Andy's Glasses

Three songs I hate: Bohemian Rhapsody, I’m not in love (10cc), If you leave me now (Chicago). They all suffer from chronic radio overkill ‘back in the day’. And however good the most iconic of Queen songs is, and it really really is, it just got tired after 226 airings a day. For 3 months. It spread faster than coronavirus and for (hopefully) twice as long. The other two were played to death too and lacked the ‘that’s interesting’ factor of the Queen hit. And they were slushy. Nauseatingly, sickly, sacchariney, broken-heartedly slushy. Gimme a fuckin’ break.

Yet before you think me an some heartless, un-romantic love-a-phobe, or someone so mired in ‘his’ own musical genre(s) that there’s no consideration for anything outside my own narrow criteria, let me dispel that theory with three words: I love Jolene.

There, I’ve said it. Broken the taboo. Come out the closet. Crossed the line. Credibility shot to shit. Not only did I love, and still do, a country and western song, I loved a country and western song about a broken-hearted woman. Ok, its one of the few Nashville offerings in which a dog doesn’t die but otherwise, it ticks all the good ole boy, yeee-haaaw, confederate flag-waving bollocks that they all have in common. But it gets worse. I love Miley Cirus version in the ‘backyard sessions’. I even love the Petersons bluegrass take on Dolly’s finest.

And whilst I’m in the confessional, I have sinned further. I love a love song. Obviously not all, some are just bollocks, but others send shivers down everywhere. Anything by Adele. Most things by Whitney Houston. I believe (when I fall in love) by Stevie Wonder. And possibly best of all, Alison by Elvis Costello. I know this world is killing you. Holy shit. Let me just mop my keyboard before continuing. And I used the photo of that very album today as an homage to one of my all time favourite composer/performers. And possibly the album of his that I love the most. His first, obvs. Though Punch the Clock has such a host of memories attached to it that it too ranks very high on any list I may choose to make.

Yet a ‘perfect album’ is one in which every single track is a wonderful. You never have to fast forward/skip. You just leave and wallow. Combat Rock by the Clash. Cafe Bleu by Style Council. Hunky Dory. Even (and this is both well obscure and approved by the brother) Split by the Groundhogs. The Beatles White album. Sargent Peppers. Blood on the Tracks. And Little Creatures by the Talking Heads because it spoke to me when David Byrne had a little baby, and so did I. Reluctantly I’d have to add either of Oasis’ first 2 albums, the ‘reluctant’ because they’re such horrible people. And the soundtrack from the Sound of Music.

Joking about the last one. Honestly. I for one wanted the Nazis to gun Julie Andrews down as she gambolled across those fucking hills. I willed it to happen. More disappointment.

Let me know if I’ve forgotten anything.

Happy Saturday. Don’t feel like a Saturday, but trust me.

A xxxx

So some music you’re predisposed to like. Your first look at this album cover, the first from Roxy Music, and if you were a teenager of the (predominantly) male variety, you just HAD to love it. There was no option. Because the picture was suddenly essential in your life. Lots of music covers featured pretty girls, stunning girls, lovely girls, slutty girls. But this one was different. Fragile. Vulnerable. She needed MY help. In so many ways. But then I heard the music. And it was game-changing. Life-affirming. Gravity defying. It was just so damned different. No choruses, no verses, no nuffink. Just amazing music that had its own time, its own pace and its own rules. Which were: no rules.

A bunch of overly-posey art-college tossers who you just wanted to punch. Until they started playing. And then it all changed. And you could forgive Bryan Ferry’s ridiculous clothes. Andy Mackay’s hairstyle, Brian Eno… for just being Brian Eno.

I still play this album, like, a lot. Only the first half really, if I’m honest, but that’s enough to show the width, height, length and breadth of the wonderful Roxy Music at their earliest, their most ‘raw’, their most uninhibited.

But if you want albums which have TWO brilliant sides, like, virtually every track a wonder, there was always David Bowie. Another art-school reject who just went his own way. Then went her own way. Then his own way again. And again, its the early albums that won me over. The Man Who Sold the World. Ziggy Stardust. Hunky Dory. Yes, Aladdin Sane is brilliant but I just like the early stuff, uncontaminated by the commercial pressures. I went to see Bowie in 1973 at the Romford Odeon. Just before he killed off Ziggy FOR-E-VERRRRR!!! And it blew my tiny little 17 year-old mind.

My brother hated all of that music, but by then I was more my own person and although he actually vomited when I brought my first Motown LP into the house, even he had to admit that Stevie Wonder was someone pretty special. Which he remained all the way until Ebony & Ivory came out. And ‘happy birthday’. But the early albums, once again, were magnificent. Every track brilliant and unique, every instrument played by the man himself.

And the brother just kept on buying Black Sabbath. Uriah Heap. Led Zeppelin. We converged on Cream because they were rock enough for him, jazz enough for me. But I drew the line at Deep Purple. The problem was, he was a guitarist too, and a pretty good one. So when I put something on the stereo that he didn’t like, he’d just plug his turntable into his Orange stage amp and blow the fucking house down. Our parents loved it when that happened…

Ahhh, nostalgia. Induced by a virus. Indirectly. So far. Tomorrow, for any young people reading this, I’ll supply a glossary for words like ‘stereo’, ‘LP’ and ‘album’. For the rest, you’ll remember the first time you actually heard real ‘stereo’, which for me was Sargent Pepper’s, on headphones through an amp my brother made. He was good at that shit, just not the best musical editor.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So you have your ‘favourite tunes’ and your ‘best album everrrrr!s’ and presume that the way the bass lines syncopate with the drums, or the effect of the harmonies, or the magnificence of the musical score… blah, blah, blah. You assume that if you really LOVE a song, its because there’s something intrinsic about that specific piece of music that is unique. And its true. But what’s also unique is the ‘other things’. The environment in which you first/most/sometimes heard it. The person you heard it with. Or the associations you make with it. Those are the things which elevate a mere ‘brilliant’ song to something from the Gods. Other than perhaps Adele’s ‘someone like you’ which starts in heaven and goes ever north with every play.

California Dreamin’ (you can add the ‘g’ if you wish, I don’t care) by the Mamas and Papas is one of my all time faves. It is still as brilliant as ever. Simple. Tuneful. Fab harmonies and if you watch the old videos on YouTube, amazing hair styles. But to me it is all about the Kennedy assassination. That’s what instantly springs to mind when I hear it. Which is rather odd as Kennedy died 4 years before the song was aired and did so in Texas, rather than California. But other than those 2 little details, its rather spooky! Don’t‘cha think? And I was too young to actually remember my own, personal ‘Kennedy moment’, but everyone remembers exactly what they were doing when they first heard California Dreamin.

I liked Simon & Garfunkel. Didn’t lurve them, as I now do, because my older brother was Mr Rock. Serious ROCK! Hard fucking rock. Metal. Only in music are rock and metal the same thing, in science there’s a different interpretation. But the bruv poisoned me away from anything involving acoustic guitars. Harmonies were not allowed unless performed by matching Stratocasters played through fuzz-boxes. But my appreciation of S&G grew, as it should do. As it has to for anyone into the amazing voice of Art Garfunkel singing the words of the best lyricist ever. And the harmonies. Yet the first song that grabbed me by the testicles and ripped them upwards, via my heart, through to my entire central nervous system, was Paul Simon’s ‘solo’ track, Mother & Child Reunion. Because of the music? Basic reggae-esque riff? The words? Or because I went on a ‘dream date’ with Diane, when I was about 15 and me and everyone else was madly in love with her. I pulled out all the stops and we went to Petticoat Lane on a Sunday morning. I was always a bit flash. Every third stall seemed to be selling records and every single one of them was playing that song. And I was given false hope on that strange and mournful day. That girls would be as fab as they looked. We lasted about 3 weeks. A ‘serious relationship’ when you’re 15. And that song was the glue that (almost) held us together.

More tracks to follow. Refuse to succumb to more tales of civil liberty deprivation and restrictions of daily life.

Really Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I’ve scrapped my last diary. Started again. Hoping this one’s better than the last. And really, who cares or even remembers when the first Chinaman who ate that iffy bat, well past its sell-by, succumbed to the Chaina-virus? It’s a bit irrelevant. So although we went into ‘lockdown’ yesterday, I went into work, just to finalise things a bit, making this, for me, Day 1. Home, and here I’ll stay.

Yesterday I decided not to take the tube into town. Because Transport for London, in their infinite wisdom decided to put on a ‘special service’. Which is a euphemism for ‘not a very good service’. One train every 10 minutes or so. On Monday the tube was fine. Very few people on regular tubes. But with Sadiq Khan’s ‘special service’ they were forcing the people on with crow bars. Funny that; the less trains you run the more people are on them. Who’d’a known? So much for ‘social separation’ when you’re chewing the next strap-hanger’s ear-lobe.

So I did something that proved how unbelievably out of the ordinary these times are, and drove in to the City. There was no traffic. It was wonderful. Other than a few Islington Literalists. They’re the people who actually believe that London’s most loony borough’s blanket ‘20mph!!!!’ speed limit actually has to be taken seriously. Tossers. Then I found the true pot of gold at the end of any imaginary, fantasy-world rainbow, a place to park, for free. Which doesn’t in fact exist anywhere in the Square Mile, but if you know the right people (car park attendants are much more useful than company CEOs), it can happen. Not like the car park in question was in any way ‘busy’.

So we went for an early walk today in the gorgeous sunshine. Long walk, round the Heath. Avoiding people like… well, like the plague, which it kind’a is. We went early for our allotted ‘one exercise per day’ because of Rachie who, banned from Berlin and thus isolating with us, is part of our household unit once more so we’re allowed to share all diseases. And she starts work at 9. On the couch, but that’s her workstation. For her morning ‘meeting’ with all the ‘Germans’. Most of whom aren’t German at all and never have been. And most of whom are now in London, Stockholm, Montreal, Istanbul or wherever.

Then I went to my tai chi class. (Shock! Horror!! Sinner!!! SPREADER!!!!) Which took place in my kitchen. On my iPad. And was brilliant. We hook up on Zoom twice a day and fight the good fight. Not against each other, we can no longer do that without facing arrest, but against boredom, against stiffness, against everything that is bad. And yeah, Lila did a class too. But doing yoga when you’re (nearly) 3 is such a cheat.

Happy isolation

A xxxx

If I see one more tv newsman/woman/thing showing me a high road and telling me how ‘it’s usually teaming with drinkers, ravers, restauranties, rapists, muggers, flashers and old women carrying logs, but NOW, its fucking EMP-TEEEEEE!!!!’ I shall walk into the BBC newsroom and cough over everybody. This ‘street’ could be Broadway in New York, might be Oxford Street, Leicester Square, some… errrr… very busy street in Manchester, or even High Street Uppingham (Rutland), its the same story. Usually you can’t move for bodies rubbing up against each other and young girls vomiting into passing Ubers, but today you could play an 11-a-side football match in the middle of the street for 90 minutes (plus extra time, plus even more extra time for VAR) and no-one would disturb you nor complain. Other than football is banned. Unless you can maintain 2 metres of separation. Which makes defending corners very difficult indeed.

The world has shut down and we are in a Stephen King story. I would say ‘and not a good one’ but he’s never written a ‘good’ one in that sense. It’s not what he does. And he doesn’t do it better than any other living (or dead, or undead, zombified, vampired, back-to-life, re-born, hacked-out-of-her-own-grave, demonic or just plain ‘clown’) writer. But he loves a dystopian netherworld where ‘nothing is the same’. And that’s my world. And yours. And everyone you know’s.

Went for a walk yesterday, as we do, but now everyone’s doing it. Almost as if people are desperate for something to do! In the lovely sunshine. And as we approached people, they crossed the road. With their masks. After the 17 such incidents in 300 yards I asked Mel if I smelt. Which apparently I did, having not showered since tennis in the morning. And before you call the virus-police, tennis is allowed. You stand miles away from the other geezer and only hug at the end. Oops. No hugging. Which left Spurs Paul in tears when he realised, but I have rules. Just possibly not as many as most. And seeing Lila and Joey on the other side of the wire fence is almost more painful than not seeing them at all, but they’re ‘isolating’ cos of little Joey’s cough. And I’m old, therefore at risk. I was promoted yesterday when they shifted the DANGER!!! group from 70 to 60. Holy shit.

I went to drop some things round to my 95-year-very-old dad. No hug, no kisses, didn’t even stop for a cuppa to keep him company. Deemed ‘too dangerous!!!’ by the virus police.

And then, the worst thing of all… they closed Toulouse Cafe. MY cafe. The virtual hub of life in our little patch of the world. Where everyone knows everyone and dogs are welcome. Even the dogs can’t get in now for their little water bowls.

But heh! There’s always Netflix! And if you’re bored with that, Amazon Prime! Disney! Sky!!! Recordings of old Spurs victories (ok, very old recordings). There’s so much to be thankful for.

Not coping well.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Pre-lockdown.

There have been scenes all over the country beautifully depicting our charming nation’s love of the toilet roll. Beyond love. Obsession. People are dropping to their knees and hugging it. As did Joey when his latest batch arrived from Ocado. Even though he doesn’t actually use the stuff himself, his natural empathy for everyone else caused this outpouring of emotion and attachment. A beautiful metaphor for the (sad and sorry, stupid and moronic, panic-buying, supermarket-depleting, irrational, pathological, pre-infected) wonderful people of our fine nation.

In Italy there’s been no panic-buying and no shortages of anything. Except old people. Got a bit of a shortage of them now. And they’re ‘ahead’ of us in this silly game we’re currently, globally, ‘enjoying’.

But to call it ‘the only game in town’ is in fact an understatement of immense proportions. The only game in the town they shut down, is perhaps more accurate. Because its happening. To my beloved City. Tube stations closing today, schools all shutting nationally tomorrow, it is reckoned that we’ll be in ‘lockdown’ by the weekend.

If only we knew what, precisely, that meant. Does it mean we can’t leave our homes at all? Only for ‘essential’ things. In which case, what is essential? Getting out and about is pretty essential for me, drinking coffee made by a ‘barista’, letting car tyres down, all pretty essential. And how will Mel cope? Locked in with the world’s most annoying person? We also have the younger daughter with us as she came home for a week and is now locked out of Berlin for the foreseeable future. So we’ll be ‘locked down’ together. Ahhhhhh. And I need to see Lila and Joey. Badly. Though we can sneak there under cover of dark.

I want soldiers on the streets. With guns. I want martial law. I want… life back. And by ‘life’, I obviously mean ‘football’.

Stiff upper lips. Just don’t let anyone else touch them.

Happy Doomsday

A xxxx

Don’t know what happened to days 75 and 76 but that’s the nature of this totally dystopian world in which we now live. If you call this ‘living’!!! Because Team Boris have a plan. Which is to remove the very essence of sociability, of community, of our very humanity. Lock yourselves up for 3 months and don’t see no-one! If you meet someone by accident, then either kill them, or kill yourself. It’s the only way to beat the virus. What are the prostitutes going to do? Have you thought of that? 

I must admire the Americans though. Because when the shit hits the fan, they do what any sensible people would and should do, which is buy more guns. No, I have no idea why either but I keep seeing photos of massive queues, or even massive lines, outside gun shops in the States. Note to Americans: if you could shoot the virus, the army would already be doing it. Over here its toilet rolls, over there, weapons. You could read a lot into that if you could be bothered.

The daily newspaper is now re-named The Coronavirus Times. And is all about numbers. How many died, how many have the virus, how many are likely to enter both statistical groups over the next days/weeks/months. Then you move to the arts and culture pages and learn which of our fabulous celebs have either got the virus already or are self-isolating because they were molested by someone who has. The Sports pages tell us how much more sport is cancelled, delayed, deferred, postponed or abandoned. No ‘results’ as such because nothing’s being played. BetFair are now taking bets only on Coronavirus. With ‘live betting’ available for death tolls.

I’ve written to the Chancellor to complain. Well, why not. Not like he has much else to do. Because they’ve taken away my public. All of them. Fleet Street is now ‘working from home’. All of it. Except me and the KFC. When I go home at night I turn the street lights out.

But birthdays don’t wait. So the parties went on. And thus I spent Sunday morning at the brunch party for ‘the twin’ and the afternoon at the tea party for ‘the wife’. Or the ‘twin’s twin’. In line with the ‘KEEP 2 METRES BETWEEN YOU AND EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD AT ALL TIMES!!!!’ ruling, I shmoozed, I hugged, I kissed, then remembered that the whole ‘social animal’ or ‘sexual deviant’ thing is currently suspended. Ooops.   Happy Tuesday, phah!

A xxxx

Today, the 74th day of the apocalypse, they banned sport. All sport. You can still play bridge. But only wearing rubber gloves and in a chlorinated swimming pool. Which is empty because swimming is banned along with every other sport. But in terms of ‘real’ sport, and even things like F1 and ‘golf’, the things which call themselves ‘sports’ but some of us have doubts, everything is banned.

The sports pages are now completely empty. Other than lists of sportspeople who have contracted the effin virus or those who are self-isolating. So the ‘new league table’ looks like this:

Arsenal 3 cases 6 isolating total points 15
Chelsea 3 5 14
Man City. 2 3 9

Tottenham. 0 0 0

Liverpool have no points in this particular table but the virus has taken their fans’ usual feelings of tragic over-entitlement and elevated them exponentially to levels of frustration and near-suicidal heights of anti-God-ness. Because if there is a God, HE FUCKING HATES LIVERPOOL!!! Which is obvious because HE’s a Spurs fan, everyone knows that. And the whole purpose of coronavirus is to stop Liverpool winning the league. Basically because nothing else can.

And what are we going to do with the postponed matches? In a season so full anyway that most teams can’t really cope. Extend it? Into the summer? When the Euros are due? Finish it next year? If there’s enough people around… Or do we just write off this season entirely? Wipe the slate, abandon and start afresh next season. That seems the fairest to me. Some Liverpool fans might disagree. Because they’re not medically trained.

Why can’t they ban other things instead. Leave sports so that the self-isolators have something to watch and ban traffic wardens. Income tax. Speed bumps. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Ban all vegan restaurants. Ban Newport Pagnell. So many options.

Donald Trump has gone one step further and simply banned everything. Flights, sports, forrinners, Red Injuns, Mexicans and all of life in New York City. He’s done this for two reasons. The first is that he now, having been in denial for the last few months, appreciates the severity and danger of this epidemic. And secondly, because he’s a reactionary half-wit orange-faced imbecile who is all about posture and nothing about substance. Just an opinion.

And so it goes on.

Happy Birthday to Mel. NOTHING will stop us having the best birthday weekend ever. The gels have gone beautifying. All the gels.

A xxxx

Well here I am in Day 73 of my Coronavirus diary and pleased to report, as I have for the previous 72: NOTHING’S HAPPENED!! Making it possibly the most boring diary since… Well, probably Victorian times as no-one with an Instagram account would ever bother with something so primitive as a ‘diary’!

My measures are taking effect. Because even though I have no symptoms at all and know no-one who has, I’m in a form of self-isolation. Because its the way forward. And I was getting ‘self-isolation envy’, a little known psychological side-effect of Covid-19. So I’m locked in only venturing out once a day to buy toilet rolls. As soon as I hear of a shop that still has supplies I get in my Hazmat suit, scrub the car down with disinfectant and rush round. By which time those alleged stocks have normally gone. But you can’t be too careful. Which is a little concerning as I’m now down to just sufficient toilet paper (under ‘normal digestive conditions’) to last 83 years. I may have to reduce my daily food intake to compensate. I also have 47 crates of dried pasta. Though in fact I’m gluten intolerant so can’t actually eat any. Yet feel every person has to do their bit to help. And buying toilet rolls and pasta is what society needs at this very troublesome moment. It’s our way of pulling together during the crisis.

And the crisis is this: sport is being affected. The rugby’s been off for ages. No-one with any sense would go to Italy and French people are notoriously bacteria-ridden, everyone knows that. So you wouldn’t want to get in a scrum with either of those. Ireland’s in lock-down and the Formula 1 race in Melbourne has been cancelled because someone has the virus somewhere in Australia and three koala bears are currently in self-isolation. The Arsenal manager actually has the virus, a Chelsea player does too and one from Manchester City is suspect. If only there was a Liverpool player and one from Man United, we could just ban those teams from the league and it would be good. But I strongly suspect that by this evening all matches here will be either postponed (til when????) or played behind closed doors.

All this happening but it won’t get in the way of Mel’s birthday tomorrow as she celebrates such a big birthday. I’m not saying how old she’ll be but just that I’m going to thereafter be sleeping with a 60 year-old woman. Holy shit.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We’ve been escalated. From ‘virtually nothing’ our national status has now been moved to ‘a little bit more’ as we, as a nation united, join together to avoid getting sick. Well, not really sick, but more, not very well for a day or two. So we’re into the official ‘delay’ phase in which we’re delaying… things. To help. Nothing headless chickeny about this, we’re being pro-active. Against what is now a ‘global pandemic’. Use the motto: feel in a state? Self isolate!! as your guide. I’m going into my 2-weeks tomorrow. Because I spoke on the phone to a woman whose mother-in-law’s nephew works with a man who came back from Milan. Ok, it was in 2011, but that’s not really the point here. It’s about caution. It’s about being ‘sensible’ and not taking risks and… and panicking.

Donald Trump has banned all flights to the States coming from Europe. Note: Britain is NOT part of Europe for this and for many other purposes. We can still go to Orlando any time we choose. Though Coronavirus is actually a much more pleasant option.

And as predicted, yesterday’s budget was all about Covid 19. And other vast expenditure. The days of austerity are behind us. You can’t fight a global pandemic with hope. You need cash. Billions of it/them/stuff. And the “NHS will have unlimited resources to fight this”. Which means building 10 new hospitals in the next 2 weeks but budgets aren’t about practicality, nor logistics. The money’s there.

There’s talk of playing every football match behind ‘closed doors’. Fans will get to watch it on a stream, pubs will not be allowed to show them for fear of 62,000 Spurs fans all spitting over each other in The Bill Nicholson on Tottenham High Road in a ‘lounge bar’ built for 27 people. There’s even talk of ‘cutting the season short’. In which case, would it be possible to cut it right back to the time when Spurs were in 4th place? I don’t think that’s too much to ask. All the games since have been due to Coronavirus anyway. Harry Kane; the virus affected his hamstring. Son; virus in the ankle, so we need to go back further.

More worrying that Australia is rife with the thing. Tom Hanks caught it there. Because when things happen in Australia there always ‘that bit more’. The most lethal snake. The most dangerous spider. The most toxic jellyfish. And probably the virulent virus. Stay away.

I’m bored and intrigued in equal measures. But if they stop the tubes, God help us all.

Happy Virus Day 72 (first reports from China about ‘cases’ was on Dec 31st, so probably, they’ve known about it since last July. That’s ‘transparency’ Chinese style)

A xxxx