Andy's Glasses

There’s a new virus in China. Related to the horrible ‘sars’ virus which killed a lot of people a little while ago (research is a wonderful thing; if you can be bothered with it), it causes respiratory problems and fever. Originally thought to be only transmissible via animals, the Chinese, in an uncharacteristic precedent, have opted for an honest and open approach (rather than the traditional ‘branket denialrl’) and stated that it can and has passed between humans. And as there’s rather a lot of humanity in China, that’s a problem. The virus started in Wuhan, a little village of 11 million people, which has a fish and meat market. Ahhhhhhh. Yes. Fish, meat, animals, Coronavirus.

But if it can now spread via humans, can I get it from Alexa? I know she’s not strictly ‘human’ but she’s definitely hooked up to China whilst pretending to be in my kitchen here in London. And what about 5G? Comes from Huawei. Via President Xi. Is that now a risk too? One minute you’re downloading the morning’s Lila-pics and the next you’re at the Royal Free hooked up to an oxygen mask!

Yes, Royal Free. Like Harry and Meg. A Royal Free zone. No longer allowed to use the term ‘royal’ in their… lives. As decreed by the man in today’s photo. He’s called the ‘Garter King of Arms’ and he’s in charge of protecting the royal… well, the royal ‘brand’. Who knew such a role existed? Who cared? Did it even exist before Harry’n’Meg did a runner? Judging by the truly ludicrous outfit, I’d guess there’s a history behind it. Rather than the Queen waking up last Sunday and saying ‘what one needs is a gentleman in very silly clothing, dressed like a gay mediaeval magician perhaps, who can keep Harry and his shvartzer in line. I shall buy one.’ Its probably a role dating back to Henry III or George I or Mary Queen of Wherever. But if that’s the case, no ‘Garter King of Arms’ has previously had to deal with the power of the internet. He can wave his little wand all he wants but what goes viral stays viral. Just like in China.

I can’t ‘fear’ for the young un-Royals’ future. Not financially. One series on Netflix and they can buy the fucking Queen.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve been watching a rockumentary on BBC4, my favourite tv channel. It’s about Billy Connolly. The funniest man ever to walk this planet with a Scottish accent. No, that’s too limiting, possibly the funniest man ever. Anywhere. Any accent.

The program(s) are about Billy returning to Scotland, to ‘his’ Glasgow, and relating his history. From shipyard welder to possibly the biggest stand-up comedian in the world. And its a great story. A fairy tale. His return is mildly saddened by his Parkinson’s disease, but only partly. Because although his movements may be restricted, his mind isn’t. Or ‘is-nee’, as he might say. A lot of what he says is unintelligible to English speakers. But its the bits in between that positively slay you.

I saw Billy in about 1978/79 in Victoria. Three hours of non-stop insanity and hilarity to the point where you feel you’re going to actually vomit if it doesn’t stop. All just telling stories about a bloke in a pub, about a bus stop queue, about a million things which everyone can relate to. It’s what he does. Takes the normal and illuminates it under his own brilliantly manic spotlight of sheer fun and fantasy.

Billy Connolly is revered in Scotland. He stormed into the public eye on a Parkinson show in 1975 and never looked back. He had ‘taken’ England. With his laughing eyes, with his amazing wit, his effortless charisma and with a brilliant joke about his wife’s bum. He returned from that trip a hero and has never lost the love of his nation. Because he is and always will be a Scotsman. Wherever he chooses to live.

But where he differs from other Scottish ‘ambassadors’, like, f’rinstance, Andy Murray, is that he is just so lovely. And so normal. And so loving.

The second program is about the 3 artists, all Scottish, obvs, commissioned for portraits of the man. And these artists are big. Respected. World renowned. Yet got jittery that the Big Yin was coming to visit them. In person. Even though Billy is all love and respect and total humility.

They painted and the 3 portraits were then blown up and posted onto walls in Glasgow. And Billy, on the street, is accosted by a little old lady who hugs and kisses him. And a geezer. Great Scottish bruiser, ‘working man’, loud and gruff. Who grabs Billy, plants a kiss on his cheek and says ‘yer’n’inspirrration, Billy!’

There’s no finer accolade than the respect of your peers. More powerful than Oscars.

I cried.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Do you read the Mail on Sunday? You should do. But only if you’re very right wing (obvs) and aren’t really interested in learning stuff which could loosely be described as ‘news’, more about learning stuff which is sort of ‘reactionary rubbish’. Which is why I will NOT cancel my subscription. It is funnier than Private Eye. Because where as that wonderful mag is intentionally satirical, the Mail actually takes itself seriously.

“Terrifying our children with doom-mongering propaganda about climate change is nothing less than abuse”!!!! Runs one headline. Ok, I’m only jealous because I thought I held the role as the biggest climate-change-skeptic on the planet, but this dude is an outright denier. Carbon? What fucking carbon???

There’s also 46 pages on Harry and Meg. I get that. Real news. I don’t think a full page spread on Megan look-a-likes is in any way excessive. In fact I want more pages on worthless brunettes robbed of a possible income stream unless they too move to Canada. And they have now, officially, removed the couple’s ‘HRH’ designations. They are Royal Highnesses no longer! I don’t know what I’d do if mine was removed; my life would have no meaning. But best of all is the ‘comparison’ between Harry (lovely boy, good to his grandma, does lots of charitable stuff, one’o the lads, etc, etc…) and Edward VII, (also a soldier, rabid fascist, married Yank tart divorcee nazi sympathiser and was rightly hated by everyone) who ‘also’ abdicated. They could be twins. Other than looking different. And being different. Otherwise its just uncanny!!!

The Labour leadership campaign is treated with the contempt you’d expect from the ‘one small step away from being the BNP supporting’ Mail on Sunday. They hate all the candidates. If Tony Blair was ‘Lenin’ to the Mail, what the fuck do they reckon to Corbyn? And thus to Keir Starmer and Rebecca Long Bailey? The latter of whom has upset everyone by mentioning an unmentionable. She said something about abortion laws. Nothing pro of anti, nothing radical or moral or judgmental. But if there’s one word no politician can ever mention without instant career ruination following immediately, it is “ab*rti*n”. In any context whatsoever. Because either the women’s rights groups or the Christians will get you. Or both.

There’s lots of football ‘news’ too. But I didn’t read it. Can’t read it. It’s too upsetting. Too depressing. Too… too… its just shit. All of it.

Happy Sunniest Sunday ever

A xxxx

Just when you thought it had all finished, there’s always time to squeeze in some extra ‘Brexit bollocks’ for extra fun. It’s done. It’s dusted. We’re leaving. So we need, apparently, to ‘celebrate’ this ‘wonderful’ event. Which 48% of the population never wanted. Maybe its to strengthen the positives of the whole Brexit mess and convey the message (in case anyone missed it) that ‘Brexit is getting done’ on January 31st. So Boris wants Big Ben to ring out that very message. But Big Ben is undergoing a massive reconstruction. Along with half of Westminster. So, ok, you can ring Big Ben on Brexit night, but iss gonna cost’cha half a million quid! Well, there’s delays to the works, iss gotta be tested, tried, there’s elf’n’safety to consider, bish bosh, call lit 500k, that’s fair.

But… but… but… to ring the bell on New Years cost just 14,000. Yeah, but there’s… errrr… inflation. Always bad in January. And New Years bell ring was… easier. Errrrr… less disruptive to works. So the cost now is only half a mil.

Boris decided to ‘crowd fund’ the event. And as any cost goes up in inverse proportion to the intelligence of those paying for it, they arrived at the biggest sum they could conjure up knowing how Brexiteers are so dim they’ll pay anything to ‘make their point’.

But alas, having raised over 200k in ‘donations’ in less than 2 days, they’ve now said they won’t ring their fucking bell anyway, so give the money back.

I’m devastated! How can it be Brexit without Big Ben? It just won’t be… the same(?) It just won’t be… British(?)

And today Spurs are playing Watford. And its still 0-0 after 87 enthralling minutes. And part of me (like, only from my toes to my ears) is, or will be relieved that we haven’t lost. To the team who were bottom until about 3 weeks ago. We drew with Watford when they were totally useless, in the home match and today (if we’re lucky and don’t give it away in the dying seconds) we’ll draw with them again. I wonder if Big Ben will ring when we win a match?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Someone sent me this photo, lovely shot of a Berlin morning. Gorgeous sky, the iconic TV tower (everything in Berlin is ‘iconic’, got more icons than Vatican City), and some gel in the most un-vegan attire imaginable. Who looks familiar. Hmmmm. Holy shit! That’s my daughter!!! The one who ran away to Berlin 2 years ago. I’d completely forgotten about her. As ya do. Out of sight, out of mind. Ruth? Rebecca? Rasputin? No, its Rachel!!! Last seen in Petra in November. But coming home tonight. Lucky we’ve changed the locks.

Now here’s a funny thing. The Canadian newspaper The Globe and Mail (sounds tacky just by the name) has stated in no uncertain terms that Harry and Meg are welcome to visit their country, any time they like BUT; they can’t live there. It’s wrong. Constitutionally illegal, immoral, disgraceful and an abuse of Canada’s right to… to… to be Canada!!! The kind’a miss the point that Harry hasn’t gone there to claim the throne and be the King of All Canada! He’s going there for precisely the opposite, to get away from royal bollocks generally. Though apparently straight into Canadian bollocks specifically.

They’re now talking of the Royals role in their country, that Canada is part of the Commonwealth but not actually ruled by anyone other than their own democracy, blah, blah, blah. As if it is some kind of foreign invasion by a warlike Prince to take over their land, subjugate their people, re-start a feudal system of tithes and steal all their polar bears for his own titillation and consumption.

Harry and Meg are going there for a quiet life AWAY from Royal shit. That’s the whole point. Their presence in Canada will not alter Canada’s political nor executive structure in any way, shape or form. They just wanna live there. Raise their little baby. Walk the frozen streets. Eat whale meat. Be just like any other Canadian. But with a platoon of security guards. They have no ‘eye on the throne’, mainly because Canada doesn’t have one.

So the Globe and Mail should just go away and leave them alone. They get enough shit over here. And no-where else to go.

Happy Friday, it actually appears to have stopped raining for a minute or two!!!

A xxxx

The current pope is a bit of a ‘rebel’. All terms being relative. He’s considering lifting the celibacy laws for priests. Which, as considerations go, is (no pun here) fucking humongous! Because its always been a given that priests of a Catholic flavour be celibate. At least outwardly. But in South America their church simply doesn’t have sufficient priests to match the ‘demand’. For all the prayer required for all those drug-lords, cartels, vigilante groups, militias and other murdering rabble. So something has to give. And that something would appear to be virginity. With the introduction of Shagger Priests. Married ministers, allowed to act in an un-celibate way whilst conducting their priestly stuff. Well, not at the same time exactly, like whilst giving a sermon, but in their private lives.

This is so ‘against the Church’ it has caused great anger among the more conservative people at the Vatican. Which is basically all of them. Other than, it would appear, Pope Francis.

From my own perspective, duly considered and all probabilities balanced, I really couldn’t give a shit. I’m a Jew. What do I know about the intricacies of the Catholic Church. Yet I do care. Firstly because I’m a caring individual. And secondly because if celibacy was lifted it would remove a great source of satire from my life. And with Jeremy Corbyn soon to be ‘GONE!’ I’m going to really have to search hard.

Yet also, speaking just as a ‘man’, albeit a rather special, handsome and dashing one, the whole celibacy thing not only was ridiculously stupid, but in fact even more ridiculously harmful. Mainly to children. Particularly those in close contact with that church. And I’m not saying all priests are bad, are paedophiles, are evil abusing motherfuckers, I’m really not saying that at all. But it doesn’t take Einstein (another bloody Jew) to work out that the proportion of men who are that wicked would appear to be way, way, WAY higher in the Catholic Church than in the general population. And just perhaps, this may have something profound to do with suppressing not just a ‘basic human urge’ but a basic urge of all animals. (Think that covers both me and you then). Add in the terrible cover-ups by churches and institutions going right up the Vatican itself and you have a pretty poor model for any kind of moral leadership.

Deprivation has long been seen as way to prove ‘closeness to Jesus’. Eat less, speak less, no sex please (we’re Catholic), bit of flagellation, lots of guilt, sorrow and self hatred. But as ever, in human terms, is pretty unworkable.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

My life changed when Peter Cook and Dudley Moore invented shower gel. It was nineteen seventy-something and they introduced the ‘green bat’ hanging in the bathroom. And why was it special? Why was it so revolutionary? Because it hung upside down. Like a bat. So it didn’t need a shelf, it didn’t need a receptacle, it just hung there. Magically inert and not spilling its contents. Until needed, then a little squeeze and suds would ensue. Seventies dudes no longer had to spend half an hour chasing a slippery wet bar of soap around the shower as it flew out of their hand time and time again. I was cleaner, I was happier. I was earlier for school/work.

And 40-odd years on, I still buy Radox Shower Gel. Of course, its no longer just ‘green’ but comes in the obligatory ‘tea-tree and chamomile’ flavour, it comes in ‘rose-petal and aardvark’ flavour, ‘sea mist and global warming’ and a whole host of other chemical additives, most of which are probably carcinogenic but smell nice.

Then something happened!!!!

Slimage in the bath. Blue puddles on the shower floor. Hmmmmm. I needed to actually close the lid. Like I remember that. WTF???

I wrote to them. Thinking ‘bad batch’. But no. They’ve changed the ‘valve’. Which was always a horrible little plastic ‘sphincter’ thingy which stopped leakage but allowed squeezage. And they’ve replaced it with… a hole. Just a hole. No valve, no cleverness, no fucking thought, just… a hole. Through which, unsurprisingly, the stuff just pours out. Constantly. And why?

Because the great god that is Climate Change must be appeased. And the old ‘valves’ weren’t recyclable and the new ones are. So Unilever/Radox can tick that box and act smug. Whilst I get Mel shouting everY morning and night that ‘YOU LEFT THE LID OFF THE SHOWER GEL AGAIN!!!!’

You’d think that Radox might print a warning on the bottle. After 40 fucking years. That, even though we provide an integrated hook from which to hang this, it will spew out all over everything if you choose to deploy it.

So I’m starting a new campaign, looking for signatures, if you please:

BRING BACK OUR SHOWER GEL SPHINCTERS AND FUCK CLIMATE CHANGE.

Just a thought. Radox and I are currently in negotiation.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

About 20 years ago I won second prize in a short story competition. Won a fiver. Was hardly the Booker. My story was called ‘The last God’ and it was a ‘Noir’ type detective story, all Mickey Spillane and smouldering babes in pencil skirts and chain-smoking PIs who cross the line between legal and dubious on a regular basis. But what the story was really about was God. In essence, that the Romans had hundreds of Gods. And the Greeks. And the Egyptians. And everyone else in between. Because you needed explanations for the inexplicable. Things like wind. Rain. Sunshine. Good crops. Bad crops. The stars. Death. Any manifestation of the natural world was unknown back then, so you need a god to explain it. To pray to. To beg forgiveness. I’ll sacrifice my children before this alter if you just let me harvest my wheat. Fair exchange.

There were no weather girls back then, or the problem would have been different. There was no meteorological society. There was lightening, there were avalanches, volcanoes erupted and, in the absence of any better ideas, god dunnit. What? We don’t have a god for sinking boats at sea??? Then invent one. How hard could it be?

Then along came various forms of enlightenment, of understanding, of unraveling the natural world. Astronomy, physics, chemistry, medicine signalled the death of most of the gods. Who needs to make gifts to Tytronicus!! when a little pill will probably do the job much better? And the gods gave way to scientific explanation. One by one having no place in the world as the ‘mysterious’ became understood. And thus leaving just The Last God. Everything else has long gone into the realms of post-technological understanding, except…

Where it all began. Why it all began. Why the fuck are we here??? The BIG question. Hence, the Last God.

And I mention this because I think that we, collectively, the caretakers of planet Earth, have just invented a new God. After all these years…

I heard that as of very recently, 80% of Australians, as godless, pagan, satanic, demonic bunch as e’er walked the planet, claimed they now believe in ‘climate change’ and even their prime minister (the one who’s previous god was a lump of coal; his nation’s biggest export) is joining the cry. WE BELIEVE!!! they holler. Previously oblivious to the problem, even though it pretty much started right there with Ozone issues, they suddenly, as their country burns tragically all around them, are having a collective ‘my plane’s crashing; I’m an atheist but: HELP ME GOD!!!!’ moment.

The new God. Climate Change. The only sacrifice required is that we all drive a Prius.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

What happened to the Morinho honeymoon? When Jose came to Spurs and we won and we looked pretty and confident and dangerous and swept aside all who came before us… for at least 2 weeks? And we were promised trophies in the first couple of years (before it all turns to shit). And then it ended. So we couldn’t ‘even’ beat Liverpool. Though less of a surprise after not being able to beat Middlesboro’. No slur on ‘boro. Bloody impoverished, lower-league, northern no-hopers. That’s more a slur. Sorry Ali.

And coming at the end of THIS week as well, its just NOT FAIR. First we had the killing of Suleimani, then the retaliation by Iran, then the ‘accidental’ blowing up of a passenger plane from Ukraine, THEN Harry & Meg destabilising my entire life, and now THIS!!!

But we must draw what positives we can from football, mainly because its far less boring than worrying about whether Harry will have to buy his own stab vest when he’s in Canadia. And the positives we can draw from losing to Liverpool yesterday are these:

1. We’re not very good. Hence can only get better??? That’s not so much a ‘positive’ as a very optimistic form of hyperbole that only the truly deluded could propose. In the absence of a ‘proper’ striker we will struggle. Harry’s injury is a bad one and although we have ‘goals all over the field’, those goals still managed to total a big zero yesterday.

2. Its very easy to be find positives in Liverpool, so I’m really not going to bother. Fuck ‘em. The only satisfaction I can get is knowing that after their glorious victory they have to go back to Liverpool.

3. VAR started life as ‘shit’ and has now descended into unreliable and inconsistent shit. West Ham had a goal disallowed on Friday because the ball just touched the arm of the goal creator. Yesterday the ball hit Jordan Henderson’s arm on the way to Firmino’s goal and it was deemed fine. WTF??? Not that we lost because of VAR, we lost because we squandered so many chances on goal in the second half after playing the entire first half in a state of collective fear of the opposition.

4. Arsenal didn’t win. And although that doesn’t sound like much of a positive, it really is. Just from a nasty, spiteful viewpoint.

So there we are. Positives. Loads. Everything to play for.

Wake me up next season.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Being a lifelong feminist, having burned my bra in 1972 and ripped as many others from as many women as I could to ‘enlighten’ them, back in the day, I like to keep abreast (ha, ha, haaaa…) of the rules. And it ain’t easy.

As feminism morphed almost seamlessly into post-feminism, without even a chip in the glass ceiling, and twerking oscillated (in so many ways) between ‘the worst kind of objectification’ to ‘taking control of YOUR BODY, GIRL!!!’ depending on who was doing it, I’ve been trying to stay current. It took me a decade to realise that ‘post-feminism’ wasn’t another way of saying ‘pole dancing’, but at least I make the fucking effort.

Now its weight. Size. Body shape. And ‘body positivity’.

The wonderful singer, (and Spurs fan) Adele, lost 3 stone of her ‘curves’ and posted pictures, showing her svelte, slim and smiling. To receive an immediate slating from the feminazis for ‘not being true to her shape’ or ‘size’ or whatever, and ‘adhering to the catwalk concepts’ instilled by the patriarchy, blah, blah, blah.

Yet over in the blue corner, we have the NHS. Struggling for funds to cope and stating that last year over 700,000 hospital admissions had obesity as a contributing factor. From which we may deduce that being overweight is not really a big help in life. Possibly in death, but not life.

So how can I be a true feminist and stay alive? When it would appear that the only way to be a real ‘sister’ is to pile on the pounds until you resemble Jo Brand then get type 2 diabetes, congestive heart failure, cholesterol-clogged arteries and die stuck to your bed at 37 stone, eating eclairs all day (and night) at 32 years old. Is that ‘the feminist ideal’ then?

It’s so confusing. I want to be a good feminist but find it difficult to put on sufficient weight as to qualify as ‘grotesque and obese’ as the sisterhood requires.

As if I don’t get enough aggro being a Spurs fan. Now this!!!

Happy Saturday, though from 5.30 onwards, that is rather doubtful.

A xxxx