Andy's Glasses

So what do you do when all your plans turn to shit? When it all goes ‘tits up’? When the ceiling collapses, your dominoes fall, Armageddon rises, Golgotha falls, the chips are up and the chips are down? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU DO???

In particular and specifically; how does the Labour Party recover from the most almighty thrashing received since Jo Bugner quit boxing? Since Wigan came to Spurs? Since nineteen thirty-something-or-other. A defeat at the polls so humiliating, so humbling, so soul-destroying that it calls to question your credibility, your ideology, your ability to do simple sums and your entire future as any kind of viable political entity.

I don’t know either. But I do know I wouldn’t have Kier Starmer as the new ‘face’ of Newish, revised, slightly modified, hard left but not that left, Labour. I wouldn’t have him as the face of a landfill. But Sir Kier has not yet ‘thrown his hat’ into that particular ring. Only Emily Thornberry has, thus far, but more will follow. Many, many more. Starting with Clive Lewis. Who I quite like because he dresses quite smartly. Other than that he’s an unknown quantity. Though obviously, I won’t get to vote on this particular issue anyway.

What’ll happen is that lots of other players will get involved, like the nightmare that is Rebecca Long Bailey, along with her running mate Angela Rayner. Some moderates like Lisa Nandy and Jess Phillips. And then Len McClusky will pick the winner.

What most Labour supporters will hope for is that the horribly neo-Stalinist rise of the bullying brutality and dictatorial methods of Corbynism/Momentum will give way to something a little ‘nicer’. More properly democratic. That the party might move away from the HATE THE RICH!!!! standpoint which typified the Corbyn era. That and HATE THE JEWS!!! and SUPPORT THE IRA!!! Getting rid of any MPs who weren’t ‘on message’, in other words ‘who were quite decent people’. Trashing members of their own party for any words or comments that may be construed as pro-American or pro-capitalism.

They have a long way to go. And so do I. Off to Israel this afternoon. To meet the Canadians (not all of them, just our ones) for their son’s barmitzvah. Very excited. I’ll keep you posted.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So I got to the tube station, on my bike, as usual, and as I was securing it with seven chains, four ‘d-locks’, electrifying the saddle, razor wire round the handlebars and putting the armed guard in place, I heard a train come in. My train. I ran down the corridor, flew up the stairs and ran down two more carriages as the ‘beeping’ started because the ones by the stairs are always the busiest. And jumped on. Panting a bit. Sweating a bit, but happy. That ‘sliding doors’ moment. If you think how fucking miserable you feel to get to the platform just as your train doors are closing (even though the next train arrives in 2 minutes), then the opposite was how happy I felt. It’s a tube traveler thing. #wining

The train was busier than usual so I edged down a bit and took out my kindle. At which point a smart young man jumped out of his seat and asked if I’d like to sit down.

And that, for any person of certain vintage, deluding him/herself into ‘being as young as you feel’ (despite the scans and hospital visits) is nothing short of a ‘me too!’ moment. It is an abuse. An insult. It is age rape!!! I was offered a seat purely because some public school shit, overly endowed with good manners and politeness was ‘respecting his elders’ by shattering their illusions/delusions. Little muthafucka! Daring to presume that I am old enough to warrant his Pavlovian response, beaten into him by his fag-master at Eton, and jump up to offer this ‘old person’ his seat.

How is that ‘respecting ones elders’? When all it does is insult them, depress them and make them feel frail and ancient. That one look, more a half glance, at this beautiful YOUNG and exceptionally cool man, ok a bit grey… very grey, panting like in heart failure, possibly dribbling a bit down my jacket, one fucking look and he forever labels me as ‘old’!!!

I drew back my fist… and then, and then, and then thought: ‘hmmmm; a seat on a crowded tube train, hmmmmmmm…’ and thanked him politely and sat down. Limping a bit as I did so. Making heavy breathing noises. Talking to myself. Quietly. Yet quite animatedly.

It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I read the newspaper every day. Its a habit. Like smoking. Feels nice at the time but there’s no benefit in it long term. I read it ‘in paper’ format. Because computers cause cancer. Blindness. Brain damage. Sterility. Heart failure. The radiation from your screen can turn you into a zombie (that bit’s true), into a Mormon. Into an Ork. 

And there’s the problem. People are always speculating on health issues based on studies, on statistics and on often rather spurious science. Mainly because someone has to pay for the ‘study’ and if you manufacture statins you’re going to proclaim them as the best thing ever for keeping the population alive and in good health. So I treat all such proclamations with a pinch of salt. But not too much salt or my arteries might harden. 

So when they tell you to eat seaweed three times a day, I find seventeen logical rebuttals. Because I don’t want to eat seaweed ever. When ‘jogging’ becomes essential for bodily fitness, I find a flaw in the maths. Even though I’m not very good at maths. 

But sometimes, just sometimes, they come up with ‘health issues’ which converge with my lifestyle. In which cases, the maths is perfect, the science unquestionable and why have ‘they’ only just realised this? Idiots. I’ve been bathing in Single Malt whisky for years now. Because rather than learning new things, adopting new food, exercise, patterns, what we really want is validation that what we already do is brilliant. 

On Sunday there was ‘the benefits of apples’. Yeah, that’s news. Keeping doctors away, etc. But now its ‘PROVEN’. The… stuff in apples is good for everything and now they reckon two a day is better. Overkill. One’s enough. 

And then today was the jackpot. They reckon if you eat chilli three or four times a week you are a whopping 40% less likely to get cardiac disease and… 60% less likely to have a stroke. (Just a quick note, a caveat: STATISTICS CAN DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH because there’s still 60% of people eating chilli getting heart disease, and 40% getting strokes or they’d call chilli ‘the cure’.) It also depends what you put your chilli on. Cos most people don’t just eat them on their own. And if you have four donner kebabs a week just for the chilli, you’re going to die very young. Similarly the curries (a rich source of chillies) eaten in take-aways and most restaurants are loaded with fat, salt and sugar. So its like playing a game of tennis for health reasons but at every end change, smoking 3 Marlboro reds and eating a tub of ice cream. You have to be careful. Like me. I have chillies on everything. Mel’s over the upset of ‘but I spent hours flavouring that!’ after watching me drown it in Harisa, Sehug, Thai chili sauce, Mexican hot sauce, any possible source of a chilli hit. 
So that’s it then. We’re sorted. Eat chilli; live forever. Done deal. 

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx          

Now I’m excited about football again. Now its getting a bit more ‘real’ out there. In the trenches. At the front line. Now the season’s well past its ‘start’, which lasts for at least 3 months, though I can’t work out why, then suddenly, WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SEASON!!!! So now the points you get don’t go so far. No more 1 win, six places up the table. No sir. No longer. Now its gritty. And in the battle of grit… there’s nothing… errrr… grittier, than… (wish I hadn’t bothered with this annoying metaphor)… than something really gritty. Like Spurs! (Terrible). Or John Wayne.

Not particularly keen to take a day trip to Wolverhampton in the pouring rain yesterday, there was no way to watch the match live as Sky opted for other matches, BT don’t do Sundays (and I don’t do BT anyway) and Amazon Prime couldn’t deliver it. Therefore I’m going to have to make it all up. Which is better anyway because by all accounts we were quite lucky to survive a Wolves onslaught which lasted from our first goal in the 8th minute, to our second and winning one in the 91st. And that is grittier than the M1 in a snow storm. (I hate grit, wish I’d never mentioned it now).

But best of all is this. We are now just 3 points off Chelsea who currently sit in the most cherished, most desirable, most ‘sell your granny for a place there’ 4th place. When Morinho (jury’s still out, probably will be long after we’ve lifted both the league and the Champions League trophies) arrived we were in 14th place and shit. Now we’re in 5th and getting the job done. In touch with our inner grit-spreader. And we play Chelsea next week. Holy shit. The battle for 4th place. Which is significant even this early in the season.

And its possibly a good time to play Chelsea, as they struggle to find any form or consistency and lost yet another home game on Saturday to Bournemouth. Or possibly a bad time to play Chelsea because they’ll ‘bounce’ back. We’ll only know afterwards. Because then we have three ‘easy’ games. You know, easy games. The ones we generally lose or draw and the disappointment crushes us and sends us back to therapy until the FA Cup final. Easy. By which time we could be entrenched into 4th place.

I read that this morning. Hence the ‘chicken counting’ title today. Since when does potential have anything to do with outcome in football?

Arsenal meanwhile are a club in crisis. As were Spurs just a few short weeks ago. The difference being that our chairman cares and acted swiftly and decisively to rectify the problem, and there’s is a dithering deliberator who doesn’t seem to give a shit.

If you say the words M*zut Oz*l to Alexa, she sets fire to your kitchen. Bitch.

Happy Gritty Monday

A xxxx

35 years ago my life changed. I was going on a tennis holiday, early start so spent the night before at Dom’s place in Maida Vale. He called it ‘Little Venice’ but he’s always been a pretentious fucker. And I didn’t have a book to take away. So he gave me a book. Firestarter. Stephen King. Nah, I said, I don’t like ‘horror’. It’s not horror, its Stephen King.

And that correction of the most common literary misunderstanding, changed my life. Because Firestarter, not his best book but still about 50 times better than most other books by most other authors, was fantastic. Supernatural, but not horror. And I don’t mind ‘supernatural’. People, normally kids, with ‘powers’. Ok, X-men is all the rage now, the tv series ‘Heroes’, Marvel stuff, DC comic characters, absolutely EVERYONE has something they can do that is freaky, weird, bizarre or incredible. But Firestarter was just a little girl, played in the very so-so movie later on by an incredibly cute Drew Barrymore, aged about 6, who could burn down a skyscraper from 100 yards just by looking at it. Nothing unusual there.

Then I read other Kings. All of them, in fact. Some are ‘horror’, but very few. Is The Shining ‘horror’??? Carrie?

Stephen King is the best selling author in the world. Not because people like ‘horror’ and ‘gore’, not even for the supernatural. He’s the best selling author because he writes about people better than anyone else. Just normal, common or garden, people. And relationships between them. Particularly when those relationships are forced by circumstances. Some of which can enter the ‘horrific’.

And King writes about kids. Especially about ‘geeky’ kids, poor kids, abused kids, kids with lisps, thick glasses, red hair, limps. The kids others make fun of. With whom, as a very poor kid with thick glasses, he has so much empathy. These ‘geeks’, the ones never on the A-list at school, never part of any ‘cool set’, are always the heroes in his books. Like in ‘It’. Which does have some horror but is a book about relationships between past and then former geeky kids. Like The Stand, which is just fucking brilliant. And like the geekiest of poor, abused kids, Carrie. King gives these poor souls revenge. Which can, I grant you, get a bit horrific at times.

And like The Institution, which I’m nearly finished and already getting sad that then I’ll have to wait another few months for another (King is nothing if not prolific). It doesn’t matter what the story’s about; its always about the way its written, the way the characters develop and the relationships between them, the way the plot moves, which makes it totally un-put-downable.

So if you’re a reader but ‘don’t read Stephen King because I don’t like horror’, you could do much worse than read The Institution. And remember; King also wrote The Shawshank Redemption.

I just had to tell you. Because I’m bored with politics and unimpressed by football so far this weekend. Other than Bournemouth’s win at Chelsea, obviously. And I am evangelical about Le King. In case you missed that.

Happy Sunday, day 3 in the reign of King Boris.

A xxxx

The voting’s done, the celebrations celebrated, the back-slapping… slapped and thus the recriminations, excuses, scapegoating and rebuilding begins.

And it starts with the Conservatives. Who now enjoy almost unlimited power, which is definitely a two-edged sword, but we can only wait and see. They also have to consider an entirely new electorate. No-one in Stoke has ever voted Tory before and now Boris is indebted to the residents of that city, and many others like it, for their part in his majority. People who don’t hunt foxes. But probably eat them if they’re lucky enough to find one. People who think its posh if their fish’n’chips are wrapped in last Thursday’s Daily Telegraph. Proper, honest to goodness working class geezers and gels. What Boris previously considered as ‘northern Scum’. But now he owes them an improved lifestyle. And I actually think he will try to repay that debt as best he can. Not that I believe anything much Boris says if it doesn’t make me laugh, but he’s a clever man and knows what’s due.

Not so easy for Labour. How do you cope with such an horrendous thumping at the polls? Your entire plans torn to shreds and flushed down the collective sewer of almost unanimous public contempt. Because that’s what happens if you produce a manifesto so in tune with your own stupid and malign ideology that it has simply no context for ‘the man on the street’. Whether that street be in Finchley, Blyth Valley or indeed Stoke on Trent. Only the streets of London are, apparently, paved with imbeciles prepared to buy in to such insanity and forgive the bullying, the political terrorism and the anti-semitism.

So Labour now have ‘the choice’. Not so much ‘Sophie’s Choice’ as ‘Len’s choice’. Because Len McClusky pulls the strings, being the party’s primary backer via his Unite Union. And McClusky is a Trot. Endorsed Corbyn, McDonnell and momentum all the way to… to total fucking disaster. And they can blame Brexit for everything, they can blame the unpopularity of Corbyn himself, but that would be a grave error. They somehow have to accept that their brand of Marxism is a failed and miserable path to national bankruptcy and nationalised poverty for all. So the next leader should, logically, be someone like David Miliband or Yvette Cooper. Someone moderate, central, sensible. Yet McClusky simply can’t do that. He ousted Miliband once by aligning with the other Miliband, the Ed one, who was far more left-wing and Union friendly. That paved the way for Corbyn to just extend that move ‘a little’ a few years later when Ed proved he couldn’t run the country any better than he could eat a bacon sandwich.

But also in the Labour candidates for the Big Job will be Kier Starmer, who it has been medically proven is one of the ‘undead’. Or Emily Thornberry, who’s a bit leftish. Or worst of all, Rebecca Long Bailey and Angela Rayner. The bastard love children of Bob Crowe, Lenin and some horrible northern woman with an accent that could shatter glass from 200 yards. They would also represent the worst case of ‘plus ca change, plus ca meme chose’ as they’re just female, northern versions of Corbyn. Oddly, no-one has put Diane Abbot’s name in the hat.

The Lib Dems need a total re-think, the Brexit party can just die and the Greens are happy with their one remaining seat. Scotland is a whole other story.

Happy post-election days

A xxxx

This was emphatically NOT a drastic and immense defeat for the toxic anti-Semitic, Stalinist moron and his cohorts. Not at all. Nothing like that. It was just a re-definition of the word ‘few’. That’s all. A blip. A hitch. A minor set-back in the rise of Britain’s alignment with Moscow, Venezuela, North Korea, Iran and any other terrorist groups they can find. That’ll come about, the glorious day of the revolution, once they get that pesky ‘few’ word cleared up properly.

Because last night, the ‘few’ managed to grow to such immense proportions of massiveness that the esteemed (in Cuba, maybe) leader of the opposition (for a few more days anyway) lost his shirt, his parliamentary sway, his credibility and very nearly his testicles.

In case you missed it, there was an election yesterday. Actually a Brelexion.

When news first came in from the exit polls that ‘it’s gonna be a landslide’, John McDonnell was there with (the horrible) Andrew Neil, blaming Brexit, Brexit and nothing but Brexit for the then imminent demise of his party. (Oh, and his hopes, dreams and political career, I sincerely hope). And I thought: ‘is that right?’ ‘You horrible Scouse evil person?’ ‘Nothing to do with the intended Stalinisation of our lovely land, nothing to do with toxic alignment with every terrorist organisation on the planet, nothing to do with a ridiculously unsustainable model of nationalised dependency????’ That’s what I thought.

And they were factors. But kid yourselves not. This was a Brelexion. Nothing else could have produced so many incredible results in areas of the land where they fucking hate Boris and everything he stands for… except one little thing. Nothing else could have turned generations long Labour strongholds blue. Because the patterns were unequivocal. Labour ‘remain’ seats remained Labour. Labour ‘brexit’ seats turned Tory. It’s that simple. Labour were wishy washy on Brexit and it cost them dearly. Oh, that and the total bollocks the entire party’s been spouting for the last 3 years. The Lib Dems stood no chance. Which is fine. Even though I really should have voted for them because I still don’t want to leave Europe. But you can’t have everything.

Interestingly the Scots are really pissed off. And rightly so. Because of yet another definition. That of ‘majority’. They’re banging on (and on, and on, and on…) about how ‘Scotland voted to remain’, because 60 percent of Scots voted to remain. Whereas the 52% of total Britain who voted to leave do NOT constitute a ‘majority’ when the word is translated into Scottish. It’s an equivalent argument to saying (in Scottish): ‘well, Mr McTavish, at number 23 is going to leave Europe but Mrs Fried Mars Bar at number 38 is remaining. There’ll be a wee border at number 31…’

Majority means majority. I don’t like it either but that’s life. What about the 30-odd percent of Scots who did vote to leave? Don’t they count for anything. Or are they just no longer to be considered part of ‘Scotland’?

The total bollocks of the last 3 years is dead! LONG LIVE THE NEW BOLLOCKS!!!!

Very happy Friday nonetheless

A xxxx

Sent from my iPad

Normally, on the day of a General Election, I’d say ‘the talking’s over’. But this time I have to say, ‘the shouting, swearing, lying, cheating, obfuscating, disseminating, miscalculations, economy with the truth and character assassinations are over’.

It’s been dirty. It’s been mean. It’s been a slanging match, a slagging match, a fistfight, a brawl and… and… and pretty much the same shit that’s been happening in politics since Brexit was elected 3 long and horrible years ago.

But this isn’t about Brexit. And yet it is. Totally and completely. And thus represents yet another wonderful facet of this most horrendous, divisive and destructively chaotic event suffered in my lifetime. To the extent that politics in the UK is now officially ‘broken’.

Leaving the general consensus, as seen almost universally when the public are questioned, that ‘none of them are worthy of my vote’. And a truer truism ne’er there was. They’re all awful. The lot. Terrible. What did we do to deserve such a shambles? Other than vote to leave the EU, obviously. But ‘we’ did vote that.

If not for Brexit we wouldn’t be ‘enjoying’ a General Election on a shitty dull rainy day a week before Christmas. And so vote we have to. The plan being that Boris might win the majority he needs, and didn’t have, to ‘enjoy’ finishing the beginning of the Brexit process. So much enjoyment all round. No wonder there’s such ‘feel good’ in the country.

But this not about ministers and parliamentarians and governments. It’s about tactics. It’s about being presented with a bunch of nincompoops, one of which HAS to end up in charge of the asylum. Like a video-game without the fun. How do you get Brexit (if that’s what you want) but still vote Lib Dem (if that’s who you were)??? Impossible. How can you be any kind of decent human being but wish to vote Labour? Or if you’re like me, how can you avoid Brexit (which I’d dearly love) but am forced to vote for the most Brexity party ever (other than anything to do with Farage which obviously doesn’t count) in fear of what might otherwise happen.

So much tactical voting. Some for whom Brexit is the priority, thus avoiding the Lib Dem’s and (hopefully) the fence-sitters of Labour too. Others intent on Corbyn’s pack of lies damned lies and unworkable expenditure, Brexit or not. And then there’s me. Who would sell every part of my soul and most of my principles (not footballing ones, obviously, but the rest) to keep Corbyn out of power.

May the least obnoxious bastard scumbag win.

A xxxx

Just a quick PS to yesterday’s post about this kid on the floor of A & E at Leeds infirmary.

As it now transpires, amid very strong rumours, that said pic-chure was a ‘put-up’ job. He laid down, mum took photos, he got up and they walked away. Mum then hit the social media.

And pissed off thousands of good, honest, incredibly hard-working NHS staff who don’t enjoy looking at things like this which, by implication, questions their competence.

A xxxx

I know this is 2019 and we spend half our time signing little online waivers about cookies and ‘personal data’ and how it won’t be shared, divided, used against us in a court of law, sold to third parties, especially the Labour Party. But we don’t think about that. You can’t access that link or newspaper article or recipe or football review, without ‘accepting terms and conditions’. But…

Google are following me.

Everywhere. Whither I goest, they shall ride in my wake. It’s like the imaginary friend you never wanted. It’s like a team of detectives stalking you. It is fucking Big Brother in the worst Orwellian way. My phone is not ‘smart’, it is ‘KGB’. But not quite as brutal. Yet. How long before it starts to actually punish us for misdemeanours? Give us a 12-volt jig for breaking the speed limit? Digs a needle in your leg for looking at that girl’s legs? Shutting itself down for 10 minutes because you ‘liked’ a photo of Prince Andrew?

But getting an email telling me precisely how far I’ve walked, cycled and driven for the last month, which countries I visited, for how long, the cities I’ve seen and how often I stopped for a piss on the way (very often, FYI), I find very scary. They ARE watching me and although they didn’t say how much hummus I’d eaten (ever such a lot) that’s probably coming later along with how many times I’ve visited doctors, parked on yellow lines and sworn at slouching pedestrians and phone zombies during the course of walking 42 miles.

This is an infringement of my neuman rights! Which are like human rights but a bit more ‘Mad’ magazine.

I walk at 3 miles per hour. Not bad. As an average. Though I cycle at 9mph. But drive, or be driven at 14mph? They must have been following the wrong person. My car only starts at 55 and that’s down the (rather short) driveway.

So yes, there is a mild interest in the data provided, but you have to question their facility in gaining it. I didn’t ask for an analysis, I didn’t know they were doing it (though that’s my ignorance, obvs) and it makes the paranoid within me wonder what else they know. Spending patterns is easy. Harder to follow those with Mel due to ‘sheer volume of traffic’.

We leave a trace as we innocently lead our private lives. And these mutherfuckas pick it up and throw it right in our faces. Then sell it to Cambridge Analytica who will make me vote Labour.

Concerned of NW11

A xxxx