by disease-ridden ne’er do well rapists. Which is fine in normal circumstances, but THESE AREN’T NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, in case you missed that.

The ‘crowds’ at Heathrow were… missing. No cars. No people. Deserted. Terminal 5 hasn’t been this quiet since the day before it opened. More worrying, no planes. Empty skies all the way.

But the daughter had to return to the Fatherland. Because she has to vacate her flat. And that’s hard from here. Where she arrived on March 10th, just in time for mummy’s birthday, and has been locked out of Germany ever since. Lucky for her. She has to undergo a 2 week ‘quarantine’, enforceable by leather-coated, jack-booted… well, by the police. Stasi. Whatever. And after that she can move. And resume working in yet another different home. Same commute, which is picking up your laptop and pulling it onto the bed with you.

Not the best of times to be on a plane. In an airport. Traveling. But what do you do? Mask up, gloves on and hold your breath for 4 hours.

The round trip to and from Heathrow took 1 hour 15 minutes. In the ‘real world’ it would take 14 hours of hair-pulling, honking, screaming, red-faced swearing (not like Rachie’s one, this one stops at the neck, in which every sinew is stretched to gruesome), parking space-less, move along, can’t leave that ‘ere, mate, total frustration and agony.

Happy just-the-two-of-us Day

A xxxx

What’s the worst thing you can possibly do? Not murder, too obvious and too understandable in the current climate. Train as a ‘hands on healer’? Turn Jihadi? Because although you know nothing about religion or politics, you think you look dead cool in a kefiyah? Become an Arsenal fan?

No. The worst thing you can do is visit a hospital. In ‘normal times’ that is a thing to be avoided (I would say ‘like the plague’ but… but…) whereas now, its tantamount to suicide. If the MRSA don’t kill ya, the coronavirus will. I usually cross to the other side of the street if I walk too close to the Royal Free, but since the pandemic, I cross into a different postal region. Take the 6.2 mile detour. Just in case. No, I’m NOT paranoid. Just… cautious. Pragmatic. Realistic. A tosser.

But that was all ok until we had dinner last night. Then the world turned even a bit more upside down that it has been of late. And it was a wonderful dinner. I’m only sorry now that I didn’t take a photo of it, so you could see how splendid, how wonderful, even how healthy, do the Conways eat in a crisis. Ok, and how much the Conways eat at all times. We had tuna steaks. Ooooh, that’s healthy (so you’d fucking believe). On a bed of rice (best carb you can have, except the ones which are better and if you have a thing about potatoes) and Oriental flavoured (no bat, just plum sauce, soy and powdered rhino horn) stir-fried vegetables. Wonderful. We in fact commented on how the tuna, from a REAL fishmongers, is ‘so much better’ than the stuff you buy… errrr… at the Texaco.

An hour later Rachie was red. Like, all over, red. And hot. And shaking. And hotter. And redder. I was fascinated in that I thought she was turning into a lobster and was looking forward to seeing the claws sprout. Like a human ‘Transformer’. From a scientific perspective. From a parental perspective I was ‘concerned’. We phoned Doctor Auntie for a video consult. Who’s normal response to any crisis (bullet wounds, heart attacks, being impaled on iron railings…) is ‘take a paracetamol and see how it is in the morning’. But who this time said: GO TO THE HOSPITAL! NOW!!

Holy shit. A hospital. Noooooooooo!!! Send me to prison, send me into a fire, send me to Stamford Bridge. But a h-h-hospital!!!

They were (needless to say) brilliant. They were even (needless to say) somewhat aware of coronavirus. So we weren’t allowed to accompany the daughter inside. Instead directed to the waiting room chairs. Which I would have rather eaten than sat upon. We waited outside. As Rachie was seen by Doctor Cousin (Doctor Auntie’s son) and his registrar. Who worked out it was a massive allergic response (we knew that) but antihistamines (which had been taken) were insufficient. So they gave her steroids (and if she tests positive today from our walk SHE WILL BE BANNED AND SHAMED) and after half an hour her heart rate had lowered to near normal and the threat of lobsterisation removed completely. Which was a bit upsetting for me. Probably not for her.

It’s proper name is ‘scombroid food poisoning’. Tuna does it. Even ridiculously expensive tuna, apparently. Mel and I also suffered very minor version for a short period, but Rachie was the full event. She’s such a drama queen.

Happy, healthy, hospital free… EVERY day

A xxxx

I’m worried about Kim Jong-Un. He’s been ‘absent’. Unseen since April 11th and that concerns me. He didn’t come for dinner last night, missed out on our Zoom drinks date on Saturday and sales of Marlborough Reds have declined in North Korea over the past month. All of which is deeply disturbing. His absences are equally unusual. He didn’t attend some army parade or other in Pyongyang, and he loves an army parade. Almost as much as he loves a missile testing, and he missed the last one of those too.

Reports are numerous. And coming from the world’s most secretive and opaque county, most are completely meaningless speculation without any grounding in intelligence or information.

He’s dead! That was in the Mail so for that reason alone it is fairly safe to assume that Kim is alive and well. And probably not reading the Daily Mail.

He’s had major heart surgery. Which is certainly credible as he looks like a heart-attack-waiting-to-happen. Or possibly, did look like that. Now we don’t know. We do know he is, clinically speaking, a fat little fuck, who drinks likes a fish and smokes like a chimney. And one report stated that the surgeon was so nervous he was literally shaking and fucked up the op. Which is almost as believable as Kim being abducted by aliens from Venus. Who you know would have sent him back pretty sharpish. And you kind’a think that if the surgeon had become incapacitated by nerves, he’d have passed on delicate tasks to one of his minions. Not like he would have been operating ‘alone’.

Kim, like all children, has his own train set. In his case, its a real, proper, 1:1 train. 250 metres of it. And it has been spotted by a seaside resort on the east coast. So possibly he went sunbathing. Or paddling. Crabbing. Convalescing.

So many possibilities. Kim is the new Elvis. Everyone knows where he is but no-one’s actually seen him. And if they have, they ain’t tellin’.

Should the esteemed leader really be in an unfortunate confluence of shit and fan, we needn’t worry, as little Sis, Kim Yo-jong, is fit and ready to carry on brother’s good work, making sure that their population remain repressed, impoverished and beaten into submission. That their nation continues to piss off everybody within a 3,000 mile radius and beyond. Because Yo-jong is a proven bitch from the same hell her brother emerged.

We’re thinking of you, Jong-un,

Happy Day before the one after the last one

A xxxx

You see, all those boffins and doctors and biochemists and clever people were never likely to be the solution to this world-wide pandemic crisis. You need someone who can think ‘outside the box’. You need something a little more intuitive, a touch of ‘top down’ reasoning, you just need someone who can look at the ‘bigger picture’ and apply something really total and gestalt.

You need a fucking retard. Unburdened by anything so ephemeral as ‘logic’, sense or knowledge. You need someone who can just put two and two together. And make 9.43recurring. Someone who would look at a fly on dogshit and think ‘hmmmmm, if I ate dogshit maybe I too could fly!!!’ You need someone who, preferably, is bright orange, has silly hair, a fat belly, a tenuous grasp on reality and (possibly, but not essentially) a wife called Melania.

Because The Donald ‘suggested’ (subject now to massive debate) that, because disinfectant kills Coronavirus, and because humans get coronavirus we should consider injecting ourselves with disinfectant. What could be more simple? More straightforward. More logical than that.

The manufacturers of Lysol, America’s go-to disinfectant for over 50 years, immediately issued a statement to the 360 million most litigious people on the planet to the gentle but firm effect of: DON’T FUCKING DO THAT!!! YOU’LL FUCKING DIE!!! Or words to that effect. Also, snorting Vim through a rolled up $20 bill is similarly to be discouraged and drinking the Toilet Duck strictly not recommended.

The comments were not made in general. The POTUS actually directed them straight at the chief medical officer of the entire United States. All 50 of them. But then slightly backtracked stating that he was being sarcastic. Oh, that’s ok then. “I was just joking” is just as good as “it was taken out of context” in terms of political denial.

But he is the fucking president of the United States of America. And, although I despair about it, some people actually listen to what he says. As if it was spoken by God herself. (If 8 year old kids are allowed to change their gender, so is God. He/she can do what… they like). And were probably already loading up their syringes in their sheds.

I’ve said it before and I will definitely have cause to say it again: President Trump is a tosser.

Football’s coming back. We’re going to have SPORT ON THE TELLY!!!!!! The lockdown dream is soon to be a reality. Germany first. Possibly May 9th. For my brother’s birthday. Even though he hates football. And then… the Premiership!!!! Played behind locked doors whilst wearing masks. But that’s got to be better than no football, surely? The only remaining question is: how can fans fight each other whilst respecting social distancing? They’re having a cabinet meeting about that on Tuesday.

Happy Day before Tomorrow

A xxxx

Well thanks to Dom for pointing out that I hadn’t listed every brilliant film ever and possibly forgot a few. It isn’t that I have a list next to my bed and add to it every few weeks/months/years. It was just a list that sprung to mind as my fingers typed. So I forgot some. I’m human. In some ways…

So I thank him for the Blues Brothers, without which my life indeed would be far from complete. Similarly One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest. Amazing. The Godfather(s) were brilliant but far from my own personal top 10 (of 395 and counting). Though I did omit Taxi Driver, by accident, and also Dog Day Afternoon and Midnight Cowboy. Even The Witches of Eastwick. Firstly because Jack Nicholson was so brilliant that not for one moment did you suspect that his character was anything but the devil himself, and secondly because ‘we’ NEED Michelle Pfeiffer in this list. Just NEED her. Might have thought for a bit about The Usual Suspects but you’re not allowed to talk about K*v*n Sp*c*y any longer in case someone comes round and changes all YOUR vowels to asterisks!!

But movies can only take you so far. I’m expecting a whole batch of Coronavirus movies to come out soon. Keanu Reeves fighting off microbes in bullet time. Just ducking them. Tom Cruise (but he looks much bigger) fighting them off with machine guns and booby traps. Alec Baldwin starring as Donald Trump in ‘Death of a President’ about a man who refused to believe. Hattie Jacques will play Melania. Sid James as Boris Johnson.

But it turns out that Covid 19 is racist. Deeply racist. Like, KKK levels of racism. As it appears the darker your skin, the greater the chance you have of dying from it. Which is horrible. Yet statistically borne out. Whites lose 23 people out of every 100,000 of population to the virus, whereas for black people it 43! People from India and environs run at about 27, unless they’re from Bangladesh in which case it drops to just 20.

That is pure fucking racism. They should outlaw the virus on those grounds alone. I’m not sure how that stats rate for gays, lesbians and bisexuals and can see that ‘trans’ people might possible confuse the statisticians. Men are more likely to die than women from the virus. Not sure about Jews but we ain’t doing too well.

So I’m moving to Bangladesh tomorrow. I’ll keep in touch. Without touching, obvs.

Happy Next Day

A xxxx

Ok, here’s my top ten, all time, greatest ever, most brilliant, movies ever of all time, ever. Ready??

1. The Producers (original Mel Brookes, the one and only Zero Mostel)
1. Life of Brian
1. Blazing Saddles
1. Pulp Fiction (for its startling originality and Uma Thurman in that wig)
1. Duel (Spielberg masterpiece)
1. Star Wars (original, first one ever, ie part 4, which it would never have become if it had failed)
1. Play it Again Sam (Woody who can no longer be named)
1. Annie Hall (ditto)
1. The Graduate (introducing Dustin Hoffman, but Anne Bancroft… OMG, Anne Bancroft…)
1. Bullitt (jacked up Mustangs, Steve McQueen, Dodge Chargers, it had everything)
1. French Connection (same as Bullitt but Gene Hackman must be on this list)
1. Enter the Dragon (simply terrible film, hence very funny, but Bruce Lee at his arrogant best)
1. Thelma and Louise (because I’m a feminist. And Gina Davies was soooo fit)
1. Close Encounters of the 3rd Kind (love Richard Dreyfus, love modelling out of mashed potatoes)
1. Terminator (sheer brilliance, wonderful time paradox)
1. Terminator 2 (spectacularly visual, same time paradox, you can never have it too many times… no pun)
1. The Lives of Others (East Germany at its most grey and bleak and yet wonderful)
1. Django Unchained (so much violence, has to get on the list)
1. Kill Bill (Uma, martial arts, both parts just sensational)
1. Carrie (the original, obvs, the best ‘you wouldn’t wanna see me angry’ flick ever)
1. Frankenstein (Boris Karloff in the original)
1. Young Frankenstein (the… errrr… re-make)
1. Double Indemnity (my personal, ultimate, ‘noir’ movie. And Barbara Stanwick)
1. Some Like it Hot
1. Cabaret (funny, brilliant, musical, yet the dark threat of the Nazis seeping all through it, quite incredible)
1. American Graffiti (George Lucas autobiographical debut movie, introducing Harrison Ford and a shit-load of amazing cars)
1. Blue is the Warmest Colour (you simply can’t go wrong with gorgeous French lesbians)
1. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (Paul Newman was gorgeous and never more so than in fab cowboy-ish flick)
1. Fargo (just brilliant, from start to finish, every part played to absolute perfection)
1. Duck Soup. (Because without the Marx Brothers innovation verging on insanity would we ever have reached the comedic highs of Monty Python? Of Woody Allen?)

So there. It’s a start.

Happy Day after yesterDay

A xxxx

I just had an innovative invitation to my mate Sizzi’s birthday ‘party’. We’re going to hook up on Zoom and watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail for his 60th celebrations. Then we’re all going to get really pissed (alone) and smash up the bathrooms (our own) in a celebration of 70s culture. I’ve got a six pack of really trendy designer brewery beers with fancy but stupid names, like Dracula’s Kiss and Uncle Chaim’s Halitosis, and a bottle of Laphroaig in case they don’t work properly. And a sledge hammer. For the bathroom. If I’m still awake after the film. And the booze.

But not so long ago (ok, fucking decades ago) one of our local cinemas (they were open back then, in about 1977) offered a midweek ‘special’. One night only. Double hit. Monty Python and the Holy Grail and Blazing Saddles. Quite literally, at that time, the holy grail of comedic brilliance. So we went. Dozens of us. Who, collectively, had seen those 2 movies approximately 2,536 times between us. We must have set the precedent for the Rocky Horror Show. Which you can’t see in a cinema unless you know all the words to every song and scene and are dressed as a sweet transvestite. Because we knew every line of both movies. From “I fart in your general direction” to “Mungo just pawn in game of life”.

It was a zeitgeist thing. Two movies that were the epitome of their cultural freedoms of expression. Just before the devil that is ‘political correctness’ ruined fun forevermore.

Holy Grail was a masterpiece. And insulted everyone who needed insulting. Mainly French people. Fine by me. And was wild and wonderful and so stupid as to become totally brilliant. When Life of Brian eventually came out a little later it became ‘the’ ultimate Python film but mainly because it upset every church in the country and added heresy to the normal satire. But Holy Grail remains sacred to many of us.

Blazing Saddles was Mel Brooks’ finest moment. So that when PC finally came around that movie was the blueprint for ‘the place to start’. Because you were allowed to laugh at race jokes, slavery jokes, jokes against women, against Jews, Muslims, gays and even the KKK. You could even call the ‘native Americans’ ‘red Indians’! Who, for the purposes of the film, spoke Yiddish. Which is probably why it is never shown on those late night tv slots where they show old movies. Simply because its too good. And if you censored it using modern criteria there’d be just 3 minutes and 22 seconds left.

Happy Gorgeously sunny Day

A xxxx

Joey’s working from home too. And has cleared his in-tray. Because he’s very productive and very busy. And is now brain-storming. Or weeing. Either takes serious concentration. The latter sometimes more.

And working at home I dare say can be very productive. If you sit at a computer for 5 hours and… and… and do shit on that computer of a worky and creative and critical nature. On Zoom. But if your work, like mine, is a bit more ‘different’, a bit more difficult to do from home, it just means you do less. Though oddly, that ‘less’ takes 15 times longer than doing it in a work environment. Mainly because most people are stupid. Dim. Brain-dead. Moronic. And the bigger the company, the more moronic they are.

I just had an interesting conversation (never would have happened in ‘normal times’ when everyone’s on autopilot) about the whereabouts of a pair of sunglasses I ordered for someone 3 weeks ago. Which I then, as instructed, requested to be delivered to my home as THE PRACTICE IS SHUT!!!! just like everywhere else in the country. I emailed the details, exactly as requested and received confirmation from the ‘logistics’ people. What used to be called ‘dispatch’ until they got big computers and bigger ideas and demanded a new title. As befits… yeah, whatever.

This is the largest optical company in the world. By such a long way that if the chief exec wants to buy a kit-kat it HAS to be taken to the Monopolies and Mergers Commission before he can open it. By which time his tea’s gone cold.

And today I learned that the job had shipped to Fleet Street. Ah. Fleet Street. Where I used to work before the plague. Where they’ve always sent stuff. Where I specifically requested they don’t cos not only are we not currently there, at the present moment there are no living people in the entire City of London. Only the burglar who smashed my window and 16 really nice policemen. None of whom take in packages.

But what’s the point of venting my frustration, my anger, my… sheer hopelessness of this debacle, with a girl sitting in her flat in Amsterdam, on her computer, talking about the failings of tossers in Milan who can’t follow instructions sent from… possibly Riga. Maybe Prague.

As I had cause to say to a different CEO (doesn’t eat kit-kats) yesterday about a different but equally annoying matter: companies will be remembered by how they behaved during ‘the crisis’. And its true. And my shit-list is growing daily.

Much better to vent to you. Where I can do it properly and DON’T HAVE TO ACT POLITELY OR FUCKING NICELY!!!!

Happy home-working Day

A xxxx

I love America. I guess (horrible Americanism) I always have. I fell in love with Westerns as a kid, then always wanted the ‘GI Joe’ over the British Action Man, drooled over adverts for ‘chupa chops’ in DC comics, even though I had no idea what they were and with hindsight, if they were as good a confection as Hershey-anything, I did well sticking with the pictures. When I lived in California in 1982 it only enhanced my love of the place. And of the people. Some, ok, in the literal sense, but most in a ‘holy shit, are people really like that????’ kind of distant amazement type deal. In that Americans are just like us but at the same time 15 miles apart. And seemingly stuck in a clicheed world of ‘way to go!!’s and high fives. And bluster. Whilst we Brits have always been a perfect study of understatement and self-effacement, our Yankee counterparts are full of bluster and bravado. Basically, they shout a lot. Or, in the case of Mr POTUS, they shout and repeat. Shout. And. Repeat. Very slowly. As if the profundity of his moronic utterings are so important that we need to write them down or have them tattooed on our biceps.

They had a ‘protest’ somewhere in Michigan. About the unfairness of the lockdown. (I ain’t scared’y no bugs!!!) So a bunch of morbidly obese men gathered at some town hall or other, wearing their best baseball hats, to state their case. All of them carrying high-powered assault weapons over their shoulders. And I know its (sadly) legal to do so, but you have to ask yourself ‘why?’ Why would you feel the need to attend a peaceful protest in Detroit armed for the invasion of Syria? Over here we take placards. Hand written on floppy A4 sheets that no-one can read because they bend in the wind.

And then I watched Tiger King. Ho-leeeee shi-iiii-iiiiittt!!!!! Have you seen it? It explains everything you ever need to know about America and Americans. About limits. And how the limits that society imposes about any given parameter can be stretched and stressed way beyond what is even imaginable. Until you end up with the Tiger King. Who is the most red-necked red-neck, yet he’s gay. In fact he’s so gay that he’s part of a 3-way marriage. (Yes, ???) He’s the most gun-toting mutha who seems intent on killing his little lake, so many shots he endlessly fires into it with part of his immense arsenal. And of course, he has a few animals. Other than the lions, pumas, leopards, ligers (yes, fucking ‘LIGERS’ cross between our two most popular big cats), he has (had, cos he’s been locked in jail for 97 years… currently) 227 tigers. Big ones, little ones, babies, white ones, snow ones, blue ones (ok…). Just FYI being married to one or even two men in a state where, I’m gonna guess, gay marriage is illegal (Oklahoma? Oklahomo???) won’t put you in jail. Nor having 227 tigers. All stuck in horrible cages. Which he constantly enters. Shooting at your own lake won’t put you in jail either. Unless it dies. No, he’s in jail for murder.

As it apparently costs about 1000 dollars a year to feed each Tiger, that’s… add 3… divide by 7… that’s a lot of money. So he invites the public in to enjoy his critters. Have their photo taken with ickle likkle tiger cubs. Which are adorable, that must be said. But then they grow.

There’s other guys who own tiger… places? Farms? Zoos? One is a drug gang lord (retired) and the other basically runs a cult. In which he is the unquestionable Lord (by name as well as status) and appears to have almost as many concubines as he does tigers. Or ‘workers’ as he calls them for tax purposes.

Yet its the people who go to visit the tigers who actually are the most fascinating. And the wonderful distinction between a zoo (horrible places locking up animals in tiny cages) and an ‘animal salvation and research centres’ (horrible places locking up animals in tiny cages) which really is the focus of the series. And the cause of most of the trouble. Other than the lake. That deserved to be shot.

Happy sunshine-back Day

A xxxx

Some people (you know who you are!!!) don’t eat bread. They find it too… bread-like, too… carby, too… just too… something. These people are silly. Bread is wonderful, bread is delightful, bread is the best. And don’t get me started on what you can put in/on/around/between it.

Yet there’s bread and there’s bread. Paul Hollywood is Mr Bread. Not because he looks like he’s actually made from 2 very large, fluffy, fat loaves, but because he reckons he can bake it to perfection. Well not my bread he can’t. Because today is the most special day EVER (literally) for the bread we call ‘challah’. And that’s not pronounced with a ‘ch-‘ like ‘chair’, but a chchch- like clearing your throat before you spit. As if you’d spit.

People mistakenly call challah ‘Jewish bread’. It’s not. Nothing like. Challah, baked properly, can only be made by God himself. Sorry, or herself. Itself. By their gender-neutral-self. Whatever. Because no bread anywhere tastes quite like it. Slightly sweet and made with egg. Which is unusual for bread. And even Jews can only really get it on Fridays, as its baked for the Sabbath.

I’m actually fascinated by bread (coeliacs and glutards may check other pages now). In a geographical sense. Because as you travel East in the world (as if you could, like we once did) the bread gets flatter and flatter. In Western Europe we like our bread big and soft and a bit crusty on the outside. Yet when you get to even Italy, they’re making pizza bases (and what the fuck is a pizza if not an open sandwich?) and by Greece your Hovis is replaced with pitta. Which is flat but at least opens up. Turkey has those too, but also represents the start of proper, single-sheet, flat breads. Which is what bread is all across the Middle East and beyond. When you arrive at India, Pakistan and proper sub-continent Eastern nations, its all naan and chapati and roti. Mainly because they’re so good for mopping up curries, but also because most people there are savages who wouldn’t know a knife and fork from a bowler hat or an Oyster card.

Go further east and the bread has flattened off still further and is called ‘rice’.

Today is Friday. Challah day. But not only that, its the first day after Passover, when no self-respecting Jew would EVERRRR eat anything vaguely bread-ish (fortunately I have absolutely no self-respect so my rules are slightly relaxed compared to the standards of anyone wearing a black hat in summertime). So Jews are desperate for bread today. And not just any bread, but it happens to coincide with Friday. AND, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a lock-down type situation and not supposed to go out. Unless ITS ESSENTIAL. And what could be more essential than that.

They were queuing hundreds of yards outside all the Jewish bread shops this morning (for reference, in current climate, 100 yards = 4 paranoid people). But we got in. Ok, by sneezing and coughing our way to the front, but we got in. Our Marie Antoinette moment. “Fuck the cake, let them eat challah!!”

Happy pre-sabbath bread Day

A xxxx