Andy's Glasses

It’s life, Jim, but not as we know it.

That could apply to so many things which refer, allude or typify how the world has changed. Driverless cars, video phone calls, V-A-fucking-R. And, of course, political correctness. And yet it seems that being politically correct is just not enough. It is pathetically insufficient, if you’re in public life. You must not only always act in a PC way, but you are not even allowed to know anyone who doesn’t. Whose let something slip. Whose ‘crossed a line!!!’ even though most people wouldn’t realise there was actually a line there.

A caller on the radio was talking about possible leaders for the Labour Party and Jess Phillips name came up. Most callers were receptive to her. I like her. Labour moderates love her, Labour Corbynites can tolerate her. And that’s just about everyone that matters. Except some geezer from Slough (forgotten really, could have just as easily been Ruislip, Croydon, Basildon or Welwyn Garden City) who condemned the MP as ‘transphobic!!!’ Like that, with 3 exclamation marks. Her crime was not of laughing at a 6 foot four geezer with a long beard in a ball gown. It was not telling him to ‘man up!’ It wasn’t even the JK Rowling crime of accusing trans people of actually being born in a particular gender (SHAME ON THAT HEARTLESS BITCH!!) No. Jess Phillips’ crime was to ‘share a platform’ with a transphobic. I don’t know who the transphobic was, I didn’t ask. And I’m not saying that the transgender world and its detractors are not the single most important thing in the nation, because that would cross someone’s line somewhere, but are we not allowed to consider the future for the albeit small minority who aren’t about to undergo genital reconstruction? They get votes too, apparently. But heh, forget Brexit, ignore the economy, the NHS, education, future trade with non-EU countries, the plunging pound. It’s meaningless compared to a man with tits.

And then there’s Scholarship-gate. A benefactor decided to set up a scholarship specifically to help out ‘poor white kids’. And the schools approached refused the money on the grounds that ‘it goes against the inclusivity standards’. These are schools which charge 10 grand a term. And they’re worried about being in some way ‘discriminatory’. Because it sounds a bit off. WHITE KIDS ONLY!!!! Sounds a bit Apartheid, 1973. Or Mississippi, 2019. And yet the reality is that the single poorest educational performers in the country are poor white boys. So Mr Benefactor wanted to help that single group. In the same way that rapper Stormz set up a fund to sent black kids to Cambridge. Except that was completely acceptable to everybody. As it fitted with everyone’s PC preconceptions.

The whole political correctness movement has inflicted a curse which now is hurting the people who previously would be seen as the most needy. It’s all bollocks.

Happy New Year, may 2020 (how the f- did that happen???) be all you could wish for, and more.

A xxxx

Next Christmas I think I’m going to go to England for my holiday. The weather’s lovely, this time of year. Bright and sunny. Don’t care about ‘hot’. Just ‘dry’. So I’m going to see if I can fly there on my airmiles, otherwise we can’t book it. Should I check flights to Europe, or non-Europe? Ooooohhhh! I even managed to play tennis this morning. On a Monday!!!

Donald Trump has announced that ‘he’s going to clamp down on anti-semitism’ after five people were stabbed at a Chanukah party on Saturday in New York. Earlier this month 4 people were shot dead at a Jewish store in New Jersey. No similar attacks have happened in Tennessee or North Dakota. Yet.

So Donald will increase prison sentences for such acts, change the laws a bit, tweak a definition of ‘racially motivated’, all the usual crap that reactionaries love. Locking the stable door after the horse has bolted. The equivalent of ‘throwing more money at the NHS’.

Because these things are sticking plasters to cope with the effect. They don’t address the causes. Which is very symptomatic of Trump. With every incident of gunning down 35 kids at some school, Mr Prez finds some stupidly narrow and specific ‘cause’, like ‘mental illness’, like ‘right wing activists’, like anything at which to point blame that isn’t ‘guns’.

And the underlying cause of this recent wave of anti-semitism in the States is the culture of hard right winginess which has seemed to enable the extremists, to give them an acceptable basis from which to become ‘creative’. Same as Corbyn did over here. He made a culture of bullying, harassing and intimidation acceptable within his party and it spread.

So if Trump wants to really do something, he needs to reign in the right wing, he needs to label them as ‘murderers’ when they murder, rather than ‘part of a riot’. He needs to create a more tolerant, decent, centrist environment from which good things happen. He needs to stop creating ‘enemies’ and building fucking walls to keep them out.

New Year’s approaches, my main source of ‘seasonal cheer’ is that I’m not an Arsenal fan.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So the weather in Tel Aviv hasn’t been the best. In fact, what’s the opposite of ‘best’? Probably raining so fucking hard, so fucking often that the drains can’t cope, the roads flood and the Israelis all stay in because they don’t understand the concept. Maybe they’re the clever ones. We go out. We get wet. But you have to. It’s in the tourism terms and conditions. Act stupidly and counter to sensible at all times. There again we wouldn’t normally choose Israel this time of year, but heh, its been good generally. And fab at times.

We went to the Museum of Art yesterday morning, just a 20 minute walk in a flood, and the museum is wonderful and… arty and in an amazing building. Then just 20 minutes more of splashing round the streets and we were safely back in the warm and dry.

But when the rains desist, you go out. Tourism rule 174/G-2186.LF. So I looked and thought, let’s go the New Synagogue. Not, like, to pray, heaven forbid, but just to, kinda see it. Google maps said it was a 24 minute walk and as we were now wearing dry shoes and socks again; we set forth.

And the route took us down some uncharted territory. Bits of roads upon which we’d never previously traveled. Or if we had it had been in a car and hadn’t noticed. The surprise. Which really shouldn’t be much of a surprise, but it was. On Allenby Street, 500 metres from the Synagogue, just along from the Carmel Market, we found the ‘sex district’. Well, a few really grotty looking ‘clubs’ of a suggestive nature, a sex shop and a lot of dubious looking people hanging about… dubiously.

I don’t know why I was surprised to find a ‘red light district’ in Tel Aviv, but I was. And yet, TA has a reputation for tolerance, for ‘anything goes’ and for being almost ‘the Berlin of the Middle East’. Not that it has much competition in the region really. It not only hosts the ‘biggest Pride march in the region every year’, it hosts the ONLY Pride march in the region every year. So to find evidence that ‘the oldest profession’ is practiced in the city should not have made me look twice. But it did. Every city has a sex district, as they should, they are important release mechanisms, so why not Tel Aviv? Perhaps its because Israel is the home of western religion, home of the 10 commandments, therefore the home of our concept of morality. The problem is, ergo, of a more philosophical nature. Because you can’t shag morality. Nor philosophy, commandments or ethics. And for humans, sex kind’a trumps everything else. (By ‘humans’, I obviously mean ‘animals’, like YOU, not higher evolved beings…)

So there ya go. Tel Aviv has red lights which aren’t about the festival of Chanukah, and I’ve just arrived back home. Where it rather dry and bright.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’ve just seen it. The last ‘ever’ Star Wars. And I’m still crying. Mainly with laughter but also because it’ll never grace our screens again. And in case you haven’t had the thrill, the joy, the moment in your life yet, I promise no spoilers. Because you can’t spoil this film. Everyone whose ever died in the 8 previous ones came back to life for at least part of this one. Even those who really, real life (death?) died, like Carrie Fisher, managed to complete just a few more scenes. George Lucas’s favourite love child had always treated life and death as pretty interchangeable anyway, right from the first film (part 3… or 6), re-writing the phrase ‘bring out your dead’ into ‘re-cast those presumed dead, for a while’. The main message always being ‘there are forces we don’t understand!!’ Things that are bigger than we are. Can you feel it? The Force??

I’ve always had it. Ever since I left the cinema in 1977 after part 1, I started to drive like Luke Skywalker flew into the Death Star. Throw out the instruments, close your eyes, put my foot down. The Force. Normally the Police Force, but before the sirens start ringing, wow!

You know what you’re going to get in Star Wars. You get Luke Skywalker’s grandson marrying Darth Vader’s step-daughter and their child is the most fucked up individual in the known universe. Hans Solo’s niece flew for Lufthansa before going to the ‘dark side’ and working for RyanAir. She married Princess Leia’s god-son and gave birth to a three-eyed Wookie with horns and a trunk.

You know you’re gonna get a massive fight scene, with the goodies all flying round in aircraft made of orange crates and rusty old exhaust pipes from Ford Anglias, but which can fly at ‘light speed’ anyway, even though their engines come from broken Kenwood food mixers. And they’re losing, losing, losing… but then- no spoilers. As if.

Everyone goes back to camp and hugs. The End.

The film is totally stupid, ridiculously predictable, insanely daft and incredibly slushy. But its watchable. And exciting. Totally gripping. Wonderful fun. And you’ll love it. I know I did.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

We went on a walking tour. Of Jaffa. Where they don’t got no oranges, cos its so small and compact and squashed together that there’s just no room to grow their most famous product. But Jaffa can trace its history back 4,500 years, which is a bit special, and is mentioned not once but twice in the Bible. Even Pele only gets one name check, and that’s only in the 1847 Dyslexic edition. There again Jerusalem’s mentioned 16 times on every page. The place, not Billy Jerusalem (played for Derby County in 1237).

We like walking tours. Even when its raining a bit, then sunny a bit, then raining some more… because they’re interesting and incredibly superficial. “There’s a magnificent building!!” They proclaim. It was built in 1263 by Ethelred the Unworthy, or Suleman the Impotent or some such noteworthy historical figure. “And it has a magnificent display of the finest Arabic/Slavic/Nordic/Bohemian/Mediaeval furniture known to mankind!!!! But we’re not going inside. This is a fucking walking tour, you wanna see beds go to furnitureland”. And that’s perfect for me. I like walking and I like seeing lovely churches, palaces, houses, markets. From the outside.

And the guide stopped and asked her assembled 25 people, ‘where are you from’. And it was quite remarkable. Aussies, Canadians, Italians, French, Germans, Serbs, Austrians… it went on and on. And as I waited I was thinking ‘where am I from?’ A good question. Not that my memory’s that bad or that I come from a planet far, far away. But everyone else stated their country. Americans always do that because they don’t think forrinners would know that Nashville or Fort Lauderdale were part of the United States, so they always have to tell you. Could be the other Nashville, up the M6 past Stoke, even though the guy’s wearing a cowboy hat and a gun.

I’m British. But don’t think much of most of Britain. I’m English. Yet have (thankfully) very little contact with most of my country. So whereas everyone else stated their nation, I just said London. Because that’s where I’m from. And it needs no further explanation. If you don’t know where it is then I have no interest in you nor will I mourn your tragic lack of worldliness. And I really don’t want some Moldovan thinking, even fleetingly, that I could come from Manchester or Grimsby. In fact I wanted to say ‘North London’ because I’d thought myself into a terrible state of Cockneyness by that point, but I let it be.

This had nothing whatsoever to do with Spurs winning yesterday. Well, not much to do with Spurs winning yesterday.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So what do you do in Tel Aviv when its not just raining but when there’s a full-on, biblically proportioned storm of rain, wind, thunder and God seems somewhat displeased that we’ve left the prayerful environs of Jerusalem to enter the more Sodom and Gomorrah play-zone that is Tel Aviv? So what do you do? Build an ark? Naah, if it was Jerusalem you’d do that, not here in TA. Here you go out and brave it. Then, just as you decide to go and see the new Star Wars movie, the clouds part, the sun emerges and… and… and it ‘looks’ like a gorgeous day. Of course, when you step out the wind is beyond gale force and intense, so you might as well go walk along the beach road. Where the sand is whipping along, the waves are crashing and you’re in full ‘Marcel Marcel’ mode as you walk into the full force. But the cinema is now miles behind and the rains start once more. But not like, London type rain. This is… Israel type rain. And its big. And forceful. And comes in at around 45 degrees from the vertical, which makes umbrella deployment interesting.

So I have time to think about football. Having tried not to think about it since our defeat to Chelsea last weekend. Quite successfully too. But how excited can you be that IF your team beats Brighton today, they ‘leapfrog’ Sheffield United to go 5th!!! I mean, that’s just wrong. Morally, educationally, politically and emotionally. Wrong. And not only that, we only stay 5th (as we have indeed now won; YIPPEEEEE), until Sheffield United play a bit later. I mean; really? Like, REALLY??? But we’ll take it. And then hope that Arsenal and Chelsea fare really badly in their matches today. My main source of real footballing pleasure at the moment. Horrible person that I unquestionably am.

So if it rains tomorrow we’ll go see Star Wars, the FINAL… bit (unless George Lucas runs short of cash, of course). Where its indoors. Warm. Dry. Popcorn. No wind. No sand. Only on screen.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So we started in the Galilee, an auspicious start because we missed a turn and overshot by not much more than 50kms or thereabouts, not tooooo bad. And then the tour moved down to Jerusalem. So we could continue to hassle the Canadians because they don’t deserve peace on this world. They need to be bothered constantly. Because we won’t be able to bother them again for who knows how long.

Yet today we left Jerusalem, and them, to venture forth. They’re going on to the Ramon Crater, in the south because its beautiful there and even a bit hot. Though ‘hot’ is a relative term and has broader parameters if you normally spend your winters digging polar bears out of the snow in your driveway. Mel and I, being more ‘temperate’ of climate, are going over to Tel Aviv. Because we don’t normally spend too much time there, even when we stay nearby. And we want to enjoy the city and its wonders. Whereas normally we visit after dark and enjoy its restaurants and bars. Not that such times and places are in any way a compromise, because food is what Israel does better than anyone, and eating is what I do better (greedier, piggier, til I burst-ier) than anyone. But this is a ‘culcha tour, innit?’ and therefore the criteria shift. From shawarma to museums, from falafel to galleries, from hummus to… to hummus. There is simply no cultural equivalent. Nothing even close.

This morning we visited the ‘tunnels’ of the Western Wall. Which aren’t really so much ‘tunnels’ as more basements, or simply ‘what was there before they built the second temple’. Which is pretty much; the first temple. Which dates back to 600 BC. Possibly 423 BC. And through various rulers of Jerusalem. From King David, to Herod, the Roman emperor who actually built the Second Temple, through a varying cast of Babylonians, Summarians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Judeans, Maccabeans and so many more that I could either remember or just make up. I can do the dates and times too but it would all be bullshit. Whereas our lady guide today knew every fact and detail relevant to the tour. As long as the bottom line of each facet was THIS IS AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN OUR FUCKING LAND!!!!!!

Religious zealots, as she was, even though charming and very funny and incredibly knowledgable, and even though her native Brooklyn accent could cut the marble of Herod’s throne, she was of the fairly orthodox branch of the religious right wing for whom politics is an irrelevance. The only ‘president’ they acknowledge is God. The real one, not Trump. And he is their ‘judge’ and he alone makes the rules. The type of person who would answer mandates and treaties and agreements and wars with quotes from the Bible. Old Testament, obvs.

The first temple was built on Mount Moriah. In THE place (no doubts, no ambiguity, no questions, but THE ACTUAL PLACE) where Abraham would have sacrificed his own son, Isaac, to God to prove his loyalty, if the angels hadn’t disarmed him at the last moment, probably with some proto form of early tai chi. Which is the EXACT same spot where, years later, Isaac’s own son, Jacob, had the famous dream about the ladder. Because that spot is seen as a kind of (quoting here) ‘portal between heaven and earth’.

HOLY SHITTTTTT!!!!! Literally. Raiders of the Lost Ark kind’a stuff. Lightening and fire and noises and probably Black Sabbath playing in the background, but playing kletzmer!!!

Then the Muslims invaded in the 1600s and decided to build the Dome of the Rock right there too. This place being the ‘holy of holies’ in both religions. Oh, that’s great, so they can share it then. Easy.

Mel & I also visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. On Christmas morning, no less. And look what happened. She ‘saw the light’. Ha, ha, haaaa… It was spiritual, it was moving, it was… time to get a coffee.

Happy Christmas

A xxxx

When we drove down to Jerusalem from the Sea of Galilee, you’re basically following the River Jordan all the way down. And thus the Jordanian border. Which is fine. I been to Jordan, its all cool. But then you realise that if Jordan’s on your right, that funny kind’a checkpoint thingy that you just kind’a went through without thinking was in fact you (as in ME) passing into the West Bank. The Occupied Territories!!! Which is Israel, but not Israel. Some of it is governed by Israel, some not. Some has ‘settlements’ in, but you can’t see them. You go past Jericho, and Bethlehem, but neither offer entry to Israelis. There are warning signs. None of which specifically mention Europeans of a soon-to-be non-European nature.

Basically, you’re on a fucking road. Where it goes is to Jerusalem. In between, who cares? So we stopped for a coffee and to eat our lunch, which was kindly provided by our previous hotel, though they were unaware of this benevolence because we stole it from breakfast. And we had a lovely coffee, stolen lunch (who said there’s no such thing as a free one?) and sat there pleasantly in the sunshine. It was only a day later when we realised we’d been in the ‘WEST BANK!!!!’ that we decided to panic. Retrospectively.

Yet this is the reality of the Israel they never mention on the news. That there are terrorists and there are nutters everywhere in the world. Thank whichever God you like; they’re in a minority. Because everyone else just gets on with living. Together. As you see on the West Bank. No-one asks your religion, your nationality, nuffink. It’s just people.

And the most homogenous city in the world must surely be Jerusalem. Where there are hundreds of thousands of Jews and Muslims simply living together, going about their daily lives. And there’s Christians, FFS! Who invited them? Well, no-one, they came with the Crusades so someone could later write the hymn (and did those feet; in ancient times…). Though Jesus’s presence is strong here. He felt the force. Unfortunately it was the force of the Roman Empire. The church of the Holy Sepulchre is where Jesus died, was resurrected, did some other shit, and in the Armenian and Christian Quarters there’s lots of other churches too.

So you have the Dome of the Rock, the final resting place of Mohammed, and its Al Aska Mosque, just behind the Western Wall. And you have churches. And all, if not exactly harmonious, at least superficially getting along just fine. And peace will return when the Messiah comes. The only question will be: ‘whose Messiah?’ So many to choose from.

Meanwhile I’ll be in a cafe in the Arab Quarter eating hummus and felafel.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Do you know what a barmitzvah is? Yeah, its a kind of ‘confirmation’, its a religious ceremony, its the passage of a ‘boy’ to a ‘man’ in the eyes of whatever God you happen to believe in. And as barmitzvah’s are fairly exclusive to Jewish people, that’s ‘our’ God which counts here. And as a ‘man’, this 13 year-old kid is given the woman of his choice from the selection offered by call-girls-unlimited.com, is presented with his first bottle of single malt whisky and is allowed to take any car on the forecourt and floor it until it crashes or he gets arrested. The universal definition of ‘manhood’ in any practical sense.

The reality of a barmitzvah though is this. As a ‘man’ what you’re actually allowed to do is read from the Torah, out loud, to the congregation. And that, for many Jews, especially the ones with the black hats and long beards, is a very big deal indeed. So this is what happens at such an event in ‘civilised society’.

The boy is presented with an Armani suit (Numbers, Ch.23, v.14-17). He wears it along with the Tag watch he received from his delighted grandparents. He goes to synagogue, along with 320 of his nearest and dearest family and friends, most of whom he’s meeting for the first time. And there he says/sings his piece of the Torah. Which he’s been learning from tapes and lessons and a man with a long beard and a big stick, for the last 12 months. Then everyone eats fish balls and drinks whisky and goes home to get ready for the ‘party’.

This takes place in a palace, a West End hotel or a disused warehouse in Wapping or Shoreditch that someone’s paid a king’s ransom to ‘decorate’ for one night. The party planners sort all that out, along with the flowers (barmitzvah boys love flowers, as you can imagine), the numerous entertainers and bands and DJs, the Kletzmer Band, the caterers and the flash visit by the full Arsenal first team. So that 460 bods kitted out in black tie and Oscar de la Renta can sit there moaning that last week’s party was bigger/better/more kosher. That the room’s too hot/too cold, that the mother looks like a dog’s dinner/a wolf in sheep’s intestines; that the father is having an affair with his personal trainer. It’s the best of fun.

Today’s barmitzvah was therefore special. Like REALLY special. Because The Canadians (as we call them) appreciate that its not about fancy shmancy and posh. It’s not about a 14 year old kid and his mates throwing around food that cost more than the shirt he’s getting filthy. It’s about the continuity of a fabulous tradition which, for many of us ‘not quite so religious’ is a defining moment in the continuation of a line which dates back to Moses. Or Abraham. Possibly to Bobby Moore, the dates get confused.

So we went to the top of a mountain in the middle of the desert next to the Dead Sea. And there did young Rhys strut his Judaic stuff. Quite brilliantly. And then we climbed down (about 40 minutes) and had lunch. Before floating on/in the Dead Sea and covering ourselves with mud, as it is written (on an Ahava bottle), that we may bless our skin and make us look much younger. And much muddier. Than we did before. The latter definitely worked, the former, hmmm…

It was simply brilliant. Fun, laughter, intimate and just enough religion to fulfil all obligations.

What a day. Thank you Canada!!!

Happy Barmitzvah Day

A xxxx

Israel is a country of truly biblical proportions. Big it ain’t, but its biblical qualifications are unquestionable. The price it pays for being the source of all the world’s religions is that they all in turn want it. But I’m not talking about politics. I’m talking about Jesus. Because he was born here. He lived here and in all likelihood he stayed at the same hotel as me here on the banks of the Sea of Galilee. Because this is the water upon which he walked. Not the little pool, unless he was actually in my room (how amazing would that be???? All us prophets and messiahs using the same bath!!!!) but on the lake beyond it. And he did lots of other weird stuff round here too, on the borders of the Golan Heights, where he hung out. So the renaming of various places using, instead of the usual Hebrew or Arabic names, with overtly Catholic titles. And words like ‘Beatitude’ which don’t exist in any other religion.

And I looked at the Lake yesterday and thought as I peered into its depths, how THESE were the fishes that HE turned to wine. With this water he… errrr… turned the other cheek. He was probably shaving. The beard thing is a myth. He fed the five thousand long before Uber Eats was even available. Though apparently if you sent a messenger for a pizza, just six days later a camel would arrive with one. From Rome. When the Romans eventually arrived here, ordering pizzas became less of a problem. A fair exchange for the total enslavement of the entire population, theft of the whole nation’s riches, death of hundreds of thousands of souls and a hundred years of tyrannical rule. At least you could eat the pizza still warm.

So to be here at Christmas time is just… well, its totally… you know, me, Jesus, the whole Judeo-Christian thing is just reduced to one simple, if immense, breakfast buffet. Well, that’s what it generally means to me. You think philosophy, history and religion on an empty stomach.

Later we’re driving down to Jerusalem. The very epicentre of 90% of the world’s troubles but in a really good way. And such a cool place. And from there we go to Masada for ‘the barmitzvah’. Masada is a hill. In the desert, by the Dead Sea. But was the site of siege by those same Romans, who couldn’t invade it because the town was on the top of a hill and they didn’t haven any helicopters. The siege went on for 3 years and then, when they could hold out no longer, there was a mass suicide of every single inhabitant. Ok, not the happiest of ending but its a very moving place.

In an unrelated incident, Martin Peters died yesterday. The World Cup winning footballer and one of Spurs finest players ever. The man always described as ‘10 years ahead of his time’, died as he lived, about 10 years ahead of time at the youthful age of Just 76. The man who spent his career ‘ghosting’ in, can now do it for real. And I loved Peters, who apparently also played for West Ham at some point early on in his career before he found God and Jesus in his life, was always spoken of as ‘ahead of his time’. And I’m offering a cash reward for anyone who can actually tell me WHAT THE FUCK THAT STUPID EXPRESSION EVEN MEANS?????? I love the fact that his genius was always appreciated but ‘ahead of his time’ simply makes no sense. It made no sense back then and it makes even less now where at least we have the hindsight of knowing what ‘10 years after his time’ looked like.

Happy Sunday from everyone’s Holy Land

A xxxx