Andy's Glasses

At LAST!!!!, Mel came home from Naples. At last. I’d reached the point where I could barely cram another sock in the laundry basket. Was almost on the verge of having to buy a second basket! Anyway, she’s back from Naples. Having left me, without a carer, the WHOOOOOLE weekend. As she and the twin went romping round Pompei, cruising round Capri and living the dolce vita, but literally. Cos iss Italian, innit.

So a fab weekend. Marred only by… the most horrendous travel travails EVER!!!

There’s a stark warning here for all potential travellers who are unaware of the post-Brexit rules for entering Europe. You need one full year on your passport. BUT, it is NOT from the expiry date on your passport. Huh? No, that’s too ‘simple’, too ‘easy’, too ‘British’. You have to add 10 years to the DATE OF ISSUE of the passport and you need one clear year til that date. And passports are always issued a few months before the 10 years start.

Hence as the twins were actually going through the departure gate to board, ‘the other twin’ was pulled up. Although she had 14 months til the ‘expiry date’, she was 5 days short of the ‘issue plus ten years’ date and they wouldn’t let her on. A red card.

They returned from Gatwick. We (younger daughter is a total ‘ace’ at all things travel, and, it must be said; not much else) booked a flight with BA in the afternoon, using air miles, so just 25 quid for both tickets, and importantly, using a Canadian passport. Which the twins, born many, many, many years ago in Vancouver, both have. Born in the Gold Rush. Or thereabouts. So, back to Heathrow, this time, just f’ra change, and off they flew to Naples.

That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Yesterday they arrived at the airport to return to be told of ‘delays’. Hours. And hours. Again, we tried to get onto a BA flight which was leaving the same time as their original one, but on time, and seats were available, on air miles again, but this time for £1, but… but… but… it kept giving an error message. Which, after hanging on for half an hour to speak to someone, I learned was because you can only book flights until 3 hours before departure. And it was only 2. So they waited. And waited. EasyJet provided their usual, generous ‘compensation package’ of a visit to the airport restaurant for their lovely “all you can eat, for 4 Euros” special. It almost covered a bottle of water.

Mel arrived home at 3.30 this morning. Without a door key. Because none of this was in the ‘original plan’. But as we all know: man plans, airports laugh.

Happy Return

A xxxx

On Friday morning Mel went to Naples. Twinny trip. I’m not a twin so I wasn’t invited. But… a whole weekend! Time off!!! What shall I do??? Leisure time. All to myself! And FA Cup final weekend too! I’m ’livin the dream’.

This is what happened when I stopped dreaming.

7.55 am. Left house to got to Tai Chi. Punched some people. Kicked a few others.
10.05 am. Arrived home, cup of tea, banana and out for…
10.30 am. Tennis with Spurs Paul. Finished promptly because…
11.50 am. Arrived home, shower, dress, out for
12.20 pm. To pick up younger daughter and go to Lila’s end of year ‘RAZ’ show at
1.00 pm. Adorable. Shame about all the other groups of non-Lila kids.
3.00 pm. Return Rachie home, go straight off to Henley. (Henley???)
10.05 pm. Arrived home.

I went to Henley because I could. Ok, I could have gone anywhere, that’s true, England’s full of fabulous little towns. But the BoatMan is currently moored in Henley-upon-Thames and I had some new glasses for him. Because he regularly destroys them or loses them overboard. And though I don’t normally offer a delivery service, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, Mel was wandering around Capri, and the top down was on the car. If the specs were ready in February, he’d have had to get a train into London. But I wanted to go somewhere. I needed to drive. And as this one ended in a curry house, I don’t think I could have chosen a finer spot in the entire land. Henley is surprisingly beautiful. I’m always surprised when I leave London and arrive somewhere that’s not an industrial new-town shit-hole. But I do live a very sheltered life.

I opted to drive home with the top still down. Because: in order: it wasn’t raining; it feels nice; I’m fucking stupid. Because it was quite chilly. But I’M A MAN!! Alright, a fairly stupid one.

So today I took it easy. I played tennis. Cos that’s easy. Then I spent 3 hours power-hosing the patio. I thought it would be easy. It’s not Buckingham Palace with a 100 metre terrace ‘out the back’. But, when you’re washing it, inch by inch, it’s big enough.

Then I collapsed on the couch with a cup of tea, to watch Newcastle play Arsenal, because I’m a big Geordie and fan, and ooh-ayyy the lads and stuff and it was so good I only slept for about 40 minutes of it. And ‘we’ lost anyway.

Happy relaxing Sunday

A xxxx

I was rummaging around for something or other, as some of us of a more ‘slightly disorganised nature’ tend to do whenever we need ANYTHING, and I came across this photo. Haven’t seen it for years. I call it ‘self portrait in black’n’white’. I could have painted one, put a few tits on my head, morphing into a Minotaur from the neck down, few cherubs floating round, maybe some bloodshed in the background, but instead I stood in front of the mirror with my fabulous Canon AE1 and snapped. I was in a ‘photographic phase’ of life. Which no-one born after 1985 will in any way understand. Because photos were not a part of everyday life. They were something that needed to be arranged. You needed to carry a big, lumpy, expensive camera around with you. And because ‘film’ was expensive, you generally took ‘a photo’, rather than ‘take 9 and pick the best’ as is the current ethos. You certainly didn’t get your camera out every time you ate a croissant or had egg & chips in the cafe. It wasn’t done. Sending photos of your penis was… difficult. But could be done.

I had a ‘dark room’ to develop the films, rather than wait 2 weeks for Boots to do it. Ok, I had a kitchen in my flat with a light-switch. Same difference. Dark enough. And it never ceased to amaze as you put a piece of special paper in a chemical bath and watch the picture ‘arrive’. Slowly, ghostly, quite amazing. Though generally, when done at night, as it kind’a has to be, with a mate or two who are ‘into film’, we’d probably have been a bit stoned, whereby virtually everything becomes ‘amazing’.

I reckon this was about 1985. It’s a very ‘Haircut 100’ sweater. Which my daughters and Tory Boy find most amusing. IT WAS COOL BACK THEN!!!! NO REALLY!!!!

I won’t apologise for the sweater. It’s always unfair to make contemporary judgments on historical norms. Bit like apologising for slavery now. Or judging Mel Brookes a ‘racist’ for Blazing Saddles. So the jumper was state of the art. The haircut was what it was. Having spent the first 5 years of my late-teens having it ‘straightened’ every fucking week, suddenly I was ‘on message’. And the cigarette (again, no-one born after 1985 will know what that is), was an essential. Just for effect. All 20 a day, just for the Jean-Paul Belmondo look.

Amazing that I’m even more gorgeous now than I was then. But I work on it. It’s called photoshop and delusion.

Happy Memory Thursday

A xxxx

So I ‘get’ Donald Trump. I really do. He just doesn’t do details to any extent. Only money details, then its to the nearest hundredth of a cent. Everything else is just ‘big; really big’ or ‘doing great things’ or lovely broad brush stroke sentences which are meaningless in any analytical way.

I just don’t see how world peace is served, as he claimed yesterday, by a $142billion deal with Saudi Arabia to provide arms. Guns. Rockets. Missiles. Ammunition. Ordinance. Fighter planes. Nuclear fucking warheads for all I know. Does that sound ‘peaceful’?? 142 bil gets you some serious fire-power. I’m even a bit pleased because a few bucks’ worth of the sharp ends will probably find their way into a few Houthis in Yemen, and we all hate the fucking Houthis. The deal will also scare the shit out of Iran, so that’s also a big positive. And the Saudis are our allies. They pally with Israel. They’re anti-terrorist, even though al-quaeda was started there. That’s not Mohammed bin Salman’s fault. He wasn’t even there at the time. He was over in Turkey having dissenting journalists murdered.

But now Donald is moving further afield in the Middle East. Syria, to be precise. Now that the horrible, tortuous, murdering Assad regime has been deposed, Trump is pallying up to the new, de facto leader, Ahmad al-Sharaa, the former al-quaeda terrorist, American held prisoner and now the guv’nor of the new ‘free’ Syria. Unless you’re an Alawite, then you stand a good chance of dying or disappearing, rather than enjoying ‘freedom’. Trump feels that this ‘attractive young man’ (WTF???) has a chance of ‘greatness’. Furthermore, Syria is appealing to America because of its oil and gas reserves for which it will need help in accessing. Trump’s really good at digging holes in other people’s countries.

I think that if the nation of Qatar offered to give me a 300 million pound plane to fly on, I’d take it. Especially as its fitted out for Royalty. And though possibly a bit more ‘Prince Andrew’ than ‘Queen Victoria’, we’re talking majorly ‘flash’ here. The Qataris have fitted it out with all the luxury and gadgetry you could ever wish for; champagne fridges, cocaine tables, pussy-grabbing recliners and secret compartments for Hamas leaders to cross borders undetected.

You can’t expect moral judgments from Donald Trump. Just not gonna happen.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I got a ‘lectric bike. You know that.
I love it like the 3rd cousin I never had.
I only use it when the temperature is over 15 Celsius-es and the weather GUARANTEED to be dry. By God. Or the BBC weather app. Same difference. That’s the rule.
I hate all rules.
Even sensible ones.

And so to yesterday. When the weather app told me there was ‘a chance of rain’, like 15%, maybe 20% in the late afternoon. Yet as I prepared to go to work it was the definitive summer day. Warm, bit balmy, sunny, clear, cloudless. The temptation was just too great. So I broke the rule. And had a wonderful trip in. Fun, fast and furious. The latter being most of the drivers I encountered. My only defence being ‘fuck em’.

As I was about to leave work, the sky had indeed darkened. Ah, so ‘20%’ means it can happen. And there was a tiny little ‘shower’, which I waited out, then left to come home just as the sun came out again. Great timing. I survived the 20%, now I’m good to go.

And I was fine and good and lovin’ it, as always, as I came up into Hampstead village. When a few droplets landed on me. Ok, no problem. Nearly home and, being ‘sensible’ I had my little, almost waterproof Uniqlo scrunched up in the back box. I retrieved it, brought it back to jacket size (they’re amazing those things) and carried on, my wayward son.

I blame the BBC. And God. Because the rain that followed was not 20% in any fucking language. I know, that was the ‘chance of rain’ but have some sympathy, FFS, I’m pedalling up the hill, as fast my electric motor can carry me, getting rather wet. I reckon we were up to 80%, if not more!!!

And then, ‘more’ happened. As I rode around the Heath Extension, rain levels rose to 264% and as I felt my testicles getting soaked through my jeans, my shoes saturated, the Uniqlo’s ‘water-resistance’ laughing at me in the quite unbelievable torrent, I thought, oh well, I’m wet now, its strangely warm, like a tropical storm, this is as bad as it can get, I can put up with it for the 4 minutes to home.

But, ‘bad as it can get’ needed a rethink as the rain turned to hailstones. Big ones. Yet still small enough to go through the ventilation slats on my helmet. And they fucking hurt.

Mel wouldn’t let me in the house. I was dripping. I stripped off completely at the front door and was put in the tumble dryer. Ok, my jacket was. All I got was a towel. I must be losing my physical appeal.

I’ve written to the head of the BBC. And to God. And next time it says ‘small chance of rain’, probably best to ask the question: yeah, but how much rain?

Happy dry, sunny Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve decided that because no sponsors have thus far pitched up with sufficient dosh to make our stunning new stadium call itself “THE ALDI”, or possibly “THE GAZA STADIUM, INSHALLAH”, or even “THE UBER EATS, N17”, I’ve given it a ‘holding name’, one to tide us over until we can show Nike and Adidas and Bentley and Clarks Shoes that we ARE staying in the Premiere League so pay up NOW!! The Stadium of God. I think it suits, it fits and it gives the right message. Not sure, exactly, what that message is, but it’s right anyway. And whilst there this afternoon, it was definitely His name that was called more than anyone else’s. His son’s was second most popular.

As the frustration mounted among the home fans. Because we all get that there is quite literally nothing more for us in the league this season, win, lose or draw, absolutely nothing to play for. Furthermore, we want our stars kept fit and fresh for the Europa final at the end of the month. But MAKE SOME FUCKING EFFORT, FFS!!!!!

It was abysmal. Dire. Horrible. I said jokingly that Mel, who accompanied me, and who is no fan of football, had no worries because she won’t be seeing much at Spurs. Unfortunately I was wrong, because Crystal Palace played lots. And even… fought for the ball!!! What’s the point of that. It’s, quite frankly, beneath Spurs players to do such a thing.

Poor Emily Damari. Chose this game to celebrate her ‘return’ to Spurs after her horrendous 471 days as a hostage in Gaza. I’m not saying that we were so bad she’d have been looking on her phone for a flight back to Khan Younis but there’s torture and then there’s torture. And this match had em both.

The funny thing is (unless you were there, of course, then it wasn’t very funny at all) that Manchester United, our opponents in Bilbao, also lost 2-nil at home to a shitty team today. Also fielded a team so weakened it was an insult to the fans. Who, like Spurs fans, have had more than their share of abuse this season.

On a positive note; Mel loved the stadium. We really enjoyed the drive there, with the top down, in the glorious sunshine, breathing the lovely smog which only Wood Green can provide. And then the delightful walk through Bruce Castle Park to the ground. I’m not saying exacltly that ‘the football match spoiled a super afternoon, I’m just saying it was 99% of the problem. Even though I shouted all the correct instructions all afternoon. But did they listen?

Another fab day down the Lane. At the Stadium of God.

Who really needs to help us.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

As Spurs led the way to VE Day celebrations, with their own little ‘victory in Europe’, it’s reassuring to look and see how the world is a different place from its 1945 version. It has learned from its mistakes, and those of its forefathers, and has almost eliminated stupid and unnecessary wars from modern day life. The First World War was known as ‘the war to end all wars’, and that remained true for at least 21 years before the next war began in 1939. And ended in 1945, which should have given it the inherited claim as ‘the new war to end all wars’. But trouble was already brewing. As Germany was divided between the victors, a rift began between ‘east’ and ‘west’. Based on complete distrust and opposing political philosophies, the ‘cold war’ started almost as the old war ended. And although it never came to actual blows, it almost reached ‘push the atomic button’ time on several occasions.

Anyway, I’m glad wars are over now, officially consigned to history. No more will legions of our best young men be marched off to be slaughtered for someone else’s unreasonable and intransigent beliefs. The world is at peace.

Well, except for Ukraine.
Gaza.
Sudan.
Myanmar.
Congo.
Yemen.

In fact, the whole fucking world is at war. Especially now that India and Pakistan are exchanging missiles across the Kashmir. It’s a typical playground push-fight, when each push gets harder until someone actually lands a punch. But immediately after each ‘push’, the pushing nation immediately declares its push to be ‘proportionate’ and ‘non-excalatory’. Whilst the one being pushed makes immediate accusations of ‘disproportionality’ and ‘escalation!’ And remember, ‘both these nations have nuclear capabilities!!!!’ You can’t actually forget because the press remind us every single time the problem is mentioned. Because it’s more sensational that way? Or because it makes us all very jittery? Makes the fight a bit more personal as we imagine ‘easterly winds’ bringing something much more sinister than cold weather? Who knows why they do it; they’re the press.

But thank God for Donald Trump!!! Who stepped in last night and caused an immediate ceasefire. Aided by a whole team of other fuckwits, like David Lammy, Trump convinced these two nations to adopt peace. At least temporarily. But peace between India and Pakistan is only ever temporary anyway, as it has been since 1948.

Trump was inspired by ‘chicken kashmiri’ in his local take-away. Because it’s the same colour he is. And stains clothes and work surfaces bright orange just like his ‘tan’ does.

Well done ‘Don the peacemaker’.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So let’s take 133 smelly old men. Perverts, deviants, celibates and kiddy-fiddlers, lock ’em in a big room and hide the key until you see smoke. Does that really sound like a good idea? Is that any way to choose the leader of the world’s 1.4 billion Catholics? But its what they do. Its as old as… a very old thing. The ‘Vatican’ in some form or other dates back to 400 AD (obviously ‘AD’, cos before Christ there really weren’t many Christians knocking around) and the current ‘building'(? its way too grand for that description) dates to 1600 or thereabouts. Built by slaves, half of whom died in the construction, like the workers who built the World Cup stadia in Qatar, and enhanced by shit-loads of cash, ‘raised’ by the Inquisition and such types, who make ‘bailiffs’ look subtle. The room in which the current ‘conclave’ is taking place was painted by Michaelangelo. Whereas Ray the decorator would have done the lot for £750 in cash. But the Catholic church was always a little ‘flashy’ in its practices. Which was why Martin Luther PROTESTed and led his group of ‘PROTESTants’ away to form something more austere in 1500-or so. The German monk complained that the ‘indulgences’ of the church were, a bit of a cop-out. His words. In that they were ‘get out of jail’ cards for sinners. Bit like ‘confession’ on steroids. So he formed a church that was really unforgiving. Except for Henry VIII. Who it forgave everything.

Anyway. New Pope. New broom. This one’s a Catholic too. And, because he’s been a cardinal for a while, has the inevitable history of some kind of peripheral involvement in sexual abuse scandals. Not ‘doing it’, more on the cover up side. Standard practice for cardinals. PROTECT THE CHURCH!!!, and its reputation. Rather than protecting the innocent, the abused, the children. But there ya go. I would say ‘there’s no smoke without fire’, but in this case, there actually is. Good luck to Pope Leon.

More importantly, Spurs have reached the final of the Europa League. And there we get to play against… Manchester United!!! How odd that two teams who have underperformed so tragically all season in league matches, managed to beat all opponents in Europe. Does this actually mean that most European leagues are a fucking joke? Dominated by one or two massive, rich teams, who always make it to the Champions league with the rest unworthy of the name? Like in Scotland? But with even stranger accents? Or are they just two teams who rise to the big occasion? Who knows. At this point; who cares? WE’RE GOING TO BILBAO FOR THE FINAL!!!!!’

Very Happy Friday

A xxxx