Andy's Glasses

On Saturday we went to the see the art fair at the London Design Centre in Islington. Its a sale kind of thing. Not the ‘affordable art fair’ which no-one can afford to go to, but another one. The same galleries showing the same stuff but no longer claiming affordability. Went there by tube because parking in Islington hasn’t been achieved since 1973. And we had free tickets, which is nice. Gives you more to spend on art. Though possibly not quite enough more to make it viable. Everything there seemed to start at 4 grand. Little photo of a dog; 4 grand. Watercolour 12” by 8”, looks like something Lila did at nursery (but NOTHING like as good), 4 grand. Piece of rock with a stripe of red paint on the side, 4 grand. And its not like I wanted any of them, but HOW MUCH???? We came away empty handed. But had a bag check going out. Like you’ve nicked a 6 foot square framed canvas squidged with beige paint. Oops; how’d that get in my wallet?

Last night we had the barmitzvah party. But a real party. Loud. Happy. Informal. Wonderful. Fab food. Sit where ya want. Eat standing up. Sit on the fucking floor. Issa party!!! And it was. But they had something unusual. Well, for me it was unusual. You might have a ‘silent disco’ in your house every night after dinner, but I don’t. So everyone was given headphones. Good ones. I nicked mine. Ok, I didn’t but in retrospect I should have. And there were 3 channels. Red, blue and green. On the blue channel was hip-hop, techno, garage and other total shit noise that has no place in my ears. On the green and red however, there were wonderful songs that you could ‘um’ along to. Proper songs. Old songs. Dancing songs. So in a completely silent room (other than the talking from the non-dancers) you had all the blues in one side, the greens on the other and the reds in the middle. Where you could kick them. And a few odd couples with a red dancing with a blue. At different tempos. Different songs. Its like they took the metaphor ‘dances to his own tune’ and industrialised it. At one point Mel was doing a waltz and I had ‘smells like teen spirit’ on me ‘phones. We looked like a calming nurse trying to attend a man having a seizure. But in a really cool, silent disco-y way.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

… the need for speeeeeed…

How fast is ‘fast enough’? Hmmmm. Is my car fast enough or do I need a new 400 horse power monster so I can break the law with much greater ease or have 335 wasted and redundant horses sitting there ‘just in case’? Is my bicycle fast enough or do I need a hokey-kokey 2000 model with inbuilt leg-shaving facility? Then one of the 2 ‘BIG QUESTIONS’ of our time. How quickly do I need to get to Birmingham by train? Because the quicker you get there the more time you have to spend there. Never a good thing.

Yet these questions relate to ‘speed’ in the material world. Where, sadly, humans spend less and less time. So the other of those ‘BIG QUESTIONS’ is by far the most important. How fast do I need my WiFi to be?

To 5G or not to 5G, that is the real question. And we have to decide by Tuesday whether to sign the deal with Huawei to instal it for us. If we go with the Chinese giants, we’ll all be enjoying 5G by Thursday morning. Well, maybe a bit longer. Its ‘ready to run’, almost. Whereas if we yield to the quite massive pressure by the Americans and sever our ties with that company, merely on the grounds that to sign contracts with them would be basically selling all of our national security secrets to China for nothing, then by the time us and Yanks devise our own system, the rest of the world will probably be enjoying 8G. Even 9!

I want to get from where I am to where I wish to walk, I press ‘google maps’ on my phone and it takes about 3 seconds before its there, all pictorial and dotted lined. Of course, no amount of Gs will have me walking in the right direction but that’s not the issue. I can stand at the tube in the morning and read my emails, quickly and easily. Attachments open easily. Virtually instantly. So what, exactly, will 5G do for me? I don’t want to download Kill Bill 1 and 2 at the bus stop, nor watch a match of the day stream.

They intend not to let Huawei near Westminster nor any military installations. Oh well, that’ll stop ‘em. Like, its not really all linked up, is it? We’ll be safe from President Xi. Yeah, right.

The HS2 high speed rail link is another kettle of very speedy fish altogether. We need something because the existing train lines are old, shitty and unreliable. And if you’re replacing it seems stupid not to upgrade and improve. But the cost. Sorry, the COST!!!!! Over a hundred billion quid and rising daily. They should use those Irish ‘travellers’ who fitted my driveway. They’d do it for 2 million. In cash, obvs. And not much in the way of ‘guarantees’, other than the certainty that it’ll fall apart in 2 years, but its great value.

These are indeed big questions. Big test for Boris.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Rather than play tennis today, I decided instead to go to the synagogue. Well, its time to up my spiritual game in line with the physical, surely? No, you’re right, the only spirit I need comes in bottles from various Scottish isles. But I had a call. Like, a Moses moment. A burning bush. A parting of the Thames by Wapping. Ok, I had an invitation to a barmitzvah, which is almost the same thing. And it said ‘God needs YOU!!!’ And so I went. You don’t fuck with God. But it was… errrr… enlightening? It was… moving? No, but my mate’s son was that rarest of beasts. A barmitzvah boy who is pitch perfect. Didn’t just know his stuff but delivered it like Justin Bieber on helium. Beautifully. Tunefully. Like an angel. Then he finished and I got bored again. Until the fish-balls came out.

And during one of the quieter moments, in conversation with the almost-as-devout person sitting next to me, he said “yeah, but Spurs are ok, they’re joint 5th”. And the whole horrible season thus far just kind of revealed itself to me! As it is written!! (In the Sun). And I thought ‘yeah’. First and foremost, by several country miles, there is Liverpool. And the entire rest of the premiership is ‘joint 5th’. All of them. 19 teams all inconsistent and shitty and all nominally ‘joint 5th’. Because 5th sounds flattering, it sounds successful, but its not. It means you should be forth or third but just dropped those 2 points against Watford when they were bottom of the league. And just lost at home to Crystal Palace when you’re Manchester City. And just lost to Burnley when you’re Manchester United. Yet that same bottom Watford went on a winning streak. As did early relegationists Southampton. Bournemouth started well but have plummeted. Arsenal try a different manager every week but still remain shit. United ‘stand by Ole’ which means he’ll be gone by next week, possibly replaced by Pochettino who has one almighty job on his hands. Though he is rather adept at such situations. Chelsea fluctuate between ‘the brilliance of Lampard’ and ‘total rubbish’ on a weekly basis.

So football, basically, is, unless you’re a Liverpool fan (and thus destined for hell anyway) unpredictable, inconsistent rubbish.

So we turn to cricket. To see Ben Stokes walk of the pitch shouting abuse at a South African. An exercise I personally never have an issue with. Its what South Africans are for. But people are making a big deal of it. Because cricket has a reputation of gentlemanliness and politeness, even after 73 incidences of ball tampering and far eastern gambling syndicates. And Stokes’ action was just ‘not cricket’. But it was funny. Why should a man have to endure an abusive tirade from some red-neck Afrikaner without retaliation?

Coco Gauff beat Naomi Osaka (the current champ, as she was) yesterday in Melbourne and remains my absolute favourite of the moment. She’s 15 years old and can have that much mental strength. Amazing. Hope she wins.

Ok, as its only the FA Cup this weekend, I’m going to go and pray a bit more. Anything but the FA Cup.

Today’s pic is Lila and Joey in flight mode.

Happy Sabbath Day

A xxxx

…we’re in a civil partnership.

Now that civil partnerships are fully legal for ‘non-gays’ as they are to be known, that small minority of people who fail miserably to fit into any of the 2,374 categories of ‘otherness’ and minority status enjoyed by the… errr… by the majority, the Church of England (fanfare, pls) has decreed that sex within such ‘agreements’ cannot be blessed by them. Holy fuck! Or not. As the case may be. And that is… is… that is…

What the fuck is that, exactly? Lots of people have decided, basically, that to show their commitment, their love for each other, their solidarity and their future together, they want a proven and legal affirmation which SPECIFICALLY EXCLUDES THE CHURCH or any other known, or unknown, religion. Otherwise they’d have had a white wedding in St Ethelbert’s 10 years ago. These are people who are essentially anti-religion and have chosen that particular path to show their contempt for the church or to piss off their parents. Or both.

So why are the church wasting their time making declarations about a group of people who don’t believe in the church? Because that’s what the church does.

It’s like a service station banning all petrol cars from its electric charging points.

It’s like a Texas barbecue smokehouse banning vegans.

It’s like the Conservative Party refusing membership to Jeremy Corbyn.

It’s just silly. And pointless. Which is why we love the Church of England.

We love Lila in a different way. A more… literal way. Because she’s funny and relentlessly energetic. And relentlessly talkative. And although her vocabulary is awesome and her grammatical structure near perfect, she still can’t say the ‘k’ sound. Or the ‘g’ (neither soft nor hard). Which is not just fine, but in fact wonderful. Because you talk about the ‘Tider who tame to tea’. And although her mum insists we correct these minor errors, I don’t want to. I love them. They create wonderful ambiguities. Where Lila asks for her ‘Mr Man tea’. Which in fact, after 10 minutes of frustration, shouting, mime and hilarity, turned out to be her ‘Mr Man Key’. Oh, that tea. Goddit.

Her and brother Doey are going on holiday today. Gonna miss them.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m in Davos. For the World Economic freebie junket thingy to which all important freeloaders go to so they can show everyone how important they are. In a Worldly, Economical way. I’m not actually ‘there’ like physically, just spiritually. I’m staying in a fuck-off Swiss hotel with hot and cold running chambermaids, flying around in helicopters, eating Michelin starred cornflakes for breakfast. And skiing. Because otherwise you’d have to listen to the speakers.

And yesterday there was a duel. Between the two most irritating people on the planet. Both are fair of hair and greatly outspoken. Both belie their ages with tragic mismatches of chronology and intellect. And both you really want to punch.

Greta Thunberg probably walked to Davos. But without treading on anything in case she harmed it. She’s 17 now and getting more annoying with every minute. And again she launched into her tirade about how governments have the power, make the noises, but consistently do nothing about climate change as far as any positive action is concerned. And by ‘governments’ she means ‘America’. Ok, others are pretty guilty too, paying endless lip-service to vague concepts like ‘reducing carbon emissions’ and shit but implementing very little. America doesn’t even bother with lip service.

Trump flew in Air Force 1 over to Switzerland. On his own. With four engines. Not just because he’s so fat but because its safety in numbers. He then flew in Marine 1 helicopter to Davos, flanked by two others as security. But there he spoke of the environment. Well, what he actually said was ‘I’m a very big believer in the environment’. Which, as worthless sayings go, (and his entire presidential tenure has been filled with them), is superlative in its meaninglessness. Of course he ‘believes’ in the environment, he’s fucking standing in it. Its all around him. Its not like Santa Claus or Jesus or Mikel Arteta, FFS.

But that was it. He ‘believes’ in the environment in the same way he believes in guns. Things which are just ‘there’ and should be totally ignored, whatever the manifestations of their presence may be. America is ‘doing great’. And that end justifies any means whatsoever. Being the biggest Carbon producing country doesn’t bother Trump. Not in election year. If Americans have a few bucks in their pocket, just enough to buy beer, burgers and bullets, then they’re happy (no facile stereotyping here then). And they’ll vote to stay happy.

I’m no massive climate change proponent. But anyone has to be at least peripherally aware of what is going on in the world. To deny it and remove yourself from it is an arrogance verging on total stupidity. And that is almost a working definition of Donald J Trump.

Happy Wednesday

A xxx

There’s a new virus in China. Related to the horrible ‘sars’ virus which killed a lot of people a little while ago (research is a wonderful thing; if you can be bothered with it), it causes respiratory problems and fever. Originally thought to be only transmissible via animals, the Chinese, in an uncharacteristic precedent, have opted for an honest and open approach (rather than the traditional ‘branket denialrl’) and stated that it can and has passed between humans. And as there’s rather a lot of humanity in China, that’s a problem. The virus started in Wuhan, a little village of 11 million people, which has a fish and meat market. Ahhhhhhh. Yes. Fish, meat, animals, Coronavirus.

But if it can now spread via humans, can I get it from Alexa? I know she’s not strictly ‘human’ but she’s definitely hooked up to China whilst pretending to be in my kitchen here in London. And what about 5G? Comes from Huawei. Via President Xi. Is that now a risk too? One minute you’re downloading the morning’s Lila-pics and the next you’re at the Royal Free hooked up to an oxygen mask!

Yes, Royal Free. Like Harry and Meg. A Royal Free zone. No longer allowed to use the term ‘royal’ in their… lives. As decreed by the man in today’s photo. He’s called the ‘Garter King of Arms’ and he’s in charge of protecting the royal… well, the royal ‘brand’. Who knew such a role existed? Who cared? Did it even exist before Harry’n’Meg did a runner? Judging by the truly ludicrous outfit, I’d guess there’s a history behind it. Rather than the Queen waking up last Sunday and saying ‘what one needs is a gentleman in very silly clothing, dressed like a gay mediaeval magician perhaps, who can keep Harry and his shvartzer in line. I shall buy one.’ Its probably a role dating back to Henry III or George I or Mary Queen of Wherever. But if that’s the case, no ‘Garter King of Arms’ has previously had to deal with the power of the internet. He can wave his little wand all he wants but what goes viral stays viral. Just like in China.

I can’t ‘fear’ for the young un-Royals’ future. Not financially. One series on Netflix and they can buy the fucking Queen.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve been watching a rockumentary on BBC4, my favourite tv channel. It’s about Billy Connolly. The funniest man ever to walk this planet with a Scottish accent. No, that’s too limiting, possibly the funniest man ever. Anywhere. Any accent.

The program(s) are about Billy returning to Scotland, to ‘his’ Glasgow, and relating his history. From shipyard welder to possibly the biggest stand-up comedian in the world. And its a great story. A fairy tale. His return is mildly saddened by his Parkinson’s disease, but only partly. Because although his movements may be restricted, his mind isn’t. Or ‘is-nee’, as he might say. A lot of what he says is unintelligible to English speakers. But its the bits in between that positively slay you.

I saw Billy in about 1978/79 in Victoria. Three hours of non-stop insanity and hilarity to the point where you feel you’re going to actually vomit if it doesn’t stop. All just telling stories about a bloke in a pub, about a bus stop queue, about a million things which everyone can relate to. It’s what he does. Takes the normal and illuminates it under his own brilliantly manic spotlight of sheer fun and fantasy.

Billy Connolly is revered in Scotland. He stormed into the public eye on a Parkinson show in 1975 and never looked back. He had ‘taken’ England. With his laughing eyes, with his amazing wit, his effortless charisma and with a brilliant joke about his wife’s bum. He returned from that trip a hero and has never lost the love of his nation. Because he is and always will be a Scotsman. Wherever he chooses to live.

But where he differs from other Scottish ‘ambassadors’, like, f’rinstance, Andy Murray, is that he is just so lovely. And so normal. And so loving.

The second program is about the 3 artists, all Scottish, obvs, commissioned for portraits of the man. And these artists are big. Respected. World renowned. Yet got jittery that the Big Yin was coming to visit them. In person. Even though Billy is all love and respect and total humility.

They painted and the 3 portraits were then blown up and posted onto walls in Glasgow. And Billy, on the street, is accosted by a little old lady who hugs and kisses him. And a geezer. Great Scottish bruiser, ‘working man’, loud and gruff. Who grabs Billy, plants a kiss on his cheek and says ‘yer’n’inspirrration, Billy!’

There’s no finer accolade than the respect of your peers. More powerful than Oscars.

I cried.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Do you read the Mail on Sunday? You should do. But only if you’re very right wing (obvs) and aren’t really interested in learning stuff which could loosely be described as ‘news’, more about learning stuff which is sort of ‘reactionary rubbish’. Which is why I will NOT cancel my subscription. It is funnier than Private Eye. Because where as that wonderful mag is intentionally satirical, the Mail actually takes itself seriously.

“Terrifying our children with doom-mongering propaganda about climate change is nothing less than abuse”!!!! Runs one headline. Ok, I’m only jealous because I thought I held the role as the biggest climate-change-skeptic on the planet, but this dude is an outright denier. Carbon? What fucking carbon???

There’s also 46 pages on Harry and Meg. I get that. Real news. I don’t think a full page spread on Megan look-a-likes is in any way excessive. In fact I want more pages on worthless brunettes robbed of a possible income stream unless they too move to Canada. And they have now, officially, removed the couple’s ‘HRH’ designations. They are Royal Highnesses no longer! I don’t know what I’d do if mine was removed; my life would have no meaning. But best of all is the ‘comparison’ between Harry (lovely boy, good to his grandma, does lots of charitable stuff, one’o the lads, etc, etc…) and Edward VII, (also a soldier, rabid fascist, married Yank tart divorcee nazi sympathiser and was rightly hated by everyone) who ‘also’ abdicated. They could be twins. Other than looking different. And being different. Otherwise its just uncanny!!!

The Labour leadership campaign is treated with the contempt you’d expect from the ‘one small step away from being the BNP supporting’ Mail on Sunday. They hate all the candidates. If Tony Blair was ‘Lenin’ to the Mail, what the fuck do they reckon to Corbyn? And thus to Keir Starmer and Rebecca Long Bailey? The latter of whom has upset everyone by mentioning an unmentionable. She said something about abortion laws. Nothing pro of anti, nothing radical or moral or judgmental. But if there’s one word no politician can ever mention without instant career ruination following immediately, it is “ab*rti*n”. In any context whatsoever. Because either the women’s rights groups or the Christians will get you. Or both.

There’s lots of football ‘news’ too. But I didn’t read it. Can’t read it. It’s too upsetting. Too depressing. Too… too… its just shit. All of it.

Happy Sunniest Sunday ever

A xxxx

Just when you thought it had all finished, there’s always time to squeeze in some extra ‘Brexit bollocks’ for extra fun. It’s done. It’s dusted. We’re leaving. So we need, apparently, to ‘celebrate’ this ‘wonderful’ event. Which 48% of the population never wanted. Maybe its to strengthen the positives of the whole Brexit mess and convey the message (in case anyone missed it) that ‘Brexit is getting done’ on January 31st. So Boris wants Big Ben to ring out that very message. But Big Ben is undergoing a massive reconstruction. Along with half of Westminster. So, ok, you can ring Big Ben on Brexit night, but iss gonna cost’cha half a million quid! Well, there’s delays to the works, iss gotta be tested, tried, there’s elf’n’safety to consider, bish bosh, call lit 500k, that’s fair.

But… but… but… to ring the bell on New Years cost just 14,000. Yeah, but there’s… errrr… inflation. Always bad in January. And New Years bell ring was… easier. Errrrr… less disruptive to works. So the cost now is only half a mil.

Boris decided to ‘crowd fund’ the event. And as any cost goes up in inverse proportion to the intelligence of those paying for it, they arrived at the biggest sum they could conjure up knowing how Brexiteers are so dim they’ll pay anything to ‘make their point’.

But alas, having raised over 200k in ‘donations’ in less than 2 days, they’ve now said they won’t ring their fucking bell anyway, so give the money back.

I’m devastated! How can it be Brexit without Big Ben? It just won’t be… the same(?) It just won’t be… British(?)

And today Spurs are playing Watford. And its still 0-0 after 87 enthralling minutes. And part of me (like, only from my toes to my ears) is, or will be relieved that we haven’t lost. To the team who were bottom until about 3 weeks ago. We drew with Watford when they were totally useless, in the home match and today (if we’re lucky and don’t give it away in the dying seconds) we’ll draw with them again. I wonder if Big Ben will ring when we win a match?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Someone sent me this photo, lovely shot of a Berlin morning. Gorgeous sky, the iconic TV tower (everything in Berlin is ‘iconic’, got more icons than Vatican City), and some gel in the most un-vegan attire imaginable. Who looks familiar. Hmmmm. Holy shit! That’s my daughter!!! The one who ran away to Berlin 2 years ago. I’d completely forgotten about her. As ya do. Out of sight, out of mind. Ruth? Rebecca? Rasputin? No, its Rachel!!! Last seen in Petra in November. But coming home tonight. Lucky we’ve changed the locks.

Now here’s a funny thing. The Canadian newspaper The Globe and Mail (sounds tacky just by the name) has stated in no uncertain terms that Harry and Meg are welcome to visit their country, any time they like BUT; they can’t live there. It’s wrong. Constitutionally illegal, immoral, disgraceful and an abuse of Canada’s right to… to… to be Canada!!! The kind’a miss the point that Harry hasn’t gone there to claim the throne and be the King of All Canada! He’s going there for precisely the opposite, to get away from royal bollocks generally. Though apparently straight into Canadian bollocks specifically.

They’re now talking of the Royals role in their country, that Canada is part of the Commonwealth but not actually ruled by anyone other than their own democracy, blah, blah, blah. As if it is some kind of foreign invasion by a warlike Prince to take over their land, subjugate their people, re-start a feudal system of tithes and steal all their polar bears for his own titillation and consumption.

Harry and Meg are going there for a quiet life AWAY from Royal shit. That’s the whole point. Their presence in Canada will not alter Canada’s political nor executive structure in any way, shape or form. They just wanna live there. Raise their little baby. Walk the frozen streets. Eat whale meat. Be just like any other Canadian. But with a platoon of security guards. They have no ‘eye on the throne’, mainly because Canada doesn’t have one.

So the Globe and Mail should just go away and leave them alone. They get enough shit over here. And no-where else to go.

Happy Friday, it actually appears to have stopped raining for a minute or two!!!

A xxxx