Andy's Glasses

You know you’re in a posh hotel when the car park is a thing of beauty. Though I must admit I quite like all car parks. Because they speak of civilisation, of occupation, of land being used wisely and of sufficient numbers of people to require them. Otherwise the world’s a bit… empty. But I’m a towny, so that’s me.

And we arrived in the wilds of Watford just in time for the advised ‘check in’ time of 3pm. Ahhh, sorry, we were told, the room’s not quite ready yet. Have some drinks on us!!! Oh, ok then. So we drank. And we strolled. And went back an hour later and… sorry, its not quite there, any minute. Would you like a drink? I’ve had a fucking drink! I said quietly and politely. Would you like some food? No I sodding wouldn’t!! Hmmmm… tell you what though, a nice bottle of wine at dinner would be nice. OK!!! said the nice but stressed Spanish dude who had adopted us as his problem. Red or white?

Which is lovely and nice and the weekend was getting freer by the second. And we went to our room about an hour and a half after we thought we’d be there, but the bags hadn’t come. WE’D HAVE CARRIED THE FUCKING BAGS OURSELVES!! They were only small. They were mainly empty anyway so we have lots of room for Mel to stock up on: slippers, bottles of water (because the bottles were nice, water’s water), little toothbrush/toothpaste kits, body lotions, soaps, shampoos, towels, flannels… Which are all very useful when we travel and need ‘little things’. But they put the bags somewhere when we arrived and now they were ‘in the system’ or ‘with the concierge’ or ‘gone to a parallel universe’ or whatever hotels do with them.

Anyway, in our bags were our swimming things and that was where we wanted to go. Swimmin’. So we waited more. And Pedro/Juan/Miguel sent us some water up and some macarons to keep us quiet whilst we waited some more, because we obviously hadn’t waited long enough by that time.

And you may think: what a fucking ingrate! Or, what an impatient tosser of a princess! Or some such to describe someone in the absolute lap of luxury who hasn’t stopped complaining for 90 minutes and had run out of free things to acquire unless they were going to give me some cash. And yeah, there was an Indian wedding (always BIG) party there (you could tell by the number of DA14SHA and PAT3L and PRT11Y type number plates in the lovely and luxurious car park.)

But its a 5 star hotel. And hotels have one advantage over other places. They know exactly who is coming and when. They know precisely how many people are checking out that morning and how many are arriving that afternoon. And if they’re that busy; bring more cleaners in, get more desk clerks, whatever. It’s no excuse to say ‘we’re busy’ because you’ve known for 3 months exactly when and how busy you’re going to be.

Dinner, the only thing we did pay for, was ‘ok’. Nice but not spectacular. Though by then we’d had a few whiskies and our free bottle of wine so perhaps weren’t in a position to judge. Breakfast, just a few hours later, was fucking spectacular. Pool is outstanding. Or ‘instanding’ as we didn’t use the outdoor one due to rainage.

And the grounds are just amazing. Not just the walled gardens and immediate environs, but we went on the 4–mile walk around the perimeter, along the canal, across the golf course, through the woods, this morning and it was just wonderful. Though we got lost (we ALWAYS get lost) so ended up doing 7 miles instead because my navigational skills are such that its like giving a blind man a compass, spinning him round three times and telling him to find his way through the forest.

Now we’re home. Holiday over. Really enjoyable. Most of it.

Now its Spurs/Arsenal to worry about. Holy shit! The most stressful thing ever.

Happy ungrateful and ridiculously demanding Sunday

A xxxx

I’m going on holiday today. Really looking forward to it. We’re going to Watford. I’ve bought a few tour guide books, (the longest being 3 pages long which includes listings of the services at the General Hospital), done my research about the history and environs (took 4 minutes), I’ve done the online check-in and I’m planning the journey. I’m not even sure what language they speak there, but that’s just part of the fun. I’ve noted all the nearest beaches (Bournemouth, Norfolk and Southend-on-Sea) and fished out the passports.

Watford’s in that bizarre limbo-land which is a bit too far from London to be considered as part of it but way too southerly to be deemed officially ‘up norf’. The Evening Standard generally puts Watford football fixtures in bold type, meaning London club, but since they started losing so consistently its really not worth wasting the ink. So its not really London, but still on the tube line. The end of the tube line.

Having been to Australia, New Zealand and Japan earlier in the year, Watford actually represents ‘exotic’ in my world, and I can’t wait.

We actually won it. The ‘holiday’. In a raffle at a charity event. We never win raffles. They’re not for winning, they’re for increasing your charitable contributions. But win we did. A night at The Grove. Which is, without a doubt, the poshest place ever to be associated with Watford. Its a beautiful hotel, spa, golf course (for people who define sports differently to me) and restaurants. And we have a room there. And breakfast. We’re having dinner but unless I can sign it to someone else’s room, we’ll have to pay for that ourselves.

The question is why they put such an amazing place in Watford at all. But they did and we won it, so that’s where our next holiday will be. Just 15 minutes up the motorway. And by the time we get home, tomorrow afternoon after abusing all the hospitality and swimming pools we can for as long as we can get away with it, Lila will be on her way to Greece. On a different kind of holiday with her mummy and daddy and baby bwuvver Doey. We were invited but declined on the grounds that slavery has been abolished. Even for grandparents.

Though to be honest, being a grandparent isn’t all its cracked up to be. As you can see on this pic at our cafe this morning. Who needs it? All that love. Really overrated.

When I have more important matters pending, like the Spurs match at Arsenal tomorrow. The biggest sporting event of the year in any country at any time. Bigger than the Super Bowl, bigger than any cup final, any Grand Prix, any Ashes test, bigger than proroguing parliament.

Happy holidays

A xxxx

Yesterday the entire nation came to terms with the implications and consequences of Boris’s suspension of parliament. Some were concerned on the effect on Brexit, others by the sheer rudeness of it. There are those concerned with how unconstitutional the action appears, others suggest that it could even be illegal. There have already been protests in all major cities. And Norwich. A few northern ones I’ve never heard of either. Big enough to protest, not big enough to have a football team in either of the first 2 divisions. Which is probably why the Football League is systematically shutting down all the clubs up north.

There are protests planned for the weekend. Momentum, effectively, Corbyn’s KGB, are planning to shut down cities, bridges, anything they can. Not because they’re so bothered about Brexit one way or another, but because any excuse to go clash with the police is a good excuse. So yesterday was the day to think about how you feel about this monumental day in British politics.

Whereas my main concern was whether Peppa Pig would get to ride in the rescue helicopter after stepping in one too many muddy puddles (Peppa Pig joke). I tried to tell Lila about the effects of proroguing parliament on the constitutional, legal, ethical and political framework of the country. That it is HER future! She then explained to me that Daddy Pig is a lot like Boris; speaks posh, enunciates beautifully but has no relationship to reality and grunts a lot. I could find fault with either her assessment nor her incisive comparison. Not like we use the ‘digital nanny’ with Lila, heaven forbid, but whilst having lunch, demands get made for some serious political commentary. And as my favourite position on any Liladay is IN HER FACE, I get to learn all about Peppa Pig world too. Not that its just a tv program (recently acquired by Hasbro in fact for about 2 billion quid), but for Lila its a lifestyle choice. She has the dresses, the socks, the sticking plasters, the swimwear, the… everything. But now at least I understand the fascination and in fact have started making inquiries about adult size Peppa Pig merchandise. Mainly because wearing my CORBYN IS A C**T!!! t-shirt every day is a bit dull. And smelly.

Happy Friday. Whether there will ever be ‘a tomorrow’ depends on who you listen to.

A xxxx

Goes to my hea-ea-ea-ea-ead, and to my gut. And there it does magical, marvelous, magnificent things and creates a super-bacterial environment that will make me live an extra 40 years. And they don’t know why, they just know it does. And its a super ‘anti-oxidant’ and we love one’a them. And apparently even if you only drink it occasionally, the benefits are still there. So just imagine how healthy, how wonderful, how live longier you’d be if you drank 3 bottles a day before breakfast! Must be worth a go. Said so in the paper.

It also said that Prime Minister Boris Johnson has done the most unconstitutionally, inconceivable, unconscionable, irreconcilable, incontinental and… bad thing ever!!!! by suspending parliament. Even though everyone does such a thing every year. Just not for so long and certainly not when its Brexit time. Which doesn’t occur every year, just non-fucking-stop for the past 3. And there’s the rub. By suspending parliament now or ‘proroguing’ as we call it (using the Queen’s ‘prerogative’) it is effectively stopping it from having any say in how we leave Europe. In other words, if we go without a deal, no amount of stupid posturing and conniving from Corbyn can stop it. Because parliament won’t have sufficient time to block it, or pass laws preventing it, which have to be heard so many times by both houses before acceptance.

But here’s the thing: its all bollocks.

Because what it comes down to is the leavers and the remainers. As has everything in these last agonising years. And the leavers voted ‘out!’, not ‘out with a deal’, not ‘out if acceptable to a bunch of dudes and babes who will never ever accept it’, not anything, just plain ‘out!’ Ok, it was levelled before the referendum that ‘we’d have no problem sorting out a super trade and customs deal’ but the Brexiteers didn’t give a shit about that when they had their own, personal crusade, meaningless motto of ‘taking back control!!’ They didn’t need anything else.

Boris doesn’t want the ‘no deal’ option; he’s not that fucking stupid, however Corbyn chooses to try and present it that he is. And the ‘no deal’ thing is what has finally actually made those intransigent and arrogant Euros sit up and start listening. Even Talking about possible changes to their previously unchangeable deal.

The remainers are out protesting, all 48% of the voting population of them. Whilst the 52% are rubbing their hands together. As for me, I never wanted to leave, I still don’t want to and think we’re gonna regret it forever. But we had a vote. And it said ‘NO’ so we must leave. Otherwise its even more bollocks than it already is. So if we have to leave, just do it. The rest was always going to come later, and it will.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Once upon a time there was a handsome prince, who lived with his special princess in a castle in North London. Well, due to the increasing costs of heating and the difficulties of energy conservation, this Prince and Princess downgraded to a mere ‘house’. For the good of the environment. The real estate version of ‘going vegan’. And being a Prince carries such negativity and baggage these days, (Andrew, Harry, Charles) that the Prince became just a mere mortal. Though the princess reserved the right to act according to her title.

And once upon a time there was a film writer, director, producer called Quentin Tarantino. And he made movies that were altogether just plain ‘different’. In a wonderful way. In an original way. In a unique way. In an inspirational way. And in an unbelievably violent way. And his latest movie is Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.

Once upon a time you could believe what the critics said. Now they tend to roll out the bandwagons and jump on. Because if everyone else gives a film five stars and you think its shit, then YOU MUST HAVE MISSED SOMETHING and so give it five stars anyway. Just in case. But sometimes you haven’t missed anything and a film is actually shit, but just happened to be shit that appealed to the first dude who wrote the critique. But the new Tarantino was universally acclaimed and lauded. Probably because its Tarantino and he’s too cool to downgrade, and probably because it is truly a wonderful film.

One mate told me he thought it was ok, (OK??? Tarantino???) but was slow and boring for 2 hours then unbelievably brutal for the last 10 minutes, then he went home. And the pattern of the movie is pretty much that. But the slow and boring bit is in fact (or ‘in my eyes’) the brilliant tale of 2 guys in the movie business. And its ‘slow’ because its so real. They talk bullshit to each other, then moan, they drink, smoke, take drugs, get drunk, just like ‘normal people’ but a bit more excessive. And their careers flounder and they meet odd people and… and… and… it is simply brilliance of the Tarantino variety. With the usual abundance of quirky references to other movies (both his own and others’) thrown in, some fantastic cameos (everyone wants to be in a Tarantino, even Al Pacino) and superlative musical soundtrack.

You might love it, you might hate it, but ya just GOTTA see it. You owe it to…

Happy Once Upon a Time

A xxxx

I don’t want to talk about football. My team aren’t playing at the moment, so neither am I. That’s it. I cannot live in a loveless world. And there is no love at Spurs currently. Just what happens when a bunch of mercenaries that you delude yourself into thinking ‘love the shirt’, mainly because they’re always kissing it and, sort of, being loving towards it and to each other, decide instead that the financial implications of continuing that love may be counterproductive to their future potential earning power. So fuck ‘em all.

Instead we have so much to be happy and joyful about.

First and foremost we have the cricket and the incomparable Ben Stokes. Although there are comparisons. With Ian Botham, with Mohammad Ali, but whatever happens in the rest of this Ashes series, his name will be attached to it forever. Because the last wicket innings he played yesterday with Jack Leach was not merely the ‘stuff of legend’, not just ‘unbelievable’, but was an achievement of the absolutely impossible. I won’t bore you with a ball-by-ball account, because I didn’t see it. Not with my eyes. Just with my heart as I checked the score during the afternoon and felt the gradual deflation as our great start to the final innings reduced with each falling wicket to the seemingly impossible and the acceptance of another match lost. But Ben Stokes had other ideas. He’d started ridiculously slowly, by his somewhat audacious standards, scoring 50 in his personal slowest time ever. But that was what was needed. Calm. Sober. Solid. By the time Jack Leach came on for the last wicket, England still needed 73 to win. And Leach is no batsman, despite his score against Ireland. This was not Ireland. This was Australia. Who have the most vicious bowlers around. So Stokes first job was to keep the strike at all costs. Keep Leach away from those bowlers. That in itself takes amazing skill, understanding and discipline. But then, like the Incredible Hulk, Stokes suddenly exploded from his uncharacteristic conservative play and lashed out like he was in a one day match with 6 wickets still standing. And Stokes can hit. The Aussies missed catches, fucked up a ridiculous opportunity to run Leach out by dropping the ball, and ran out of reviews when one or two would possibly have ended the match in their favour. And then Stokes hit a four to end the Aussie’s suffering (not that we mind them suffering). And the rest is consigned to history.

The rugby was fab and then, if two days of (almost) amazing sport wasn’t enough, we went to see the new Tarantino last night. But more about that later. Gotta take a little person out to lunch. And she’s getting ready, preparing herself, beautifying, as they do.

Happy Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

Glasgow University is giving 20 million quid to the Caribbean to organise a ‘slave history’ centre at a university there. That’s the good bit. All donations are good, to worthy causes, and all advancement in education and academia is a good thing. So we’re happy about that. Its when they band abound terms like ‘reparations’, that it gets a bit more annoying. And all the guilt associated with the whole exercise which takes something noble and reduces it to something akin to paying a fee to have your carbon footprint reduced after taking a private jet flight. It don’t make the carbon go away, just makes you feel less guilty about it. Justifies it in some way. Makes it ‘all better’.

Well it doesn’t.

Glasgow University feels guilty because it was given very generous donations by men made very rich by the slave trade. Back in seventeen hundred and whatever. So now, 200 years later, they feel guilty about it.

There’s so much about the world ‘back then’ which, when viewed through the modern day prism of political correct values, was fairly disgusting, evil and rotten. How would post-modern feminism view the Neanderthal approach to courtship of bashing a woman on the head and dragging her back to his cave to rape her? Ahhh, but that was different… because… because… because values were different then, Neanderthals less evolved.

But evolution is not just dispensing with a tail and replacing it with a smart-phone. Its cultural, its based on societal values and the morals they create. The Spanish Inquisition was not a good time to be a Muslim. Nor an Anglican. Nor nuffink other than a Catholic. Torture, brutality, murder, all endorsed by church and state. The Crusades didn’t do much for international diplomacy either.

And slavery was not new. It goes back to biblical times (my bible was published in 1983, so certainly before then) and further back too in all likelihood. Conquering armies enslaved the people they beat. Invented the term ‘loser’. The only difference with the slave trade was that it was a commercial enterprise set up by horrible, rich white men, to kidnap entire villages and ‘sell’ them to (mainly) American farmers. Which is as vile as it is pure evil. When judged by today’s standards.

Back then the entire world view was different. ‘Uncivilised’ people, ie those of colour who didn’t speak BBC English, were seen as physically, mentally, culturally inferior. Science endorsed this view, created it, proved it empirically and thus justified an enterprise like slavery. Because science too was the exclusive domain of rich white men in ‘civilised’ Europe.

And it is ALWAYS wrong to make moral judgments of history based on today’s values. There are NO exceptions. I’m not saying in any way that the slave trade was anything but a massive and inhumane tragic disaster for countless African villages and countries, the consequences of which are still massive today as so many people quite literally ‘don’t know where they come from’. But you don’t have to feel guilty for the actions of men who were living at that time, with those particular thoughts and ideas.

So set up a slave history university, help those (by now) millions of people to trace their roots, if possible. But do it because you want to, not for ‘reparations’ and fucking guilt for something you had absolutely no control over.

Happy Sunday, more cricket, proper football and sunshine. Ahhhh…

A xxxx

Taylor Swift is in trouble. On her newly released album is a track about London. Her boyfriend is from London. In fact from just up the road in Highgate. So Taylor turns her lyrical flair to My city and her newfound love for it. Or for him. Or both. Gets a bit blurred with all that gushing post-teeny stuff. But the stories she tells about ‘a stroll in Camden Market’, and ‘trips to the West End’, are a bit wrong. No-one except school trips from Madrid and pickpockets from Romania goes to Camden Market. Its shit. As is pretty much the whole of the West End other than Fitzrovia and the odd parts of Soho that haven’t been tragically over-commercialised.

So in reply I’ve written a song dedicated to Tennessee, where Taylor moved when she was 14. And I too have tried to avoid the horrible stereotypes and clichés and stick to the truth. Its to tune of ‘Stuck in the middle with you’, that wonderful old Steelers Wheel song which, since being adopted in Reservoir Dogs, has never quite sounded the same again anyway.

Well I know they’re burning crosses tonight
I’ve got a feeling that some people here ain’t white
Its so good to see the flames flicker like strobes
As I stand here in my cone hat and robes

Nazis to the left of me, racists to the right
Here I am, stuck in the middle like a Jew

The country scene here is simply the best
The Grand Ole Opry and all of the rest
Nashville is the place for Good Ole Boys
While they’re wives have parties for sex toys

The other major industry here is incest
Sexual habits in Tennessee ain’t like the rest
We like to get it on with our wives
Daughters, cousins, sisters all our lives

Sister to the left of me, daughter to my right
Here I am, stuck in the middle of the two

Well its the Deep South that we’re talking
Confederate flags carried while we’re walking

Or stuck on the sides of the Chevy fenders
But man we don’t like Homos, poofs and benders

Plea-ea-ea-ea-ease… etc…

Happy Saturday, and apologies that due to the early hour of yesterday’s publication I may have cause to regret my misplaced optimism about the cricket. Deep regret.

A xxxx

And the sins of the fathers shall be suffered unto their… brothers?

Supposed to be sons, I know, but royalty does it different. So Harry gets in right royal storm over personally destroying the world’s atmosphere by jumping on a private jet and his brother gets the strongest punishment possible. William and family took a Flybe, cheapo, no-frills, no-crowns, scum-of-the-earth, bottom-feeding type flight to Edinburgh. All of ‘em. Wills, Kate and the kids. Flying like… like… like normal people!! Ok, they were met on the tarmac by a fleet of Range Rovers, obvs, but no passport control (I know, Edinburgh, but s’not the point), no keeping the kids from jumping on the baggage carousel because the luggage accidentally went to Glasgow and is being shipped over by horse-drawn carriage, ‘please wait patiently’.

But I want to know who paid for the flights. Elton John paid for Harry’s, we all know that, and the ‘carbon footprint’ fee bollocks, which is the non-Catholic version of ‘saying three Hail Marys and your sins will be absolved’. But who paid for Wills’ lot? £73 a ticket, bloody adds up for a family of 5 (possible discount for Little Louis cos he sits on the security guard’s lap). And you have to pay for extra leg room, a seat with a cushion, sandwiches and water, ‘Royal boarding’, and Range Rovers. Which, in full ‘bomb-proof’ mode, weigh about 5 tons and spew out about 3 miles-per-gallon’s worth of carbon on the way to the next Palace.

But a statement had to be made. So they probably told William; sorry mate, yer brother made a bit of a faux pas so you need to over-compensate by taking the family on a… on a… on a… cheapo airline!!! And suffer the humiliation, the ‘herding’, the lack of information, lack of niceness and lack of pretty much everything you haven’t paid for. Just like some people have to do pretty much every time they board a plane.

Jofra Archer is a god. The fastest fast bowler ever to play for England. He’s so good he bowls like a West Indian. Which is fair really because he’s from Barbados. So in the first Ashes test we got royally beaten up by Steve Smith, the Aussie’s talismanic run scorer. So in the second test Jofra knew what was required and he took Smith out with a bouncer to the neck. So now, for the third test, the Aussies have to play without their star and, to be honest, they are just not up to the task. So Archer took 6 wickets for 45 runs yesterday at Headingly. He’s 24 years old, totally brilliant, and ENGLISH as Prince Harry. Someone to be proud of.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

If Sadio Mane was racially abused for missing a penalty kick, I would blame ‘the good people of Liverpool’. But when its Paul Pogba of Manchester United who has been mercilessly hounded on social media, racially and horribly, for missing his penalty on Monday night, I have to blame the good people of Croydon, Hammersmith, Norwich, Stranraer and Bangkok. But whoever they are, wherever they’re from, it is just vile and disgusting behaviour which, to be honest, is nothing to do with the social media channels which are just vehicles for people’s thoughts. Even when those thoughts are vile and disgusting. And horribly racist.

That is racism. Pure and simple. And should be dealt with accordingly. Though who can do that ‘dealing’; the clubs, the police, instagram? is a more difficult question. And where these views come from, why they’re even part of anyone’s dialogue, that’s pretty interesting too.

If you call Pogba an idiot for taking the penalty in the first place, call him a tosser for missing it, call him anything you like about his attitude, his skills, that is not in any way racist. That’s what all footballers have to endure. The flip side of the 300,000 quid a week you earn to do your job in public view. You’re allowed to comment on such things, its almost your job as a fan. Particularly a disappointed fan. But the colour of the player under attack is completely irrelevant. Even white players miss penalties, so I’ve heard.

Similarly, calling out Prince Harry for being a bit of a nob over eco-friendly travel on a private jet is not racist at all. And yet that’s what its being called. Numerous people have gone public with their own attacks. Saying, basically, that any criticism of Harry or Meg is down to racism. Some stupid actress went further “why don’t you say what you mean; that you don’t like a black woman in the royal family!!!!” Meg’s best mate said pretty similar. That these ‘attacks’ on Harry & Meg (like mine on Tuesday) are just ‘racism’. Which is, obviously, complete bollocks. I love Harry and Meg. Especially Meg. But if you act in a hypocritical way, as Harry did, it is just stupid. And to NOT be allowed to mention it because he is married to a black woman would be racism in itself. Because it means that no non-white person could ever be criticised in any way as that would be racism. Even if you’re just commenting on the cakes he/she made on Bake Off.

The only way round the problem is to hold everyone of every colour in complete contempt, be rude to the lot of them, insult everybody, then at least you’re consistent and can’t be accused of singling any specific race/gender/religion for special treatment. That’s my approach. Other than the French, obviously.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx