Andy's Glasses

So what do you do in Tel Aviv when its not just raining but when there’s a full-on, biblically proportioned storm of rain, wind, thunder and God seems somewhat displeased that we’ve left the prayerful environs of Jerusalem to enter the more Sodom and Gomorrah play-zone that is Tel Aviv? So what do you do? Build an ark? Naah, if it was Jerusalem you’d do that, not here in TA. Here you go out and brave it. Then, just as you decide to go and see the new Star Wars movie, the clouds part, the sun emerges and… and… and it ‘looks’ like a gorgeous day. Of course, when you step out the wind is beyond gale force and intense, so you might as well go walk along the beach road. Where the sand is whipping along, the waves are crashing and you’re in full ‘Marcel Marcel’ mode as you walk into the full force. But the cinema is now miles behind and the rains start once more. But not like, London type rain. This is… Israel type rain. And its big. And forceful. And comes in at around 45 degrees from the vertical, which makes umbrella deployment interesting.

So I have time to think about football. Having tried not to think about it since our defeat to Chelsea last weekend. Quite successfully too. But how excited can you be that IF your team beats Brighton today, they ‘leapfrog’ Sheffield United to go 5th!!! I mean, that’s just wrong. Morally, educationally, politically and emotionally. Wrong. And not only that, we only stay 5th (as we have indeed now won; YIPPEEEEE), until Sheffield United play a bit later. I mean; really? Like, REALLY??? But we’ll take it. And then hope that Arsenal and Chelsea fare really badly in their matches today. My main source of real footballing pleasure at the moment. Horrible person that I unquestionably am.

So if it rains tomorrow we’ll go see Star Wars, the FINAL… bit (unless George Lucas runs short of cash, of course). Where its indoors. Warm. Dry. Popcorn. No wind. No sand. Only on screen.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So we started in the Galilee, an auspicious start because we missed a turn and overshot by not much more than 50kms or thereabouts, not tooooo bad. And then the tour moved down to Jerusalem. So we could continue to hassle the Canadians because they don’t deserve peace on this world. They need to be bothered constantly. Because we won’t be able to bother them again for who knows how long.

Yet today we left Jerusalem, and them, to venture forth. They’re going on to the Ramon Crater, in the south because its beautiful there and even a bit hot. Though ‘hot’ is a relative term and has broader parameters if you normally spend your winters digging polar bears out of the snow in your driveway. Mel and I, being more ‘temperate’ of climate, are going over to Tel Aviv. Because we don’t normally spend too much time there, even when we stay nearby. And we want to enjoy the city and its wonders. Whereas normally we visit after dark and enjoy its restaurants and bars. Not that such times and places are in any way a compromise, because food is what Israel does better than anyone, and eating is what I do better (greedier, piggier, til I burst-ier) than anyone. But this is a ‘culcha tour, innit?’ and therefore the criteria shift. From shawarma to museums, from falafel to galleries, from hummus to… to hummus. There is simply no cultural equivalent. Nothing even close.

This morning we visited the ‘tunnels’ of the Western Wall. Which aren’t really so much ‘tunnels’ as more basements, or simply ‘what was there before they built the second temple’. Which is pretty much; the first temple. Which dates back to 600 BC. Possibly 423 BC. And through various rulers of Jerusalem. From King David, to Herod, the Roman emperor who actually built the Second Temple, through a varying cast of Babylonians, Summarians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Judeans, Maccabeans and so many more that I could either remember or just make up. I can do the dates and times too but it would all be bullshit. Whereas our lady guide today knew every fact and detail relevant to the tour. As long as the bottom line of each facet was THIS IS AND HAS ALWAYS BEEN OUR FUCKING LAND!!!!!!

Religious zealots, as she was, even though charming and very funny and incredibly knowledgable, and even though her native Brooklyn accent could cut the marble of Herod’s throne, she was of the fairly orthodox branch of the religious right wing for whom politics is an irrelevance. The only ‘president’ they acknowledge is God. The real one, not Trump. And he is their ‘judge’ and he alone makes the rules. The type of person who would answer mandates and treaties and agreements and wars with quotes from the Bible. Old Testament, obvs.

The first temple was built on Mount Moriah. In THE place (no doubts, no ambiguity, no questions, but THE ACTUAL PLACE) where Abraham would have sacrificed his own son, Isaac, to God to prove his loyalty, if the angels hadn’t disarmed him at the last moment, probably with some proto form of early tai chi. Which is the EXACT same spot where, years later, Isaac’s own son, Jacob, had the famous dream about the ladder. Because that spot is seen as a kind of (quoting here) ‘portal between heaven and earth’.

HOLY SHITTTTTT!!!!! Literally. Raiders of the Lost Ark kind’a stuff. Lightening and fire and noises and probably Black Sabbath playing in the background, but playing kletzmer!!!

Then the Muslims invaded in the 1600s and decided to build the Dome of the Rock right there too. This place being the ‘holy of holies’ in both religions. Oh, that’s great, so they can share it then. Easy.

Mel & I also visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. On Christmas morning, no less. And look what happened. She ‘saw the light’. Ha, ha, haaaa… It was spiritual, it was moving, it was… time to get a coffee.

Happy Christmas

A xxxx

When we drove down to Jerusalem from the Sea of Galilee, you’re basically following the River Jordan all the way down. And thus the Jordanian border. Which is fine. I been to Jordan, its all cool. But then you realise that if Jordan’s on your right, that funny kind’a checkpoint thingy that you just kind’a went through without thinking was in fact you (as in ME) passing into the West Bank. The Occupied Territories!!! Which is Israel, but not Israel. Some of it is governed by Israel, some not. Some has ‘settlements’ in, but you can’t see them. You go past Jericho, and Bethlehem, but neither offer entry to Israelis. There are warning signs. None of which specifically mention Europeans of a soon-to-be non-European nature.

Basically, you’re on a fucking road. Where it goes is to Jerusalem. In between, who cares? So we stopped for a coffee and to eat our lunch, which was kindly provided by our previous hotel, though they were unaware of this benevolence because we stole it from breakfast. And we had a lovely coffee, stolen lunch (who said there’s no such thing as a free one?) and sat there pleasantly in the sunshine. It was only a day later when we realised we’d been in the ‘WEST BANK!!!!’ that we decided to panic. Retrospectively.

Yet this is the reality of the Israel they never mention on the news. That there are terrorists and there are nutters everywhere in the world. Thank whichever God you like; they’re in a minority. Because everyone else just gets on with living. Together. As you see on the West Bank. No-one asks your religion, your nationality, nuffink. It’s just people.

And the most homogenous city in the world must surely be Jerusalem. Where there are hundreds of thousands of Jews and Muslims simply living together, going about their daily lives. And there’s Christians, FFS! Who invited them? Well, no-one, they came with the Crusades so someone could later write the hymn (and did those feet; in ancient times…). Though Jesus’s presence is strong here. He felt the force. Unfortunately it was the force of the Roman Empire. The church of the Holy Sepulchre is where Jesus died, was resurrected, did some other shit, and in the Armenian and Christian Quarters there’s lots of other churches too.

So you have the Dome of the Rock, the final resting place of Mohammed, and its Al Aska Mosque, just behind the Western Wall. And you have churches. And all, if not exactly harmonious, at least superficially getting along just fine. And peace will return when the Messiah comes. The only question will be: ‘whose Messiah?’ So many to choose from.

Meanwhile I’ll be in a cafe in the Arab Quarter eating hummus and felafel.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Do you know what a barmitzvah is? Yeah, its a kind of ‘confirmation’, its a religious ceremony, its the passage of a ‘boy’ to a ‘man’ in the eyes of whatever God you happen to believe in. And as barmitzvah’s are fairly exclusive to Jewish people, that’s ‘our’ God which counts here. And as a ‘man’, this 13 year-old kid is given the woman of his choice from the selection offered by call-girls-unlimited.com, is presented with his first bottle of single malt whisky and is allowed to take any car on the forecourt and floor it until it crashes or he gets arrested. The universal definition of ‘manhood’ in any practical sense.

The reality of a barmitzvah though is this. As a ‘man’ what you’re actually allowed to do is read from the Torah, out loud, to the congregation. And that, for many Jews, especially the ones with the black hats and long beards, is a very big deal indeed. So this is what happens at such an event in ‘civilised society’.

The boy is presented with an Armani suit (Numbers, Ch.23, v.14-17). He wears it along with the Tag watch he received from his delighted grandparents. He goes to synagogue, along with 320 of his nearest and dearest family and friends, most of whom he’s meeting for the first time. And there he says/sings his piece of the Torah. Which he’s been learning from tapes and lessons and a man with a long beard and a big stick, for the last 12 months. Then everyone eats fish balls and drinks whisky and goes home to get ready for the ‘party’.

This takes place in a palace, a West End hotel or a disused warehouse in Wapping or Shoreditch that someone’s paid a king’s ransom to ‘decorate’ for one night. The party planners sort all that out, along with the flowers (barmitzvah boys love flowers, as you can imagine), the numerous entertainers and bands and DJs, the Kletzmer Band, the caterers and the flash visit by the full Arsenal first team. So that 460 bods kitted out in black tie and Oscar de la Renta can sit there moaning that last week’s party was bigger/better/more kosher. That the room’s too hot/too cold, that the mother looks like a dog’s dinner/a wolf in sheep’s intestines; that the father is having an affair with his personal trainer. It’s the best of fun.

Today’s barmitzvah was therefore special. Like REALLY special. Because The Canadians (as we call them) appreciate that its not about fancy shmancy and posh. It’s not about a 14 year old kid and his mates throwing around food that cost more than the shirt he’s getting filthy. It’s about the continuity of a fabulous tradition which, for many of us ‘not quite so religious’ is a defining moment in the continuation of a line which dates back to Moses. Or Abraham. Possibly to Bobby Moore, the dates get confused.

So we went to the top of a mountain in the middle of the desert next to the Dead Sea. And there did young Rhys strut his Judaic stuff. Quite brilliantly. And then we climbed down (about 40 minutes) and had lunch. Before floating on/in the Dead Sea and covering ourselves with mud, as it is written (on an Ahava bottle), that we may bless our skin and make us look much younger. And much muddier. Than we did before. The latter definitely worked, the former, hmmm…

It was simply brilliant. Fun, laughter, intimate and just enough religion to fulfil all obligations.

What a day. Thank you Canada!!!

Happy Barmitzvah Day

A xxxx

Israel is a country of truly biblical proportions. Big it ain’t, but its biblical qualifications are unquestionable. The price it pays for being the source of all the world’s religions is that they all in turn want it. But I’m not talking about politics. I’m talking about Jesus. Because he was born here. He lived here and in all likelihood he stayed at the same hotel as me here on the banks of the Sea of Galilee. Because this is the water upon which he walked. Not the little pool, unless he was actually in my room (how amazing would that be???? All us prophets and messiahs using the same bath!!!!) but on the lake beyond it. And he did lots of other weird stuff round here too, on the borders of the Golan Heights, where he hung out. So the renaming of various places using, instead of the usual Hebrew or Arabic names, with overtly Catholic titles. And words like ‘Beatitude’ which don’t exist in any other religion.

And I looked at the Lake yesterday and thought as I peered into its depths, how THESE were the fishes that HE turned to wine. With this water he… errrr… turned the other cheek. He was probably shaving. The beard thing is a myth. He fed the five thousand long before Uber Eats was even available. Though apparently if you sent a messenger for a pizza, just six days later a camel would arrive with one. From Rome. When the Romans eventually arrived here, ordering pizzas became less of a problem. A fair exchange for the total enslavement of the entire population, theft of the whole nation’s riches, death of hundreds of thousands of souls and a hundred years of tyrannical rule. At least you could eat the pizza still warm.

So to be here at Christmas time is just… well, its totally… you know, me, Jesus, the whole Judeo-Christian thing is just reduced to one simple, if immense, breakfast buffet. Well, that’s what it generally means to me. You think philosophy, history and religion on an empty stomach.

Later we’re driving down to Jerusalem. The very epicentre of 90% of the world’s troubles but in a really good way. And such a cool place. And from there we go to Masada for ‘the barmitzvah’. Masada is a hill. In the desert, by the Dead Sea. But was the site of siege by those same Romans, who couldn’t invade it because the town was on the top of a hill and they didn’t haven any helicopters. The siege went on for 3 years and then, when they could hold out no longer, there was a mass suicide of every single inhabitant. Ok, not the happiest of ending but its a very moving place.

In an unrelated incident, Martin Peters died yesterday. The World Cup winning footballer and one of Spurs finest players ever. The man always described as ‘10 years ahead of his time’, died as he lived, about 10 years ahead of time at the youthful age of Just 76. The man who spent his career ‘ghosting’ in, can now do it for real. And I loved Peters, who apparently also played for West Ham at some point early on in his career before he found God and Jesus in his life, was always spoken of as ‘ahead of his time’. And I’m offering a cash reward for anyone who can actually tell me WHAT THE FUCK THAT STUPID EXPRESSION EVEN MEANS?????? I love the fact that his genius was always appreciated but ‘ahead of his time’ simply makes no sense. It made no sense back then and it makes even less now where at least we have the hindsight of knowing what ‘10 years after his time’ looked like.

Happy Sunday from everyone’s Holy Land

A xxxx

So what do you do when all your plans turn to shit? When it all goes ‘tits up’? When the ceiling collapses, your dominoes fall, Armageddon rises, Golgotha falls, the chips are up and the chips are down? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU DO???

In particular and specifically; how does the Labour Party recover from the most almighty thrashing received since Jo Bugner quit boxing? Since Wigan came to Spurs? Since nineteen thirty-something-or-other. A defeat at the polls so humiliating, so humbling, so soul-destroying that it calls to question your credibility, your ideology, your ability to do simple sums and your entire future as any kind of viable political entity.

I don’t know either. But I do know I wouldn’t have Kier Starmer as the new ‘face’ of Newish, revised, slightly modified, hard left but not that left, Labour. I wouldn’t have him as the face of a landfill. But Sir Kier has not yet ‘thrown his hat’ into that particular ring. Only Emily Thornberry has, thus far, but more will follow. Many, many more. Starting with Clive Lewis. Who I quite like because he dresses quite smartly. Other than that he’s an unknown quantity. Though obviously, I won’t get to vote on this particular issue anyway.

What’ll happen is that lots of other players will get involved, like the nightmare that is Rebecca Long Bailey, along with her running mate Angela Rayner. Some moderates like Lisa Nandy and Jess Phillips. And then Len McClusky will pick the winner.

What most Labour supporters will hope for is that the horribly neo-Stalinist rise of the bullying brutality and dictatorial methods of Corbynism/Momentum will give way to something a little ‘nicer’. More properly democratic. That the party might move away from the HATE THE RICH!!!! standpoint which typified the Corbyn era. That and HATE THE JEWS!!! and SUPPORT THE IRA!!! Getting rid of any MPs who weren’t ‘on message’, in other words ‘who were quite decent people’. Trashing members of their own party for any words or comments that may be construed as pro-American or pro-capitalism.

They have a long way to go. And so do I. Off to Israel this afternoon. To meet the Canadians (not all of them, just our ones) for their son’s barmitzvah. Very excited. I’ll keep you posted.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So I got to the tube station, on my bike, as usual, and as I was securing it with seven chains, four ‘d-locks’, electrifying the saddle, razor wire round the handlebars and putting the armed guard in place, I heard a train come in. My train. I ran down the corridor, flew up the stairs and ran down two more carriages as the ‘beeping’ started because the ones by the stairs are always the busiest. And jumped on. Panting a bit. Sweating a bit, but happy. That ‘sliding doors’ moment. If you think how fucking miserable you feel to get to the platform just as your train doors are closing (even though the next train arrives in 2 minutes), then the opposite was how happy I felt. It’s a tube traveler thing. #wining

The train was busier than usual so I edged down a bit and took out my kindle. At which point a smart young man jumped out of his seat and asked if I’d like to sit down.

And that, for any person of certain vintage, deluding him/herself into ‘being as young as you feel’ (despite the scans and hospital visits) is nothing short of a ‘me too!’ moment. It is an abuse. An insult. It is age rape!!! I was offered a seat purely because some public school shit, overly endowed with good manners and politeness was ‘respecting his elders’ by shattering their illusions/delusions. Little muthafucka! Daring to presume that I am old enough to warrant his Pavlovian response, beaten into him by his fag-master at Eton, and jump up to offer this ‘old person’ his seat.

How is that ‘respecting ones elders’? When all it does is insult them, depress them and make them feel frail and ancient. That one look, more a half glance, at this beautiful YOUNG and exceptionally cool man, ok a bit grey… very grey, panting like in heart failure, possibly dribbling a bit down my jacket, one fucking look and he forever labels me as ‘old’!!!

I drew back my fist… and then, and then, and then thought: ‘hmmmm; a seat on a crowded tube train, hmmmmmmm…’ and thanked him politely and sat down. Limping a bit as I did so. Making heavy breathing noises. Talking to myself. Quietly. Yet quite animatedly.

It was the best of times, it was the worse of times.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I read the newspaper every day. Its a habit. Like smoking. Feels nice at the time but there’s no benefit in it long term. I read it ‘in paper’ format. Because computers cause cancer. Blindness. Brain damage. Sterility. Heart failure. The radiation from your screen can turn you into a zombie (that bit’s true), into a Mormon. Into an Ork. 

And there’s the problem. People are always speculating on health issues based on studies, on statistics and on often rather spurious science. Mainly because someone has to pay for the ‘study’ and if you manufacture statins you’re going to proclaim them as the best thing ever for keeping the population alive and in good health. So I treat all such proclamations with a pinch of salt. But not too much salt or my arteries might harden. 

So when they tell you to eat seaweed three times a day, I find seventeen logical rebuttals. Because I don’t want to eat seaweed ever. When ‘jogging’ becomes essential for bodily fitness, I find a flaw in the maths. Even though I’m not very good at maths. 

But sometimes, just sometimes, they come up with ‘health issues’ which converge with my lifestyle. In which cases, the maths is perfect, the science unquestionable and why have ‘they’ only just realised this? Idiots. I’ve been bathing in Single Malt whisky for years now. Because rather than learning new things, adopting new food, exercise, patterns, what we really want is validation that what we already do is brilliant. 

On Sunday there was ‘the benefits of apples’. Yeah, that’s news. Keeping doctors away, etc. But now its ‘PROVEN’. The… stuff in apples is good for everything and now they reckon two a day is better. Overkill. One’s enough. 

And then today was the jackpot. They reckon if you eat chilli three or four times a week you are a whopping 40% less likely to get cardiac disease and… 60% less likely to have a stroke. (Just a quick note, a caveat: STATISTICS CAN DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH because there’s still 60% of people eating chilli getting heart disease, and 40% getting strokes or they’d call chilli ‘the cure’.) It also depends what you put your chilli on. Cos most people don’t just eat them on their own. And if you have four donner kebabs a week just for the chilli, you’re going to die very young. Similarly the curries (a rich source of chillies) eaten in take-aways and most restaurants are loaded with fat, salt and sugar. So its like playing a game of tennis for health reasons but at every end change, smoking 3 Marlboro reds and eating a tub of ice cream. You have to be careful. Like me. I have chillies on everything. Mel’s over the upset of ‘but I spent hours flavouring that!’ after watching me drown it in Harisa, Sehug, Thai chili sauce, Mexican hot sauce, any possible source of a chilli hit. 
So that’s it then. We’re sorted. Eat chilli; live forever. Done deal. 

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx          

Now I’m excited about football again. Now its getting a bit more ‘real’ out there. In the trenches. At the front line. Now the season’s well past its ‘start’, which lasts for at least 3 months, though I can’t work out why, then suddenly, WE’RE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE SEASON!!!! So now the points you get don’t go so far. No more 1 win, six places up the table. No sir. No longer. Now its gritty. And in the battle of grit… there’s nothing… errrr… grittier, than… (wish I hadn’t bothered with this annoying metaphor)… than something really gritty. Like Spurs! (Terrible). Or John Wayne.

Not particularly keen to take a day trip to Wolverhampton in the pouring rain yesterday, there was no way to watch the match live as Sky opted for other matches, BT don’t do Sundays (and I don’t do BT anyway) and Amazon Prime couldn’t deliver it. Therefore I’m going to have to make it all up. Which is better anyway because by all accounts we were quite lucky to survive a Wolves onslaught which lasted from our first goal in the 8th minute, to our second and winning one in the 91st. And that is grittier than the M1 in a snow storm. (I hate grit, wish I’d never mentioned it now).

But best of all is this. We are now just 3 points off Chelsea who currently sit in the most cherished, most desirable, most ‘sell your granny for a place there’ 4th place. When Morinho (jury’s still out, probably will be long after we’ve lifted both the league and the Champions League trophies) arrived we were in 14th place and shit. Now we’re in 5th and getting the job done. In touch with our inner grit-spreader. And we play Chelsea next week. Holy shit. The battle for 4th place. Which is significant even this early in the season.

And its possibly a good time to play Chelsea, as they struggle to find any form or consistency and lost yet another home game on Saturday to Bournemouth. Or possibly a bad time to play Chelsea because they’ll ‘bounce’ back. We’ll only know afterwards. Because then we have three ‘easy’ games. You know, easy games. The ones we generally lose or draw and the disappointment crushes us and sends us back to therapy until the FA Cup final. Easy. By which time we could be entrenched into 4th place.

I read that this morning. Hence the ‘chicken counting’ title today. Since when does potential have anything to do with outcome in football?

Arsenal meanwhile are a club in crisis. As were Spurs just a few short weeks ago. The difference being that our chairman cares and acted swiftly and decisively to rectify the problem, and there’s is a dithering deliberator who doesn’t seem to give a shit.

If you say the words M*zut Oz*l to Alexa, she sets fire to your kitchen. Bitch.

Happy Gritty Monday

A xxxx

35 years ago my life changed. I was going on a tennis holiday, early start so spent the night before at Dom’s place in Maida Vale. He called it ‘Little Venice’ but he’s always been a pretentious fucker. And I didn’t have a book to take away. So he gave me a book. Firestarter. Stephen King. Nah, I said, I don’t like ‘horror’. It’s not horror, its Stephen King.

And that correction of the most common literary misunderstanding, changed my life. Because Firestarter, not his best book but still about 50 times better than most other books by most other authors, was fantastic. Supernatural, but not horror. And I don’t mind ‘supernatural’. People, normally kids, with ‘powers’. Ok, X-men is all the rage now, the tv series ‘Heroes’, Marvel stuff, DC comic characters, absolutely EVERYONE has something they can do that is freaky, weird, bizarre or incredible. But Firestarter was just a little girl, played in the very so-so movie later on by an incredibly cute Drew Barrymore, aged about 6, who could burn down a skyscraper from 100 yards just by looking at it. Nothing unusual there.

Then I read other Kings. All of them, in fact. Some are ‘horror’, but very few. Is The Shining ‘horror’??? Carrie?

Stephen King is the best selling author in the world. Not because people like ‘horror’ and ‘gore’, not even for the supernatural. He’s the best selling author because he writes about people better than anyone else. Just normal, common or garden, people. And relationships between them. Particularly when those relationships are forced by circumstances. Some of which can enter the ‘horrific’.

And King writes about kids. Especially about ‘geeky’ kids, poor kids, abused kids, kids with lisps, thick glasses, red hair, limps. The kids others make fun of. With whom, as a very poor kid with thick glasses, he has so much empathy. These ‘geeks’, the ones never on the A-list at school, never part of any ‘cool set’, are always the heroes in his books. Like in ‘It’. Which does have some horror but is a book about relationships between past and then former geeky kids. Like The Stand, which is just fucking brilliant. And like the geekiest of poor, abused kids, Carrie. King gives these poor souls revenge. Which can, I grant you, get a bit horrific at times.

And like The Institution, which I’m nearly finished and already getting sad that then I’ll have to wait another few months for another (King is nothing if not prolific). It doesn’t matter what the story’s about; its always about the way its written, the way the characters develop and the relationships between them, the way the plot moves, which makes it totally un-put-downable.

So if you’re a reader but ‘don’t read Stephen King because I don’t like horror’, you could do much worse than read The Institution. And remember; King also wrote The Shawshank Redemption.

I just had to tell you. Because I’m bored with politics and unimpressed by football so far this weekend. Other than Bournemouth’s win at Chelsea, obviously. And I am evangelical about Le King. In case you missed that.

Happy Sunday, day 3 in the reign of King Boris.

A xxxx