Andy's Glasses

… The white geezer.

Same as always. They gave one to Sidney Poitier in about 1975 and that was enough ‘diversity’ for any distinguished organisation, surely? What should they do? Give an Oscar to Philip Schofield just to keep numbers up? Would it be better if some of the nominees (all white) turn up in ‘black face’? Just to… sort of… well, ya know. Was just a thought. Possibly not my best.

You’d kind’a think that on the back of the ‘me-too’ thing and the whole ‘exposure’ of Hollywood norms and practices, that the big-wigs would just do something right, just in the interest of not causing more of a shit-storm than you really need. Would it have been so difficult for the ‘academy’ to find a few non-whites to nominate? How hard is it when our screens are simply teeming with wonderfully talented racial diversity? And its not like “well that would compromise our artistic integrity” because as we know from every previous year, the Academy has no integrity and makes its selections on purely political motives. So that’s all bollocks. Therefore they must actually have made the decision to reduce diversity. Which is indeed controversial. Which explains the furore surrounding tomorrow night’s little party.

Philip Schofield is gay!

First thought: who gives a shit?
Second thought: which one is he, again?
Third thought, once you realise which one he is: big surprise, that one. Course he’s fucking gay.

The whole thing is about ‘bravery’. He’s so ‘brave’ to come out like that, on tv. He did so because for years he’s had people make revelations about such things, to the public, and he’d thought ‘they’re so brave’. And so indeed Philip decided to be brave. So brave that having been married to a woman for 27 years he needed to… what, come clean? Make a rapid choice? Twenty-seven years. Unless he ‘caught’ his gayness in the last virus to emerge from China. The gay one. Because otherwise, presumably, he’s always been gay. I can’t speak from experience on this because I’m the world’s most heterosexual stud-machine manly of men. But I know what went through my mind, to the virtual exclusion of all else, between the ages of 13 and… and… well, I’ll let you know. And presumably Philip had thoughts too. Maybe more ambiguous than mine, who knows? But 27 years?

Who cares. Lila’s coming home. With Joey. Tonight. That’s way more important.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

King Tut has always had a special place in our hearts. His heart was removed and buried near him a little box with his organs and a few other ‘bits and pieces’. It was the Egyptian way. But King Tutankhamen wasn’t like the BEST EVER pharaoh, nor the tallest, sexiest, ugliest, meanest, most successful or in any way particularly notable. Yet he’s the one we know. And by ‘we’ I mean everyone in the world. It’s that picture, the beautiful face with kohl eyes, the headdress and scarf-thing, that is so instantly recognisable. Not Ramses, (the only other I can think of, so I’ll make up a few others just for good impression), not King Kevin, Pharoah Phil nor Nigel the Great! But Tutankhamen. Tut was a king at age 9 and died just 10 years later. Hardly set the world on fire. That was Nero.

So why Tut? Because they managed to find him. That’s why. He ‘survived’. Ok, not ‘him’ in the normal sense, but his tomb. Unlike the other Egyptian royalty three and a half thousand years ago, Tutankhamen’s grave was never found by the gangs of grave-robbing tomb raiders. Even before Angelina Jolie was born those wily ‘gyptians worked out that kings were buried with more material wealth than 2000 regular civilians could make in 2000 years. So in a rather pre-Marxist way they worked out a system of wealth distribution. Called theft. Much like most post-Marxist forms of wealth distribution. They robbed the tombs. Filled with gold, jewels and shit-loads of stuff. Intended to see the dead king through his passage in the underworld.

And thus yesterday, Mel & I ventured to the Valley of the Kings (Road) to see what was hailed as Tutankhamen’s Final World Tour!!!! by those misrepresentative fuckers at the Saachi gallery, who used that iconic King Tut image in all their advertising.

But he weren’t there. The king. Nah, mate, he’s in his final, FINAL resting place in a museum in Cairo. With his most famous sarcophagus and lots of other old gear. What we got ‘ere is ‘the stuff wot was buried in the tomb with ‘im’. Ahhhhhh.

And it is quite amazing, and magnificent, verging on obscene what was buried in the other 3 rooms of the tomb which the king didn’t occupy. Shitloads of stuff. All beautifully, airlessly preserved for 3,500 years. Tons of stuff (literally) including this fearsome ‘guard’ of the body.

The stuff is great. The building now home to the Saachi looks fab from the outside but feels like a disused school building or hospital from the inside. Smells like it too, unfortunately. But its Chelsea, so its posh, and a bit poncey. And fitting for a king. Dead or otherwise.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So there’s a BA flight from New York. Guy pops into the bathroom before take off to… well, whatever. Looks at the sink area (4 inches x 3, as they always are) and sees hand-wash, sanitiser, hand cream, 2 passports and a Glock 17 automatic pistol. Looks at the passports (I’d have fired the gun, personally, just because) and sees one belongs to David Cameron. Yup, ‘that’ David Cameron. Hands them in, lots of fuss, flight delayed, BA want to turf him, the finder, off the plane, for some reason, gun returned to Cameron’s bodyguard and eventually all is well for departure.

I want to know why the guard put his gun down. Was he holding it in his hand? No, they call them ‘concealed weapons’ for a reason. So you don’t have to walk around waving it in the air. So it was in a holster. They sell them. In gun shops, probably. On his hip? Under his arm? Whatever. People get understandably frightened when they they see a man with a gun, so hide it. So did the guard take the gun out whilst he was… concentrating? In case a terrorist burst into his toilet and he could shoot him? Like, sitting there with some toilet paper in one hand and a Glock in the other? As we all normally do. What are the protocols for armed security people on the bog? They must have guidelines. Rules. Regulations. I wonder if he’d been having sex with Cameron in the toilet, mile high club thing, like that Bodyguard in the tv show did with his PM?

Trump gets acquitted of all possible crimes and misdemeanours by the senate. He was innocent! All along. Never had a doubt, myself. But its good to have it proven in a court of law by a bunch of jurors who owe you their careers and livelihoods, voting you free. No conflict of any interest there.

Or at Spurs. Where another stunning victory was played out last night at the Lane (for want of a better, or more expensive, name). Southampton it the FA cup replay. We were losing, we were losing, we were playing badly, second best, we were still losing, then we were drawing, then we got a penalty and won in the 90th minute. VAR ruled it was a fair call so all the Southampton players and fans were happy with that, and Sonny (bless his little Korean soul, or Seoul?) dispatched the winner.

Underserved. Second best. Playing badly. The best wins of all.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

They held the Iowa Caucus on Monday. One of those vague and impenetrable American things which happens every few years and no-one over here knows what it means or what it does and then they announce a winner! This year it was different in that no-one over there appeared to know what was going on either as they screwed up the vote counting and the announcements and then decided that the young gay guy was a better option than the woman or either of the two really really old guys in wheelchairs. In the battle to win the Democrat nomination to stand against Trump in this year’s election.

They have no fucking chance. None of them. Which means we’re going to be stuck with another four years of Donald J. Trump. Another. Four. Years. Because without a really ‘stand out’ candidate Donald will breeze in, virtually unchallenged.

Jo Biden was the go-to guy, the man almost responsible for Trump’s impeachment, but he apparently gave an awful speech and fared poorly in the results. Coming in 4th. Which is good in, say, the London marathon, but not so good in a 4-way competition. As this was. He’s 78 years old. If he won the election he’d be nearly 83 by the time his first term was over. I’m not making judgments about that, nothing ageist, but its stupid.

Elizabeth Warren came third. She’s a woman. Is America ready for a woman president? We thought so last time when Mrs Clinton stood up to be counted, but just not ‘that woman’. Could it vote for this one? The senator from Massachusetts? Who is about as high profile as my milkman. Who we never see.

In second place was Bernie Sanders. The ‘socialist’ billionaire. Jeremy Corbyn meets Alan Sugar. With just about the charm of both. Also 78, Bernie is as he has always been, unelectable. America doesn’t do socialism.

But can it do ‘gay’? Pete Buttigieg is the current mayor of South Bend, Indiana. Population about 100,000. And seems, unusual in such situations, like a good guy. A nice guy. A clever guy. All of which is commendable and voteable. Which is why he came first in the Caucus. But would the rest of America feel comfortable enough to vote this man as president? I’m not thinking New York and LA here, I’m thinking Kansas and Wyoming (Brokeback?) and Tennessee. I’m thinking… redneck. I’m thinking opposition to gay marriage. I’m thinking the religious south. A gay president? I would love to think that the Unaaarted States of Ameeeeerica was so enlightened and liberal. But it ain’t.

So to choose the only candidate that would appear worthy would be to condemn the Democrat party to a sure loss.

Hence, more Trump.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I had the privilege, the honour, the just damned good fortune to be at Spurs yesterday. Because I don’t normally go but made an exception because… because… because I wanted to. And wanted to parade my new-found facial deformities before the 62000 assembled there. Though most of them didn’t appear to notice. They were too busy enjoying themselves. And enjoy we did. Well, the ones in navy blue and white did. The odd few sky blue scarves sat beneath faces somewhat less joyful. I’m pleased to say. Thrilled to say. And delighted to say.

Normally a visit to Tottenham High Road on match day fills me with anxiety. I get bad feelings, lack of confidence, thoughts of terrible defeats. Match day nerves. But yesterday, unaccountably, I actually went to the match feeling really positive, really ‘up’, really good about it. Very un-Spurs fannish.

But I think this feeling was in some way reciprocated by my team. They knew I was there. They appreciated me coming. And they made just that extra effort and commitment for their main inspiration.

What a match. It had it all. And not necessarily all in a good way. It was exciting, it was at times beautiful and it was at others, totally stupid, ridiculous and pathetic. Because that is what VAR is doing to the game. Making it a joke.

I was going to go into great detail about the events around VAR-gate and how it ruined the game. But I deleted it all because it didn’t ruin the game. Perhaps only because we later won and therefore become more forgiving of the Keystone-kopsian ridiculousness of that part of the match. Because in the fractious aftermath Zinchenko was booked, and soon after was red carded. 2 minutes later we scored. To put that in perspective, it was our first shot on goal. 63 minutes. During which we’d been equal in play but, in the parlance of the terraces, ‘wanted it more’. We were so wonderfully combative, fighting for every loose ball (obviously giving away a few of our own, as we do) and Harry Winks, bless him, simply took Kevin de Bruyne out of the game. Sanchez was immense at the back. Loris majestic (which is French word meaning ‘didn’t fuck anything up’) and the team looked good. Other than poor Son, who looked off, until he scored our second goal. Then he looked much better. Even I looked better as I could feel my face deflating with every great event on the pitch.

I had to wait for my mate who was giving me a lift home. At the pre-arranged spot. And he took ages. But just sitting there watching an endless stream of wonderfully happy, blue-scarfed, smiling, singing, shouting (ok, a bit of abusing but nothing Man City don’t deserve) was really what football is about. The fairly unfamiliar glow of a fabulous victory.

Very Happy Monday

A xxxx

I wouldn’t normally watch the Aussie Open final. Why would I? When I could be playing tennis. But I’m not allowed and due to the ridiculous time difference the Aussies insist on maintaining, I’m watching Djokovic play Dominic Thiem. So famous that I just had to google his first name. But he’s brilliant. Outstanding. Incredible. Currently 2 sets to 1 up. Anything can happen. And maybe Thiem won’t win. But the ‘old guard’ is changing. We’ve had a decade of watching possibly the 3 greatest ever players of all time win virtually everything. Ok, Andy Murray won a couple but Federer, Nadal and Djokovic have defined an era. Murray could only define a Scotsman. Even if Novak wins today, I kind’a feel I’m looking at the future in his opponent. An Austrian! A fucking Austrian!!! Who’d’a guessed that?

I don’t think Prince Andrew plays tennis. I hope not. It would effect my love of the game. But he is currently embroiled in ‘the gift that keeps giving’. Which is his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. Who bestowed gifts and holidays and, allegedly, ‘young women’ upon Andrew whilst alive, and his legacy continues well past his untimely death.

And there’s such a massive demand from ‘the victims’ for our least favourite Prince to go to America and testify that he may have to do so. He’ll deny. Whether true or not, he’ll deny. He was in Pizza Hut at the time. Even though there isn’t one there. His memory only remembers pepperoni and mushroom, possibly ham and pineapple, which most people find nauseating, but he probably wouldn’t, yet it simply doesn’t stretch to sex with underage girls. Or being with women anywhere, anytime? Was I? With her? Really?? Oh, you have photos, well they’re probably wrong. I have no recollection. Possibly living with Fergie would give you a disposition of trying to forget women, I get that. But you don’t forget them all.

I recently had a conversation in which a very old person was appalled that they’re bothering with this, ‘that woman is married now! Has children!!’ ‘It was so long ago, who cares?!!’ And I thought: I fucking care. Because child abuse is the worst of crimes. For the sick and perverted pleasures of vile individuals, kids are scarred for their entire lives. Forever. And even if it was 100 years ago, they should pursue it.

Anyway, I’m going to Spurs. After the tennis, obvs.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So this is what happens when you go for a ‘bone graft’ at the dentists. You end up looking like a cross between a chipmunk and The Elephant Man. And its weird. To look in a mirror and see a completely different face from the stunning beauty you’re so familiar with (deluding yourself into). My pillow yesterday morning did indeed look like it been taken straight from the set of Reservoir Dogs and this morning my left eye has developed a nice little bruise on it too. The worst thing of all? I’m grounded. No tennis, even though its a beautiful morning, no tai chi, no punching anyone at all, unless they won’t punch back.

However, a little bit of dentistry can’t keep a fit, able, youthful (in yer fuckin’ dreams) 63 year old from his new, major hobby: visiting doctors.

A month or so back I went to see a ‘hip dude’ (that’s his profession, not his demeanour) because an old tennis injury had returned. He took an x-ray. And told me the hip was ok but FUCK ME! LOOK AT YOUR SPINE!!!! I may have changed the exact wordage for artistic purposes. You need to see a back specialist, neurosurgeon, spinal… tapper, type geezer, ASAPeeeee!!!!

And that was this morning’s excursion up to Bushey. Even my SatNav said ‘what, AGAIN???’ when I plugged in the hospital.

My lower spine is curved. Should be straight. Why they call it ‘spine’ not ‘spiral’, do keep up. And compressed. Everyone’s spines compress but mine more so, because I’m special.

Curved spine, deformed face, I’m turning into John Merrick.

And yet, and yet, and yet. The doc was great. Said he wanted to do… absolutely nothing. Its fine. The way you are. Hereditary (bloody father!!!, sorry, daughters) but requires no attention. I can play tennis, I can live like a normal, non-elepahantine person with a swollen face. He didn’t even recommend a cortisone injection. They always recommend that, especially if they need to fill up the McLaren or get a school fees bill. But no. Nothing.

We have Brexited. Its official. 11 o’clock last night, the bells rang, the other things did other things and the world changed totally. In that its much more stupid today than it was yesterday. Along with most (well, 52%) of the people in it. And yet… I feel free! I feel… less European! I feel… more about tomorrow’s game against Manchester City than I do about our newly sanctioned status.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So what do you do on Liladay when there’s no Lila? She’s tanning herself in the Indian Ocean and I’m here in the grey and damp. Although maybe not ‘tanning’ as such, due to the gallons of factor 50 her mum took with. More at risk of drowning in sun protection than getting burnt. Anyway, its not about ‘her’, its about MEEEEE. I’m the one left in limbo. So to compensate we’ve brought my father-in-law down from Manchester for a few days, so we can babysit him instead. He’s been here 24 hours and hasn’t even got the Barbies out yet. Lila would be appalled.

But never mind. When plans get altered there’s always new plans to make, new wonderful things to do, new fun to be had. There’s always…

Dentistry.

I love a dentist visit. Not check-ups, they’re no fun. I mean proper, scalpels out, drugs in, cutting, digging, sewing, blood, gore, red pillows tomorrow morning- dentistry. And I’m going this afternoon. Booked it in November, some serious shit going on. In my mouth today. And as its scheduled at two and a half hours, they offered me some form of ‘mild sedation’. Mild? MILD??? FUCKING MILD???? I take mild sedation to get on the tube. For this ‘pro-ceeee-dure’ I want POW-ER-FUL!!! I want knock-out. I want the finest, pharmaceutical quality shit I can get in me. You can hack away, I’m gonna be on Venus. So they offer ‘intra-venous’ which I’ve had and to be honest I didn’t like. Left me feeling awful. So I went for ‘oral’. No comments please, that’s beneath even YOU. A tab of Valium makes the world a better place. Even ‘that’ world. And that was the plan.

They phoned me last week. You can’t have oral sedation. We’re not allowed to give it any longer. WHHHHAAAAAATTTTTTT!!!!!! Law’s changed. Dentists and drugs, blah, blah, blah, can’t do it. Bastards. I called them back three upset, panicky days later. Can I bring my own? Like taking wine to an unlicensed restaurant. Do you charge corkage? Of course you can bring your own. Bring all the drugs you need, but we can’t give them to you. I think, even at my age, I can manage to get a pill into my mouth without falling over. I won’t bore you with the sorry tale of my GP’s refusal to prescribe such things which are ‘out of their control’. Because they’re a bunch of obstructive tossers and the plan is that I want to be completely out of control. But I ‘scored’ some, anyway.

Four o’clock today.

This photo is possibly my fave Lila-pic EVER. Independent ‘woman’. As if. But just so self-possessed. The essence of Lila in one little photo.

Happy (????) Thursday

A xxxx

But more, much more than this, I did it Hu-aaaaa-wei.

Well I’m glad I’ve got that out my system. Which is more than we can say for the company concerned, who are well and truly in, over, above and underneath our new system for 5G. Which has been approved by our government.

If Boris is to be believed, we get a fantastic 5G network, we get it much quicker than by using any possible alternative and WE KEEP CONTROL of all data, minimised risk to security, kept away from ‘sensitive areas’, blah, blah, blah. Almost like Huawei is just the paint job on the outside of the shiny new network.

If the Americans are to be believed we have just sold our soul to China. And all our secrets. And will be under their surveillance even more than we currently are with Alexa. Every 5G terminal houses 3 really little Chinamen (or women; they have plenty of both available) and they’ll know everything anyone does any time they do it.

Though America has for many decades been sensitive to the point of paranoia. From ‘reds under the bed’ to Huawei. And many in between. But just because they’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to scupper any possible trade deal between our two fine nations. As has now been threatened. We’ll have to buy our chlorinated chickens from another supplier.

Yet them Yanks are quick to attack Prince Andrew (all bow; but ladies, make sure your skirts are pulled down sufficiently before doing so). He’s ‘unco-operative’ about his part (no pun) in the Epstein affair. He won’t say anything to them. He’s said all he needed to say on the matter to Emily Maitliss. And how did that go, Andy?

But its the horrible high-horsiness of the Americans which pisses me off. They want Andy to go and testify over there, even though he’s 19th (possibly 26th, maybe 173rd) in line to the throne of England! But he holds the truth, regardless of any status or immunity he may lay claim to. So that American law can be seen to be done. Halleluyah.

Funny that the diplomatic immunity claimed by Anne Sacolas is apparently more sacred. The woman who killed a young man with her car, outside an American air base and fled back to the States, is protected from extradition to face trial.

Let’s swap. Throw Andrew under the bus. Send him over there to testify in exchange for Anne Sacolas returning to Britain to face trial.

But America just kind’a lacks the empathy required to equate such things.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

If you watch Lila for any length of time, and I have been known to do that, you realise one (of many) things. That little children are unbelievably flexible. They can just move their little bodies in any direction to the maximum extent that skeletons allow. Whereas adults are generally different. We move anywhere, bend by just 10 or 15 degrees or pick up a tea cup, and it hurts. Somewhere. We’re not ‘bendy’.

Thus, in between 2 (nearly 3) and 60, rigor mortis starts to set in. Which is why God invented Pilates. Yoga. Even tai chi. To cope. To fight off the inevitable. To prevent the stiffness. To… stretch!!! Oddly, working out muscles, which many are prepared to do very regularly, generally acts in opposition to flexibility. Tight muscles may look good in your Speedos but they inhibit normal joint flexure. Which is (one of a thousand reasons) why I never ‘work out’.

In the Times today is a big article about the merits of stretching. Like we didn’t know. Like we don’t watch our football teams spend an hour stretching out before every match and half an hour AFTERWARDS stretching down. Which is even more important. Which is why no-one, unless they’re getting paid 200k a week, ever does it.

Because along with bodies that stiffen, we are also blessed with minds that think. And get bored. Particularly doing laborious, sometimes uncomfortable and repetitive tasks. So we’d rather watch the coffin scene from Kill Bill 2 than spend that time more productively with our heels up on the window ledge, groaning.

Yet stretching definitely works. Even though Guru Larry won’t call it ‘stretching’ (a bad-sounding thing), but instead ‘loosening’. Which is both more accurate and sounds more beneficial than destructive. And we always loosen. We do it before we do the tai chi, which itself is a wonderfully thorough stretching exercise. But you can’t do it properly if you’re stiff as a board. And you certainly can’t spend an hour kicking and punching and swinging a sword around if you haven’t ‘loosened’ hips, shoulders, backs, hamstrings. Well, you can, then you go to hospital.

Mel now stretches every night. She takes these things on board in a way no man ever could. I hear her doing it. Whilst Uma is 2-inch punching her way out of the ground, just before Michael Madsen gets bitten by the snake.

So we know we should stretch. We even know pretty much how to do it. It requires no special equipment. No tools. Just the hardest things of all: time and motivation.

Happy bendy Tuesday

A xxxx