Andy's Glasses

My Prime Minister is a good man. He’s a Con-serrrrrrr-va-tiiiiiiiiive, inn’he? Like Churchill. Like Maggie, Go’rest’er’soul. And therefore, as the man on the street, whoever is the current Prime Minister, I willl love him. Or her. Long as issa Conservative.

Ahhhh, those heady days of Alf Garnet-like complete support for any head of our government just because they held that role. The Queen was deified and the PM seen as her spokesperson ‘on earth’. But no more. Possibly because when the art of ‘spin’ came along it redefined lying and cheating in a way that it was almost sanitised. Before that politicians generally told… The Truth!!! I know, it seems hard to believe, but that’s how it was. A group of ‘gentlemen’ (because there were very few ladies), on opposite sides but, just like in the cricket games of old, they deported themselves with dignity, with grace and with trust that each and all would ‘do the right thing’. According to the Marquis of Queensbury rules. Different sport, same idea.

Then along struts Boris. The end-point of a rather darker and more sinister political evolutionary line. And at the time I did warn you. I said to you ‘YOU CAN’T TRUST BORIS!!!!’ Mainly because he’s so terribly unpredictable but also because he’s basically a liar and a cheat. Though not necessarily in that order. As he in fact cheated first. But did you listen???

He tried to shut parliament down so it couldn’t vote down the ‘without-a-deal’ departure from the EU on October 31st. That’s cheating. But not necessarily illegal, depending on which side of Hadrian’s Wall you stand. Because a Scottish court, having initially judged the shut-down to be legal, on appeal has decided that it is illegal because Boris lied to the Queen to make her do it. The English courts decided that although such an act was pretty rotten, it was a POLITICAL rotten act and nothing really to do with the law. So now it goes to the Supreme Court for final judgment.

But either way, having lost his first 6 votes in parliament, sacking half his own MPs for dissent and if nothing else, saving Theresa May from being remembered as the biggest fuck-up ever to reside at Number 10, Boris now stands accused of lying to Her Majesty, the Queen of England, some other small countries of little merit, what’s left of the Commonwealth and 3 little towns in Australia’s Northern Territories who never got the news of their independence.

Is that worse than lying to your wife? Something, we must assume, Boris has done on numerous occasions. But for a Prime Minister, should it be deemed the case, to basically con the Queen into shutting parliament down, that’s not great.

However…

I would much rather have a megalomaniacal liar, cheat, philanderer and (at times) imbecile running the country that Jeremy Corbyn and his band of Trotskyists. Though not such a merry band as there is great Branxiety in their ranks and Brindecision about another Breferendum. And praise the lord for that.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’ve never been to Iran. I never will. It will be the stamp missing
from my passport when my final travelogue is compiled. Ok, there’ll be
others. Probably won’t make the Congo. North Korea. Afghanistan is
unlikely and I don’t think I’ll have time for Oldham. But Iran is a
place I’d be scared to go. Especially now that relations between that
fine nation and mine have, kind’a plummeted to new depths of distrust
and aggression. Add to that the Tel Aviv security stickers on the back
on my passport (Israeli glue is made by God himself and thus is
eternal) and Iran is probably not my best thought for a ‘nice relaxing
holiday’.

Yet other people go there. British people. And generally, they get
arrested, thrown into prison and left. Like Nazanin Zahari-Radcliffe,
in her third year. Though her case wasn’t exactly ‘helped’ by then
foreign secretary… errrr… blond feller… bumbling twit… oh
yeah, Boris Johnson, when he made incorrect statements about her at
which point Tehran basically ‘threw away her key’.

Yesterday we learned that two more women were arrested and jailed upon
entering that fair city. Both have ‘Ashes’ passports; dual British and
Australian. And I’m guessing here but reckon neither is likely to be a
‘spy’. Though we don’t know why they’ve been arrested yet. One is a
backpacking blogger, the other a Cambridge educated academic who was
there to lecture and has been given a 10 year sentence. Without
stating why. They don’t need to. It’s their country, they can do what
they like. And 10 years is pretty much the standard there for
anything. Jaywalking. Having a broken brake-light cover.

Another woman has died in Tehran, but died at her own hands. She used
them to set fire to herself. In protest that she can’t go and watch
her favourite football team. Iranian law forbids women from football.
Nothing to do with the offside law or anything technical. Its just
total, Isalm-inspired sexism. Women are repressed, controlled,
subjugated, imprisoned and all those great things that we’re not
allowed any longer.

So here’s my advice to anyone thinking of traveling to Iran. DON’T
FUCKING DO IT!! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING???

Lila comes home tonight. Tomorrow: SHE’S MINE AGAIN!!!!! And Joey. But
obviously he’s little and attached to his mother in the literal sense
most of the time. So less exposure. In some ways.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So now we know. Why we’re here. How humans made it as the only species sufficiently sophisticated, evolved and successful to be able to fuck up the entire planet all by ourselves. But don’t forget, on the ‘path’ to this hi-tech, super-hi-fi, amazingly hi-everything world we now inhabit, we introduced art, we introduced morals and we introduced McDonalds. And war. Murder. Life insurance. And Arsenal football club.

Because ‘back in the day’ (oyyyy, really ‘back’) in the Cretaceous period, the dinosaurs undoubtedly ruled the world. Whose gonna argue with 25 tons of whatever-a-don? But they suffered a mass extinction. Which allowed small mammals to come out of hiding and eventually evolve into hominids of which we may count ourselves. In just 66 million years. Unless you prefer a more biblical interpretation, in which case; God dunnit, about 3 weeks ago, put everything there just as we see it now, fossils and everything, DNA, the lot, just for a laugh. Ooooh, that God, He’s a one…

They examined the crater off the Mexican coast where it has long been known to be the site of a massive meteorite strike. But this time they really examined it. And came up with some incredible results. The meteor was 9 miles wide, about the same size of London (up to zone 3 at least) and it crashed into the Mexican sea at a speed of 12 miles per second, which is 20 times the speed of a bullet.

Now that’s gonna make a splash. In fact, just a bit more than a ‘splash’. Because the explosion was reckoned to be the equivalent of 10 million Hiroshima bombs. I been to Hiroshima, one was enough. The sulphur in the rocks immediately vaporised into a massive cloud which blocked out the sunshine. And dinosaurs loved to sunbathe. They reckon the temperature dropped 26 degrees on the planet. And coupled with the darkness stopping the plants from growing, that was the end of the dinosaurs. Because if you eat 46 tons of vegetation a day and there’s no veg, bit of a problem. And if the herbivores die then what are the carnivores gonna eat? Mud??

The geologists who bored down into the crater reckon usual rock deposition is about one centimetre a year. In the crater the deposition was 130 metres in one day. That, in scientific parlance, is fucking massive.

I’ve now put in an order for a meteor strike on Westminster. Amazon sell them. Amazon sell everything. Though I’ve put it on delay because parliament is currently suspended. Along with the rest of political life in this nation.

If fucking only.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

It was Saturday afternoon before I even had a thought that England were playing a football match on that very day. I had no idea against whom nor when the festivities would start. Didn’t care. The ‘international break’ had robbed me of my weekly fix of ‘proper’ football and my love of watching my national team has declined significantly. In fact I no longer seem to have one. The love, not the national team, I still have them otherwise where would I get all my disappointment once ever 2 years when the World Cup/European Championships are played?

The cricket was very exiting and stepped up its game in the ‘national disappointment’ stakes yesterday as we lost the Ashes series to the (farkin’) Aussies. There’s one test yet to play but that’s become meaningless. Other than ‘pride’. We don’t mind being beaten by a really good side, we just don’t wanna get humiliated by the progeny of our old criminal stock.

I kind’a noticed that Serena had lost the final of the US Open, something of a pattern at this end of her unbelievably outstanding career, but didn’t think to look who beat her. On the grounds that: if it ain’t Wimbledon, it ain’t proper tennis, ergo: I don’t watch it. And I saw in the paper, en passant, that she was beaten by Bianca Andreescu. Thus I assumed that here’s another Bulgarian/Rumanian/Eastern Euro pony-tail to join the tennis ranks of the generic and totally forgettable. But I was wrong. Because my Canadian friend (everyone has one; possibly two counting wives, but never more because their aren’t enough people there to go round) was positively screaming out with joy (email type SCREAMING!!!!) that she was one of his own. A Canadian. From Canada. That nation’s first grand slam winner. And they had to steal her from Bulgaria/Romania to achieve that. Ok, she was actually born in the great frozen north, I checked on Wikipedia, thinking that I should ‘gen up’ before insulting anyone. But well done Bianca. You did it for all us Canucks (well Mel has a Canadian passport so that makes me… well, according to Canadian authorities; Nothing!).

Tomorrow night England play Kosovo. Who, in my mind, are ‘dark and dirty’, in the way they play. Based on… absolutely nothing. I just hope Harry Kane scores another hat-trick, because I love the man. But more importantly, I hope he doesn’t get injured.

Well have a super Monday

A xxxx

When I studied psychology (yeah! Well there’s lots you don’t know about me!) just a few things, out of a four year degree, actually stuck in my mind. Most has long been washed out with each shampooing. Mainly because a lot of what we studied was a bit detached from reality or was just too academic to be of any use. But one experiment was great. Because it was instructive.

A group of students were going to be lectured by a new Professor. They were given a brief outline of the guy and among the qualifications and achievements and publications, they slipped in that ‘he’s quite a cold person’. In the other group, everything was the same except the ‘cold’ was replaced with ‘warm’. One word difference. After the lectures (both exactly the same) the students were given questionnaires to rate the new guy. And guess what? Can ya?? The ‘warm’ group rated him massively higher than the ‘cold’ group. But not just on his personality. On his clarity, his intelligence, fucking everything. One word.

This is the ultimate ‘judging books by covers’ issue. We make judgments based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever because we encounter so many people we just have to do that. And any snipped we can glean beforehand will affect those judgments more than any of us care to admit. Which is why I hate you. Just joking.

And all this because of Quentin Tarantino.

Everybody (well, everybody who cares deeply, as I do) knew about ‘once upon a time in Hollywood’ before they saw it. We all knew that ‘it’s very long and the last 10/15/20 minutes are serious hard-core violence’.

When the violence got too much, I averted my gaze. Some of it was horrible. Mel thought it was funny. In a cartoony way, bit like in Kill Bill. Tough my wife. My brother went alone because his partner don’t like violence and refused. And mon ami qui habite en France, I learned, walked out 20 minutes before the end. Because they liked the film but didn’t want to do the horrible bit. Which also happened the be, pretty much, the entire point of a very long and very brilliant film.

But its what we do. We make judgments based on little, no or very poor information and act accordingly. And miss the end AFTER the violence which is the denouement of the whole preceding madness.

Anyway, who cares. Monty Python’s 50 years old and that’s all that really matters.

Have a non-judgmental Sunday

A xxxx

What a week for Boris Johnson. Our Prime Minister. The most unbelievable failure of weeks since Bury football club thought they’d found a buyer. Since Hitler thought picking a fight with Russia was the path to success. Since the banks decided to sell Payment Protection Insurance as a way to scam its customers.

Boris had his first three votes in parliament and lost them all. What’s the opposite of a ‘hat-trick’? that was Boris. Then he sacked 20 or 21 (depends when and how you count) of his party’s MPs. Just before his own brother and fellow MP, Joe, resigned from government because he can no longer work with big bwuvva Bowis. On Monday he will once again try and get a general election and that will make it 0/4 because the opposition parties are already aligned against him.

So he’s left with choices. He can… errrrr… well, he could… hmmmm… or… ok, he can’t do anything. He’s fucked. Last resort, he can wait for the law to be passed that we can’t leave the EU without a deal and then break that law and leave. Not sure how that will pan out, but I’m guessing it won’t be good. Won’t be his ‘Churchill moment’. I’ll be more a ‘Prince Andrew moment’.

I have one over-riding worry in all this. That when the shit has settled from the fan, Jeremy Corbyn may be the country’s leader. I know that Corbyn is not the most popular leader of the opposition, nor has he endeared himself to either leavers or remainers. But you just don’t know. No-one knows.

What we do know is that if Corbyn should achieve that aim, then John McDonnell would be our chancellor. And as a proud and proclaimed ‘Marxist’, he has some rather radical ideas. Safe to say, these are ideas that have never worked in any country that they’ve ever been tried in. Russia, China, Venezuela, Cuba, North Korea. All embraced Marxism, not as any kind of social ideology, because all their people were repressed, abused and pretty much starved, but as an economic model. Which led to the downfall of the common people that they were allegedly acting for.

McDonnell wants to ‘reduce inequality’. A noble aim. Unfortunately, not by creating a more equal environment for perhaps education and early opportunity, that’s too ‘fundamental’ for John, who is not ever a fun kind’a guy. So he’ll address the issue later. By basically stealing money from whoever may have it, or want to have it, or aspire to have it, and he’ll give it to some people. Because, according to him; ‘big bonuses cause upset to others’. So he’ll ban them/ reduce them/ tax them to shit. But bonuses won’t be such a big issue anyway as he plans to rob companies of billions of pounds worth of their shares and give them to the company’s workers.

And with all these extra billions coming into the country, he can start renationalising everything once more. Trains, utilities, phones, everything. It’ll be brilliant. As long as none of those companies relocate or use their international status to restructure their liabilities. In which case we (the nation) are fucked. Because the deficit would be humongous.

And on that happy note; have a super Saturday

A xxxx

So what do you do when its Liladay without Lila? How is that possible? It’s like Brexit; makes no sense on any level and there’s no solution. But she’s in Greece and we’re not, so something’s gotta give. So we went to the countryside where, allegedly, most of the country lives, but in reality there’s no-one there. It’s empty.

We set off first to get bulbs. Of the garden variety. Because some bastard just dumped 4 tons of earth on my fucking garden! Oh, it was the gardener. Apparently we ‘needed’ it. As you do. So we need bulbs. That’s some kind of gardener’s rule. Dump earth; plant bulbs. Flowers die in a few weeks but bulbs… do nothing for months, then BURST into flower… then die in a few weeks. It’s like a deferred death, and we’d all take that.

We went to Cruz Hill, where God planted all the best (read: cheapest by miles) garden centres. And we were headed in that ‘general direction’ at the junction of the A10 and the M25, Essex/Hertfordshire borderland. Where also lives, another act of God, the Tottenham Hotspur training ground. But they don’t sell bulbs.

So fully bulbed up, we headed off to the main event, heading yet further in the wilderness down lovely little windy roads. What a pleasure driving can be on a sunny day when you’re not doing it in London. Couldn’t live in such a place if my life depended on it, but its great for spinning wheels.

And thus a while later we arrived at the house of the late, great, Henry Moore. Britain’s finest 20th century sculptor. See if you name one of his competitors without google. It lives (unlike Henry, alas) in a titchy Hamlet, near a minute village, close to the thriving metropolis of Bishops Stortford. And there our Henry didst his sculpting. Well, from 1940. Before that he did it London when the Luftwaffe bombed his house which affected its viability as a studio.

It’s a lovely house, but a fantabulous studio. 72 acre garden that’s, unsurprisingly, filled with Henry Moore sculptures. Yet not ‘filled’. Spaced out. Relaxed. You stroll, you wander, you stumble across ‘reclining lady’ even though it looks like a crab with a tennis racquet. The biggest fucking crab with a tennis racquet you’ve ever seen. Or ‘pair of ovals’ as you see here. And they are without question ovals.

Mel and I love sculptures. But only if they’re really big and preferably metal. So Henry Moore is the man for us. In fact we suffer from sculpture garden envy as we only have a couple and they’re not that big.

Its a really great place. Little cafe, nice toilets (very important when you travel with my wife, though if you do I WANNA KNOW WHY????) and just a wonderful setting with lots of sheep. And just an hour away from civilisation. As we know it.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The country is currently being run by a man who can at best be described as ‘high functioning autistic’. Oh, not Boris, he’s fairly low-functioning anything, but the man who actually runs the nation at the moment; Dominic Cummings. The man who represents the kind of ‘ultra violet’ end of The ‘Spectrum’. But that’s all fine. Forest Gump had issues and he did ok. But he was an exceptionally nice and pleasant man. Whereas Dominic Cummings is not. Not at all. He’s horrible. Vile. Swears all the time and hurls abuse at everyone. But otherwise is not very nice.

Because the current shit-storm, which has out-shit-stormed all the previous ones, is Dominic’s baby. He is the ‘chief strategist’ and his strategy is modelled on Stalin. My way or the highway. Do as I want or FUCK OFF NOW!!!! There is no wriggle room with the man, no second chances and no sense of understanding, compassion or empathy. He simply cannot see ‘the other side’ of anything. He knows its there because by all accounts the man is a genius. Like me. But unlike me he doesn’t spend his days sitting on political fences filled with love and compassion for all. Dominic spends his days telling Boris EXACTLY what to do. To achieve his ends. Which is leaving the European Union on October 31st. “No ifs or buts”.

The man is a political bulldozer. He sees a problem and finds the most obvious solution.

Parliament won’t let us leave Europe without a deal. Solution? Take Parliament out of the picture. There’s no majority, no agreement, most MPs are scared shitless about the dreaded (and in my mind, even as a ‘remainer’, much hyped) no-deal scenario. So get Westminster out of the equation. Close parliament.

Which leads to the interesting ‘democracy’ debate. No parliament = no democracy. But Brexit was a democratic decision and to block or delay it is undemocratic. (Continue that argument, round and round in circles, until the end of time. Or ‘31st October’ as its now known).

Parliament then gangs up on Boris to force through a law preventing no-deal Brexit (will be passed on Monday by all accounts). Solution? Throw out all the dissenting Conservatives from the party. Kick ‘em out. Reducing the Goverment’s ‘majority’ from zero to -20. Good move.

20 MPs lost the Tory whip on Wednesday for voting against Boris/Dominic. But they only talk about Nicholas Soames, because he’s Winston Churchill’s grandson!!! As if that makes it ‘worse’. But Churchill, Britain’s most famous Conservative after Maggie and Boris, spent his first 20 political years as a fucking Liberal. So why is sacking his grandson so much worse than sacking anyone else?

Anyway. Parliament will stop Brexit in October. Solution? Call a general election. The one Jeremy Corbyn has been shouting about wanting every single day for the last 7 years. But… but… but… no, not today. Corbyn doesn’t want one right now, not yet, pretty soon… probably, but not now. Because…

Because he won’t win. He is now viewed as toxic by anyone in the country with the most minimal level of functioning and his party are Brexit-torn catastrophically. So the government won’t get the 2/3rds majority required to trigger a General Election.

So in summary; we have a nation currently run by a bespectacled, bald, sociopathic tyrant who isn’t even an MP, the government that has no majority, very few members left and the Opposition are too scared to oppose in any meaningful way. And if they could I’d leave the country. Go somewhere safe. Like Syria.

Don’t‘cha just love Brexit? But don’t’cha???

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

In 50 years time our descendants will be looking through the ‘old photo album’, on whatever medium it may live, and rather than saying ‘ahhh, that was great Uncle George at your Mother’s inauguration as a witch ceremony’ and ‘this was your Grandfather Andy throwing up over the rabbi at his barmitzvah’, they’ll be commenting ‘oh that was an amazing starter my great grandfather ate at Nobu’, or ‘this meal was served in Paris where you actually get to eat a vegan’.

Our ‘memories’ will be what we ate. Oh, and kids. We take photos of kids. In case you failed to notice that. Because they’re magical.

So logically, the best photos of all are photos of kids eating. Or kids’ meals. Not necessarily in Joey’s case at the moment. And a photo of a rusk is not exactly a wow! either. But as Lila is on holiday we get a few photos sent over from Greece, not too many, just a few hundred a day, just to keep us going.

And this morning Lila was eating a croissant for breakfast that she was dipping in chocolate sauce. Horror of fucking horrors! Even I don’t eat chocolate for breakfast. Not always anyway. I mean, what kind of parenting is that??? The answer to which is ‘grand-parenting’. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Give the kids all the things which are banned at home, forbidden outside and generally VERBOTEN!!!! Parents do the raising and rearing, grandparents do the excesses of sugar, alcohol, drugs, salt in McDonaldsian levels and swearing. It’s in the rule book. Otherwise how can we possibly get ‘high horse’ messages just because we let Lila drive the car round the block a few times? Shoplifting is a divided task.

But again, the question we’ve been asking for 3 years, but now elevated to capitals: WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON IN WESTMINSTER????

Boris has threatened the Tory ‘rebels’ that if they vote to outlaw a without-a-deal Brexit they’ll be banished from the party. Which has no majority anyway. So he’ll call a general election. Which Corbyn’s up for, even though his ratings are so low he might get beaten by the Lib Dems. A fate so humiliating that suicide would be the only option at that point. Something the polls would be much more in favour of. But it wouldn’t be an election in any normal sense. It would in reality be just another referendum on Brexit. Which is just what the nation needs.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I don’t know why the ‘north London derby’ is so important. But it is. It really is. Really, truly, heart-shatteringly, anxiety-pumpingly, panic-strickenly, hair-rippingly, screaming-at-the-tv-ly, self-harmingly… important.

And in such a relaxed state, after my brief holiday and return from Watford, did I sit down with a nice cuppa tea (tea is always referred to as ‘nice’ in that way, even though most poeple’s tea is shit and only mine is truly ‘nice’). And I was a little nervy, I was mildly anxious but I breathed deeply, separated my yin from my yang, found my happy place and engaged.

I don’t know which football match everyone else was watching but it wasn’t the same as mine. Because the pundits yesterday and the reporters this morning described some kind of ‘balanced’ match, ‘great for the neutrals’ and a ‘fair result’. What I was watching was the equivalent of mediaeval torture. Spurs were just terrible, Arsenal fast, furious and threatening our goal every 4 seconds. Whilst our hapless midfielders gave them the ball back at every opportunity, theirs were a picture of patience, skill and technique. As we learned in The Matrix, there is no ‘absolute reality’. The relief that washed over me at the final whistle left me in a (metaphorical) heap on the floor shaking and crying. If there’d been 2 more minutes of added time I think I’d be in hospital today. And for the rest of the week.

I wish I knew why that match is so important to me. Spurs lost to Newcastle last weekend which was ridiculous and shameful (no offence to Newcastle… yeah, ok, they’re rubbish and had no right to do that) and it caused me no more than its due. Frustration, mild anger at my team and its unsettled status, upset.

But when its Arsenal its different. And the view gets distorted. Twisted by the sheer pressure of the event. So everything we do wrong or they do right is magnified to disastrous proportions in my mind. The good bits just serve to frustrate later on when it all inevitably goes tits up.

Yet the fact is that we secured a worthwhile draw. Ok we were 2-nil up but (in my mind at least) we had no real right to be in that position in the first place. Though I did like it there. Or would have done if I could have relaxed enough to enjoy it.

But we look forwards. We ‘take positives’ (none’a them in my house) and learn lessons. And this is what we learned:

NEVER play Sanchez at right back again
NEVER let Sissoko take a shot on goal when there’s options
NEVER let Eriksen go anywhere. Chain him to the Spurs shop if necessary
NEVER watch a north London derby without medication

Happy Monday

A xxxx