Andy's Glasses

Where international rugby is concerned I’m always conscious of being respectful of all teams. Ok, ‘respectful’ can translate to ‘fearful’ when it’s the All Blacks, as it will be next weekend. But I have lots of respect for Ireland, for Wales, South Africa, certainly Japan, not quite so much France. Then there’s Australia. Which is just a little bit beyond my sphere of respect. Into the world of ‘gloating’. Of serious rivalry. Of trash talk. Of piss-taking, merciless, brutal and often. In part because that’s how the Aussies are, and in part because THEY FUCKING DESERVE IT FOR THE CRICKET.

So what a joy this morning, what a pleasure, what a… what a… what a… EVERYTHING to knock those Southern Hemisphere criminals out of the World Cup in the quarter final. And it wasn’t just a victory for England, it showed a gulf in class that was immense. 40 to 16 is a big score for such an important match. And filled my boys with the confidence to be optimistic, to almost feel invulnerable.

Then the Kiwis played.

Our next opponents in the semis. Who today played Ireland. And beat them. But didn’t just ‘beat them’ like a normal team would. They beat them on 27 different levels. Where most teams can only think in about 5. They simply out-everythinged the Irish team which had in fact beaten them in the previous two tests they’ve played. The difference being that those 2 weren’t World Cup matches, and this was. It was simply awesome.

And at this very moment Spurs are losing to Watford. Who I simultaneously have a lot of respect for and have total fucking contempt for having the audacity to score at Spurs. Who do they think they are?

Brexit is miring itself deeper into the shit with every meaningless vote in parliament serving to weigh us down even further. So the vote later is immediately devalued because of Sir Oliver Fucking Letwin.

Otherwise, I’m good.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The deal’s done, the Euros have been conquered by the sheer charm, the amazing wit, the scintillating charisma and analytical sharpness of the fat blond geezer wot runs our country. I hope they locked their wives and daughters up for the duration of his stay.

There was lots of bonhomie and back-slapping and congratulations and even little snakes like Macron and Teutonic lumps like Merkel were drawn into the sphere of apparent loving camaraderie that exists around Boris-in-full-flight. Brussels was positively awash with ‘gush’.

And Boris came away with an agreement for a deal. Holy shit. The holy grail… almost. He came away with a ‘deal’ approved by the EU. Yet that remains (no relation) the easy task, just the first step. The big task, the big ask, the mountain yet to climb, the living of the impossible dream, is to get parliament to approve it. Which is much harder.

With Europe you’re dealing with 27 countries who all, basically, want the same thing. Whereas our parliament is comprised of Leavers, Remainers, Second Referendumers (in two flavours, another leave/stay one or a ‘choose the deal’ one), all of whom are again divided along party lines and national divisions. Cross referenced by colour, creed, religion and shoe size. It’s not easy to get ‘accord’.

Corbyn is in lots of trouble. Damned whatever he does, so it would seem. He was almost violently opposed to ‘leaving with no deal’ and yet simply cannot agree with this (or any) deal. And however he and his party choose to vote on Saturday, he knows it will probably ruin any chances for them to win, or possibly even come second, in the general election that will follow.

Corbyn’s problem is that leaving the European trading block, which is the ‘taking back control’ bit, opens Britain up to do its own trade deals with other countries, on our own. Most see this as a positive. But in that weirdly distorted lack of a brain, which supports Arsenal, inside Jezza’s head, ‘doing trade deals’ means ‘selling out to America!’ Who, he seems to think, will privatise the NHS!!!! He thinks this because he’s stuck somewhere between the Russian revolution and the Vietnam War and can’t seem to get out. He’d rather do trade deals with Venezuela (socialist but bankrupt) as did Ken Livingstone, with Putin (nice man all round) and with Cuba and North Korea. They may have nothing to sell, can’t afford to buy and have the worst economies on the planet, but at least they’re his mates. He’d rather have Hamas and Hezbollah on board that any nation who might actually have something to offer.

The vote is on Saturday. After the rugby. Let’s hope something positive comes or we’ll still be agonising over fucking Brexit at the next rugby World Cup. God help us.

Happy pre-Saturday-day

A xxxx

It’s a marmite issue.

Brexit. Football. Strictly Come Prancing. Coronation Street. And marmite.

Things that people love or hate. Yes or no. On or off. There’s no middle ground, there’s no ‘grey’, its totally divisive. And nothing more so than marmite, hence it wins the rights to claim metaphorical status for all things in that class. People either love it or absolutely hate it. Very few are ambivalent (Jeremy Corbyn thinks it should be on the table, in case some workers may like it on their white, working-class bread, but he’d rather not commit personally to either having it removed nor having a vote as to whether it should be removed from the table).

I love Marmite. Always have done. Don’t eat it much but I still love that amazing, salty ‘hit’ you get when tasted.

And now they’ve gone and mixed it with peanut butter. Holy shit.

Now peanut butter I do consume. In vast quantities. I’ll eat it on toast, bread, crackers, bananas, or just off the spoon in times of real ‘need’. Because I love peanuts (never mind the ‘mammalian eye’, if anti-evolutionists want the pinnacle of God’s creationism, it must surely be the humble yet totally perfect peanut) and when mixed with the best ingredients the world has ever produced; sugar and salt, and mushed up with oil, there is just nothing better.

But mixing it with marmite? Eeeeuuuwwww, surely not? I mean; really???

Yeah, that’s what I thought. I winced at the very concept. Turned my nose up at the offence to my purist’s perspective. I internally gagged at the idea of mixing two wonderful things which just simply ‘don’t go together’. It’s like making a donner kebab with bread-and-butter pudding with custard. Two wonderful things, the total of which is way less than the sum of its parts.

But then I tried marmite peanut butter. Gingerly. Tentatively. Carefully. As if it might bite ME. And, ever prepared to rush to the sink and spit it out/vomit…

It was wonderful. Fabulous. Sensational. Incredible. Life-changing. Life affirming! And I love it. (Note to Rachie: ‘get yer own jar to take back to Berlin, this one’s mine/gone’).

But I’m not writing this about the food. I’m writing because people who love marmite and peanut butter are going to be totally divided on this new mix. But it can’t be a ‘marmite issue’ because its about marmite. People are going to really love it or really hate it (nut allergists probably best not enter this debate). So do we re-work the metaphor as being a ‘marmite peanut-butter’ issue? or just ignore it? Or come up with a new metaphor for things that divide people because they either really love it or really hate it? A ‘Corbyn’ issue. No, no-one loves him, not even his own party. A Trump issue? Similar problem. An Arsenal issue? An Extinction Rebellion issue?

See, you solve one problem and you get another in its place.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Fantastic thing in the paper about people getting fat. OldER people. Middle aged. Which I almost remember. Though not getting fat. So a bunch of 40 year-old Scandinavians were monitored for 13 years. What they ate, what exercise they did, how many calories consumed. There were both men and women and for such a long study the results become extremely valid. It’s not like you followed a fat geezer into McDonalds and he ate 3 double bacon cheeseburgers then waddled out again, you can’t make any statistical claims about that. Obvious though they may be. There’s no ‘sampling’, there’s no ‘control group’ (fat people who walk into McDonalds and drink water), there’s nothing to analyse.

And it is known that around middle age our metabolism changes and we become less efficient at breaking down fat, choosing instead to store it, mainly around our middles but elsewhere too. So the study had lots of people changing their food intake significantly and another group which didn’t.

And the findings were simply amazing:

The more food you eat and the less exercise you do the more you become a fat bastard.

Who’d’a known that?

Holy shit. What a waste of 13 years. Whilst condemning the control group of lifestyle non-changers to an early death.

Boris is fat. But may yet get Brexit done. Whether by the end of the month or not remains to be seen. And I have one reason to wish it happens. Because if its done we’ll get a general election and I reckon Boris will win it easily. Because Corbyn is at peak unpopularity. The entire country hates him except Seamus Milne. So that’s one vote he’ll get. Corbyn himself will probably not vote because he’s not good at decision making. Though allegedly, the Labour Party is now completely controlled by John McDonnell after a ‘silent coup’. But he’s worse than Corbyn so let’s get the election sorted then we don’t have to worry about either of those vile and evil men intent on completely destroying the nation in the name of some dead Russian demigods for another 5 years.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m still intrigued by the couple who won’t tell anyone, including their own parents, the gender of their baby. They want it to be ‘neutral’. Which is really nice and thoughtful. If you’re a vegan tree-hugger who likes seriously fucked up children who’ll need a lifetime’s therapy. Otherwise it is basically, using their child as an experiment. Testing some pseudo-socio-scientific hypotheses that if you DON’T gender stereotype your child then it will… errrrr… then as it grows… hmmmm… then by the time ‘it’ is 10…

It will be fucked up. Possibly not quite as much as its parents because they have a choice. And it will NEVER wear blue or pink. Only yellow. Like Ali-G.

The implication is that all gender characteristics are learned. That there is nothing innate, genetic, hereditary or ‘natural’. Therefore, deprived of the usual biased input (soldiers for boys, dollies for gels, etc), the child will ‘grow into its own person!’ It will ‘choose the gender it prefers from the 17 now available to it!’ Because it won’t be taught how to be a boy or a girl. Just a… a what? A person? A weirdo? A dog?

It’s true that a lot of child behaviour, producing the adult it will eventually become, is programmed. Learned. But you can’t learn a nob. It’s just kind’a there. Or not. You can’t learn a pair of tits.

And with sexual characteristics comes responsibility. Or lack of it, if its the nob option.

So whilst we’re using children as case studies, I’ll mention my little Joey. Who is (dare I say?) a boy!! And he IS a boy. He’s more physical than Lila was. Perhaps that’s due more to being a second child and hence being loved to the point of bruising by the first child. By being dragged around the floor. Or maybe, even though I haven’t bought him his first gun yet (only a matter of time) he is just ‘a boy’. Possibly the genes that have evolved since homo erectus had his first erection predispose boys to be proto-hunter/gatherer/protectors and girls to be nurturing/maternalistic to better mother the children they might one day have. Who knows?

Bulgarians have a different way of learning. They learn to be hateful, spiteful, nasty, nazi and racist. So for the England match last night in Sofia FIFA had decided that in punishment for their previous obnoxious behaviour, they’d leave half the stadium empty. And I think what happened was that they shut the wrong half. So all the nice, decent, pleasant, liberal-minded and tolerant Bulgarians (an assumption that is proving a ‘big ask’) were the ones they shut out by mistake. Leaving just all the horrible, vile thugs who shouted racist abuse at the England players from the first minute. And without wishing to be seen as too reactionary, the answer is simple. Any country in which racist abuse, or any other, is heard, endured, exhibited, is just banned from the tournament with immediate effect. That would either shut the muthafuckas up or ensure that there is no Eastern European representation in any major sporting event.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Real men play tennis in the rain. FACT. Ok, maybe ‘in the drizzle’ because if balls get soggy, heavy, nasty, that ain’t no fun and the ground gets slippery so even my super K-Swiss, cross-tread, super-grip, climb-up-a-fucking-wall-like-Spiderman!!!! tennis shoes can’t really cope and that could spell disaster. At my age.

But what about rugby? Holy shit, that’s the most manly of manliest games. They play in ANYTHING. Those boys are superhuman. Bullets bounce off them. Meteorites turn round and go back when they see a flanker in the way. Rain???

But a typhoon is a bit different. In fact Typhoon Hagibis is a bit nasty and 30 people have already been killed during its tenure at the Rugby World Cup. So the England game was cancelled. Against France. Which, in terms of affecting any of the group positions or qualifications, was academic. But obviously way less ‘academic’ for the thousands of fans who managed to get a ticket for ‘last group game!!!!!’ at great expense, took time off work, booked an exorbitant flight, checked into a Love Hotel, had a row with the wife, abandoned the kids and has already blown the monthly nappy budget on beer and chicken yakatori.

Then came the Scotland game. Or not. Depending on typhoons (no-one mentions the earthquakes enjoyed in Tokyo on Thursday, they’re nothing). And this was a different kettle of haggis altogether. Because Scotland needed a win to progress to the quarter finals. And if abandoned, the rule is ‘2 points each’. Enough for the victorious Japs to move onwards in the tournament, but pitifully insufficient for the Scots for whom victory and only victory would prevent them from flying home. In shame.

They spoke of abandoning the game, the Scots said ‘they’d sue!!’ Who, exactly, and on what grounds, I’m not sure. Above my pay-grade. But sue they would. Probably sue God as it was one of his ‘acts’. But amazingly, the game was played. Safely and securely and it even looked quite pleasant out there.

But the Japs hadn’t read the script, which was written in Scottish, so pretty much no-one could understand it. And the Japanese, ever more impressive with each game they battle with every grain of rice in their very souls. They fight like the Samurai, they compete like Ninjas, they scrimmage like Sumo and eat, like, sushi.

I can never forget Andy Murray, the ‘typical Scotsman’, when he said: “whoever is playing against England I will support”. And thus I was thrilled with a win for Japan. Mel was upset, not that she loves rugby but because her father was born in Edinburgh. Enough that she could qualify for playing rugby for Scotland, like Michael Leitch is ‘Japanse’. And I just love the spirit in which the Japs play the game. It is heart-warming and admirable. Until they play England, then I may change my views.

Happy stormy Monday

A xxxx

About 5 years ago there was always a ‘Driving’ supplement in the Sunday Times. Only 8/10 pages, but its own thing, separate from the rest. So Jeremy Clarkson could wax lyrical about the latest hypercar that no-one reading the paper was ever going to afford and even if they could, there’s only 17 being produced and Jay Leno’s bought the lot. But you don’t read Clarkson because you’re looking to buy a car, you read him because he’s the last of the politically-very-incorrect dinosaurs not yet serving time in prison. There were other writers, some even offering more practical advice if you’re looking for a cheap run-a-round but have 7 children and four dogs, kind of stuff. And all sorts of other ‘car things’.

Then they decided to incorporate the driving section into the main Magazine. And it immediately reduced to about 4 smaller pages. And now its sometimes just 2 pages and and and and…

Writing about the sort of cars that I want to read about is about as zeitgeist as reading reviews on the best cigarettes, comparisons of ‘how many burgers you can buy for a fiver’, or recipes for cooking dogs.

Greta Thunberg don’t read driving sections. Extinction Rebellion would burn them but don’t want to increase carbon levels so they drown them instead. And with the move towards climate protectionism I can actually see how unfashionable it is for Clarkson to review today the new Aston Martin. A car that burns fossil fuels in Brontosaurus quantities. A car that emits… stuff on a massive scale. A car that is noisy, brash, brutal and so fast that there is nowhere other than a race track where you could even begin to appreciate that fastness. But its so pretty and sleek and… Aston Martinish and James Bondy and… and… its only 250k for the convertible, even though the hood mechanisms apparently a bit dodgy (you have to pay more for a good one) and I want it. I want them all. The more impractical the better. The bigger, the faster, the more uneconomical, the most polluting, the least electric, the most V-numbers you can think of, everything.

But try telling that to the kids of today. Phah!

I kind of appreciate that the kind of ‘driving’ things I love to read about represents the Book of Satan to most people, but so what? It’s not like I’m going to buy a car like that. Ok, maybe just one or two, but why can’t I read about them. Car porn. The Mail on Sunday, which I only read for annoyance anyway, annoys me more now because they’ve abandoned ‘Driving’ altogether. Which used to be written by Chris Evans and there’s no-one more annoying that him.

So I’m going to bring out a car magazine of my own. Nothing electric will ever be mentioned. Every week we’ll burn a different hybrid and compare the smoke patterns. Only cars in excess of 956 carbons per 20 yards will feature and every photo will have a non-objectified, post-feminist egalitarian draped over a bonnet wearing a bikini, or less. A really stacked one.

Happy reading.

A xxxx

It’s over. All the Brexit bollocks has finally reached an end, a conclusion, the pound’s recovered (a bit), the future looks rosy and everything is good again in the Kingdom.

We have a deal!

Ok, we have the basis of the fundamentals of the possibility of a mere chance of a deal, but even that is way more than we’ve had before. Enough to raise Stirling a lofty 2% against the dollar. But the numbers are insignificant; its the direction of travel that’s critical. The pound moved UPWARDS. Holy shit.

Now ALL we have to do is finalise the details, all of them, get them accepted by Brussels (how hard can that be?) and then seek parliamentary approval (how hard can THAT be???) next Saturday and we’re home and dry.

NEXT SATURDAY!!!!!

Yeah, how long does it take, FFS? Week is ample. Boris may take this weekend off to sunbathe in Texas with Jennifer Arcuri as part of an ongoing mission to promote tech start-ups with no strings attached or abuse of position, squandering of public funds or sleazy sex involved. Then he can start refreshed on Tuesday. Loads’a time.

And here’s the thing. Remainers, among who I used to count myself until they started acting a bit free with the project fearisms and the hyperbole and the doomsday scenarios, they use terms like ‘off the edge of a cliff’ and ‘catastrophic’ and painting all the doom and gloom. So although I still don’t want to leave, I’ve reached the point of ANYTHING BUT MORE OF THIS SHIT in my life. Somewhat reassured by Boris and the Brexit brigade constantly telling us that even with no deal, all will be fine. No really. Fine. No worries.

And then up pipe Nissan. The car company. Who aren’t remainers or Brexiteers, though you’d kind’a think they’re more the former than the latter because they built a massive, fuck-off factory in Sunderland decades ago just so they could export easily to Europe. Which they do with 70% of the cars made there. Where 6,000 good, honest (as honest as anyone from the north-east) workers earn their crusts. And Nissan said that if we ‘crash out’ without a deal, they will PROBABLY (elevated from ‘possibly’) have to close the plant.

And that struck a chord with me. This wasn’t Dominic Grieve getting distraught, it wasn’t Gina Miller doing her bit for democracy and the Queen, wasn’t overly reactionary posturing from any of the countless remain morons. This was a Japanese company which employs thousands of our people telling it like it is. And that says way more than a hundred speeches in Parliament. Because its not mere speculation, baseless hypothesising, wishful thinking or scare mongering. It’s reality.

Too wet for tennis, there’s no fucking football, the rugby’s been cancelled, I might as well join Extinction Rebellion for the day and superglue myself to Nelson’s Column with everyone else. Or go for brunch with Lila and Joey…

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So it was Lila-day and everything was… was Lila. The entire day revolves around this tiny little two-and-a-half (almost) year old bundle of manic enthusiasm. It is brilliant, it is endlessly funny and it is totally exhausting. And we have a rule in our house, as far as Lila is concerned, which is this: THERE ARE NO RULES. Ok, there are a few boundaries, but I think they’re more to control me than Lila. Because we love Lila exploring and undoing and digging around. Kids are naturally inquisitive and that’s gotta be good. Right?

So we were having lunch and Lila picked up my phone which was sitting on the table. It lives in a case. Little leather one. Blue. And YES I know phone covers are tacky and a bit eeeuuuuwww and no-one born since 1990 would ever use one other than in irony. But I’m a klutz. It’s natural. No lessons, no sessions with a professional, I’m just blessed with the ability to break/drop/destroy virtually anything. You can’t teach that. So a phone cover is essential. And I don’t have a wallet, because they’re sissy, girly- sorry, because I would loose it along with all my worldly possessions kept therein, on a weekly basis, plus; they’re bulky and bothersome and I hate encumbrance. So I keep the 2 credit cards which I most use in my phone case. Always have my phone, always need to have a card (Amex; hence-)or two with me, so that’s where they live. Tucked inside where they can’t fall out. Like the last card did.

But little fingers love to explore. I actually remember (vaguely) seeing those little fingers tinkering in the phone case but thought no more of it. Until I went to get my card out much later. And it was DON!!!

Not ‘gone’ because this was definitely Lila and she says ‘don’. Both cards, AWOL. Holy shit. We searched, we ripped everything apart, we did all those fruitless and futile things you do when trying to think inside a two-and-a-half year old’s head but effectively, you are denied access to such a place. Have been for 61 years now.

So I phoned Virgin to get a new one. And failed fucking security. How can I? When I am definitely and unambiguously ME. I passed sufficiently to cancel the old card but not to get a new one. So I called again, logging in online first to have sufficient information to prove my worthiness, and was told a new card would be here in 7-10 days.

Then I called Amex. And after just two minutes chat to the most pleasantly nice person ever I was told my new card would be here Monday.

It’s the little things. That both cause the trouble and sort it out far less traumatically. I love Amex. Perfect company for serial losers/destroyers/misplacers of cards.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I don’t really do religion. It’s just not my thing. I do Kultcheral religious stuff, because its part of our Kultcha, innit, and allows me to eat chopped liver and challah, the foods of the gods. But actual prayin’?? Naaaah. Praying in English, most of which I understand, always seems like total nonsense. Praying in Hebrew, which I really don’t understand, is therefore meaningless nonsense that the masses recite, en masse and although some of the tunes are quite moving, most of the voices singing them aren’t, so I just generally don’t. Which is no problem really as I don’t spend much time in a prayerful environment.

Except yesterday. Yom Kippur. The holiest of holy days for Jewish people. Because then I HAVE to go to the synagogue, as a kind of cultural imperative. And I know its a bit of a cop out, enjoyed by most ‘secular Jews’ who don’t do much in the way of prayer at all. So we do Yom Kippur and the preceding week we ‘do’ the New Year (Hebrew new year, lunar calendar, don’t ask) and we’re kind’a ‘done for the year’. Boxes ticked; I’m a ‘good Jew’.

And even when I go to synagogue, I generally find any reason not to join the praying. Not because I think ‘it’s all bollocks’ because that would be too subjective an analysis to impose onto people for whom it, presumably, has a much more profound meaning.

So I take as many turns on the security rota as I can take, strolling through the park in my stab-vest, hi-viz and radio in my ear is a great way to while away 27 prayers, even when its pitch black and there’s a 30mph wind blowing. And instead of going to the main prayer services, I go to the explanatory service. Where prayer is minimalised, its mainly taken in English and its fascinating on a philosophical/theological level which is even… INTERESTING!!!

So I grew up, as do all Jews, almost fearing Yom Kippur, because it is ‘translated’ as The Day of Atonement!!! Kind of Judgment Day!!!! Where we ‘atone’ for our ‘sins’ in the preceding year. And you have to starve yourself for 25 hours to ‘purify’ yourself, or ‘punish’ yourself, in the process. Safe to say, no-one corrects this at all when you’re young and impressionable, and the rabbis nurture that fear because they’ll do anything to get people into prayer.

And because we’re English speaking our entire vocabulary is based on Christian values. And therefore the nuance and the actual meanings of the ancient Hebrew gets ‘Anglicised’ for convenience.

So we are not ‘atoning’. What we’re doing is adding up our errors (the Hebrew word means ‘to miss a target’ but is translated as ‘sin’ because Christians love sins and punishments and flagellation and redemption) so that next year we can do better. Not financially (though it wouldn’t hurt) but as a person. And we don’t ‘starve’ as punishment. We simply pray so hard (ok, but stay with me on this) that we simply choose to ignore our bodily demands as simply unimportant on the spiritual plane we have ascended to. We are almost ‘angels’ (another impoverished translation error which does emphatically NOT mean little cherubs with fucking wings and tutus, but a higher mental state). And angels don’t eat, don’t shit… but that is, in fact allowed, don’t drink, don’t fornicate, don’t nuffink. And that is an aspiration for that day, not a punishment.

And I love that theory. The practice I can take or leave, but I love the idea that if people believe in a God then its a forgiving type of God, who understands that we’re not perfect and just says: ‘ok, so you fucked things up, try harder next time, phah!’ God becomes your best mate rather than a solemn bearded geezer with a whip and a dagger.

The things you learn if you stop talking to your mates for 10 minutes and concentrate.

Happy Next Day

A xxxx