Andy's Glasses

When did the Indians become Cowboys?

I was very young when I heard about ‘an Indian restaurant’ opening up in nearby Gants Hill. The world was different then. Hamburgers were ‘exotic’ in 1969; pizza’s only made by Italians and Chinese food for the first time was the culinary version of a trip to Disneyland.

And now ‘Indian’. Wow. I was a kid. I expected to be served buffalo cooked on an open fire by red-skinned geezers with feathers in their hair and was worried that if I didn’t like the food they’d ‘scalp’ me with their tomahawks. Because to me ‘Indians’ were who Cowboys fought. And always won. They only travelled in thousands, on horseback, coming from the top of a hill. And this was in… Gants Hill!!!! (I lived there for 25 years and never actually found any raise in local topography of more than 0.6 of an inch).

But ‘those Indians’, the ones in the countless ‘western’ movies I loved, ceased to be Indians in 1987 (guessing) when they were promoted to ‘native Americans’. The ones left over after the ‘cowboys’ (or ‘non-native Americans’) had slaughtered the vast majority. ‘Genocide’ actually meant genocide in those days. A few years ago the American football team, the Washington Redskins, in a fit of woke capitulation, became the Washington Commanders. Washington Tossers, more like, but that’s ‘cultural progress’ in which we suppress all the things we’re really ashamed of in case future generations sue for ‘reparations’.

Now, Indians are Indians. From India. Where curry comes from. For which we are eternally, absolutely and emotionally grateful. Except Mel who hates curry.

And so, to cement our relationship with the Indian nation, and in appreciation for changing the dining experience of our entire country, we’ve made a ‘trade deal’. To compensate for tragic trade losses brought about by Brexit and the fact that America has become a joke. This deal is worth ‘billions’. How many, and to whom, depends who’s holding the calculator. But its big money. We’ll import all the… curry, at no tariff and they’ll reduce tariffs on the whisky and cars we sell to them. (If you’ve been to India you’ll realise that drink-driving is not only acceptable over there but actually improves the overall standard of motoring). Also, we get to import as many Indians as we like who will pay no National Insurance whilst working here. Which immediately upsets the Unions who see a vast influx of ‘cheap labour’ arriving here with their shovels ready.

This seems a bit ‘one-sided’ to me. Typical Starmer. Negotiation by capitulation. Just give them whatever they want. He did it with the Railwaymen and now with India.

They’ll be many mud-hut villages in the Punjab congested with so many Range Rovers that they can’t get to the shops to buy their Single Malts.

Whilst we enjoy all the saris we can eat.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I read a ‘terrible thing’ in the paper the other day, relatively ‘terrible’ anyway. That for David Beckham’s 50th birthday party at some swanky, fine-dining eatery attended by as many A-listers as you could force a rocket leaf upon, and filled with a myriad of tattoos, there was one noted absentee.

No, not me, I couldn’t go because we were playing bridge that night. Brooklyn Beckham, the son and heir, refused to go. There is bad blood. Very bad blood between the Beckham-Spices and number one offspring. Because of… The Wife!!!

Apparently Victoria B does not get along with daughter-in-law, Nicola Pelz, at all. Hates the spoiled rotten, nasty, venomous little princess something awful. And by all accounts the general consensus is that VB is, for once in her life, correct. There’s been a falling out, loyalties tested, doubtless threats made: “if you go to your dad’s party, I’m on my dad’s jet before you can say ‘privileged bitch’ and in one of our 15 homes by tomorrow morning!!!”

I may be wrong. Maybe Nicola is sweet and agreeable and… and… and pigs DO fly.

But it resonated with Prince Harry. I mean there’s a lot of similarities between Harry and Becks. For a start they’re both quite tall. Secondly… errrr… they’re quite tall…

But the ‘Harry Bizniss’ all started with Meghan. Everyone hates Meghan. William hates Meghan, Catherine hates Meghan, Charles and Camilla hate Meghan, even her own dad hates Meghan. Everyone hate Meg, except me. I’ve never got over that photo of her in ‘Suits LA’ (today’s pic, coincidentally) and with just one hip, I’d forgive her anything.

You know I hate to indulge in gossip and tattle and all that Daily Mail shit that is, quite frankly, totally beneath my intellect, but sometimes I rise to the occasion. In the interest of a ‘bigger picture’. Possibly a ‘bigger question’. Something like ‘why are men so fucking stupid as to follow the dictates (pun almost not intended) of an inappropriate woman who their family loathe and despise’. Alternatively, do the family loathe and despise these women first, for other reasons?

We are talking about two of the most important families in the entire country here; the Royals and Posh’n’Becks, but why can’t everybody love each other and be happy? There are drugs which will help. Meanwhile, avoid nasty, conniving, divisive, stroppy, bitchy, entitled, demanding wom– people. (Nearly)

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We’re entering the most exiting time of the most exiting football season ever! Its brilliant. I sit riveted as Liverpool can’t be bothered to play at Chelsea in any meaningful way because they’re already on the open-topped bus, drinking champagne as they cruise past those Liver birds, being adored by the swarming masses who are trying to steal the wheels.

And Arsenal hosted Bournemouth but had that over-riding ‘whass the fuckin point?’ attitude because they’re 2nd, they’re always going to be 2nd and the rest is just irrelevant numbers. So if they lose 2-1, it’s not a great deal away from winning 2-1. Not to take any credit from Bournemouth who actually turned up. Mentally.

The most exiting of all!!!!, came at the London Stadium (named for the people who pay for the fucking thing) where Spurs and West Ham fought valiantly to see who would occupy 16th place and who would be left languishing in 17th. There was everything to fight for!!! Actually, there wasn’t. Spurs didn’t want to get any more injuries before our trip to Norway this week and West Ham are just hopeless, whoever wears their horrible shirt.

It’s almost tempting to watch Women’s Football. Which has massive coverage and immense popularity, so surely must be just as good as ‘the real thing’, isn’t it? And it is!!! Until you start watching it. Once you get over all the muscular calves and swinging pony-tails, you concentrate on the football. And that’s when the problem starts. Ok, that’s when my problem starts. So I just have to wait for the Europa League semi-final, second leg, on Thursday. Our Great Hope.

You can get tickets for Spurs easily now. No-one can be bothered to go to league matches. Ticket holders have suffered enough for one season. But not me!!! I’ve never suffered enough. I’m like the Opus Dei of football, flagellating every game and increasing my suffering to get closer to Jesus.

Or, in my case, closer to Emily Damari. Who is coming to Spurs on Sunday. Her first match since her release from being a hostage in Gaza. She’s an Anglo-Israeli who was kidnapped on October 7th, shot in the leg and the hand, lost two fingers and held hostage for 471 days. And she’s a big Spurs fan. Spurs have refused to give an ‘official’ welcome because a. They’re fuckwits, and b. ‘It’s political’. But we shall welcome her as the hero she really is. Mel’s coming with me. She hates football, so I’ve told her not to worry, there won’t be much of that on display.

Happy freezing cold Bank Holiday Monday

A xxxx

The Reform party are going to be the next government. Well, a bit of local government anyway. And their first move in power will be to get rid of ALL the DEI people. Those really important folk who enforce the laws of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion. I’m speaking as a black, Zoroastrian, double-trans (I changed twice and I’m considering going for the hat-trick!!!), cross-dressing (in my case ‘double-cross’), non-trinary, sub-ethnic, one-legged (I actually have two but IDENTIFY as a monoped), gluten intolerant with multiple mental health issues and I’m congenitally illiterate. And I’ve been in constant employment since the DEI became law. Well, by ‘employment’, I obviously mean ‘sick leave’. If they don’t employ me, I sue. Then I get ‘signed off’ by some poor GP who loses the will to live when I turn up at the surgery.

It’s a travesty that DEI dudes are becoming a persecuted minority. If only there was still DEI departments to protect them.

However, it’s not all about DEI. It’s about phones. And the use/abuse of those little computers we all choose to carry around. Because the conversation is all about ‘children and phones’. At school. At home. Obsessing about being ‘liked’, or vilified, maybe ‘ghosted’ or ‘trolled’. And small kids, too young for their own phones but having their parents ones used as pacifiers. Videos, games, here; play with this for a minute and LEAVE ME ALONE!!!.

It all starts with the parents. If parents are always attached to and staring at their phones, this is the wonderful example they’re setting. They’re validating and recommending this as perfectly acceptable behaviour. Being ‘social’ does not include ‘social media’, which is totally personal and thus anti-social.

In the Times today is a great article about people in a restaurant, all on their phones. A very expensive and elite restaurant. And a young couple on a date were ignoring each other to spend some quality time on their phones. Awful.

There are many who can’t be separated from their ‘devices’. They bring them to the dinner table. As if, without phone evidence, what they might be saying won’t be believed. Needs ‘validation’ which only phones can provide.

But best of all are those walking, phone in hand, down the street. The ones who have single-handedly (you only use one hand to hold your phone) created an industry in phone stealing, making it so easy for some little shit on an e-bike (not me, I don’t nick phones and I’m a big shit on an e-bike) to just grab it and flee.

Next week we’ll discuss phone use by car drivers, but I need strong medication before I get on to that.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Oh what a glorious day was Thursday the 1st of whatver, nineteen seventy… sorry!, twenty-twenty… 2 days ago. Possibly 2 nights ago, because that’s when it alllllllll happened.

Tottenham Hotspur, the greatest team the world has ever seen, according to the song, at least, went to Runcorn and won the bye-election for the Reform party of Faragers. They won 6-nil. By 6 votes, same difference.

The team they played were from an arctic Norwegian town called Bodo which has a population of 53,000 people. Most of them Norwegians. That’s 10,000 less than the capacity of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium of magic and wonder. But I don’t think they all came to the match.

Joey went. Even though he’s not old enough to vote. His first ‘evening match’. Allowed ONLY because it was a truly massive game. A European semi-final. And he had to be there. The fact that Spurs won is almost as unbelievable as it is amazing and fantastic. We beat the Norwegians 3-1. But now have to travel to the arctic circle to play the second leg on their plastic-grass pitch in a stadium which holds 8,200 people. The same number you get on a really busy bus in rush hour. Give or take.

Joey won’t be going to that one. No-one’s going to that one. You fly to Oslo then get a bus to somewhere unpronounceable, a train to somewhere with a weird name and finally travel for 17 hours on a husky sled across the frozen tundra. Joey would miss maths. And probably phonics as well if the huskies need to eat.

Reform won big too. Spurs won 3-1, they won 627- not many. And I’m not saying it’s a bad thing because the government are shit, and governments never do well in local elections even if they are good. The Tories are a spent force who failed to achieve the headline issues in their 14 years in charge. The Lib Dems don’t matter, nor do the Greens. And they don’t matter because they’re perceived as ‘soft’. In particular on immigration. Reform’s trump card. It’s always been seen as Farage’s issue. And rightly, he talks about it for the problem it is. And it resonates.

Therefore, ‘the nation’ (the 30% who got to vote for their local councils) voted based on immigration, for local councillors who have nothing to do with any relevant policies. No-one knows how Reform feel about the cost of rubbish collection, the epidemic of pot holes or the massive problem of social care. Local government issues. Instead they simply stated, loudly a very clearly, that they’re not happy with the country’s immigration policies.

There is no ‘second leg’ for local elections. But I’m voting for Spurs next Thursday at Bodo/Glimt. With Nigel Farage scoring a hat-trick.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The weather’s fabulous. The sun’s shining, it’s warm, the birds are a’singin’, Spring has definitely sprung round my way. So the electric bike gets a bit more air than it does in February. In that I’m prepared to use it. More than ‘prepared’. Eager. And I use it to save the planet. Tony Blair can bang on all he likes about our continual need for fossil fuels, but me and Ed Miliband are ‘on message’. We just manifest it in different ways. Me by being a morally superior e-bike rider, full of righteous indignation. And Ed by being the stupid tosser he’s always been, maintaining his position about 9 months behind whatever’s going on now. It’s a good partnership.

And I view car drivers on the capital’s roads with scorn. I give them a HOW DARE YOU??? look, as I speed past them on the pavement. Because everyone should be on a bike. Everyone. Like Holland. Like Cambridge. Ban all cars (except mine) and force everyone onto 2 wheels. At least in the summer.

That might be ‘the dream’ from an eco perspective. End the congestion, improve air quality and approach ‘net zero’ as if you really care.

Yet from a practical perspective, that actually represents a nightmare. Because when I’m on my bike, nothing really stops me. I go round cars, through red lights, in-and-out of Sainsburys if I have to, circumnavigate any pedestrians and ignore roadworks. The only thing which causes me any problem (‘problem’ = slowing down) is other bikes.

You’re on a cycle lane cruising along as fast as the bike’s ‘governor’ will let you, and in front is an old person cycling a 20 year-old Rayleigh on which the gears have given up. They wobble across the lane, avoiding pot holes, as they should, but making overtaking impossible.

You arrive at a set of lights where you do actually have to stop, like to cross the Euston Road (its a very brave or generally very dead cyclist who’d go through the red light there) and there’ll be 17 bikes waiting. 9 of them Lime bikes, obviously, the rest a mish-mash of pedal power. The light changes and it’s a fucking mess of overtaking bikes jostling for position. With me the biggest jostler because my bike is precisely 1.27 mph faster than a Lime bike. But getting past them all can be challenging.

So we ‘need’ a City full of bikes. But we certainly don’t fucking want one. So what we actually ‘need’ is no bikes except mine. Then I’d be happy.

Happy riding. Just not in my City.

A xxxx

MTWSA is the new MAGA. Make The World Shit Again.

As we reach the magical?, mystical??, benchmark (of what?)??, 100th day of the second Trump presidency, it is an ideal time to look back on precisely how, and what, the great man (his words) have achieved. Why ‘100 days’ is some watershed moment in politics is, quite frankly, beyond me. We don’t count the days. Only til its over. We count the achievements, the progress, possibly the slow start towards something better than we have. This 100 day line exists purely for the red tops, the sensationalists and, of course, for The Don. Who claimed a whole raft of claims of what he would accomplish in his ‘first 100 days’.

Peace in Ukraine. Hmmm.
Peace in Gaza. Ditto.
Establishment of the Palestinian Riviera, named Trump Akbar! With a statue. An orange one.
World stability. Yeah, right.
Prosperity for ALL Americans. The poor are starving, the rich getting poorer as their shares plummet.
Putting right the world ‘ripping off the United States for years’. Yup, done that. But at what cost?
Stopping the passage of fentanyl to America.
Alienating every nation on the planet? Wasn’t a stated goal but even a fool could see the outcome. Other than that fool.
Ridding the world of Elon Musk. Not his stated aim, more mine.

But Trump has achieved one very important thing. He has re-defined and established permanently, and f’rever, what is ‘fake news’. Which has, quite frankly, hounded him throughout his political career.

Fake news is any item, website, article or tv snippet which in any way questions Donald Trump’s actions in a negative way. It is the ultimate ‘Trump card’, to be played at any time. Maybe a ‘get out of jail’ card. Literally. Pete Hegseth fucks up by sending WhatsApp messages of national security sensitivity to random journalists; that’s just the ‘left wing press making a big deal’ of what is in reality… quite a big deal. But they made such a fuss that he did the same thing 2 weeks later. And we ask why? Because he’s a fuckwit? Because, as defence secretary, he has no idea about security? Or because ‘the papers just blew the story up to please the Democrats’?

I can’t see the Ukraine war ending today. Call me an old sceptic. Putin has agreed to a ceasefire for 3 days but his idea of what a ‘ceasefire’ means may differ from that of every other human on the planet outside of Moscow.

Canada voted in Mark Carney for PM, the ‘anti-Trump’ candidate, so Mr Prez will have to work harder to make their neighbours to the north ‘the 51st state’.

And Spurs have had their worst season in 86 years. Possibly 43.

So what has ‘he’ done in 100 days? Major world fuckage. That’s what he’s done. Can hardly wait for the next 100.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Trump has done many ‘things’ in his hundred-odd days. More if you count the last term he served. But in one respect, he has changed the world. Reconstructed its narrative. Is it in a good way? Well, it’s Trump, so what do you reckon???

The diplomatic international stage was always full of agreements, alignments, accords, lots of ‘a’ words, plus coalitions, strategies, convergencies, all sorts of ways to describe positive linking of the mutual aims or desires of foreign nations.

Now, everything is a fucking ‘deal!’ The Great Dealmaker has ascended to the throne, let’s celebrate by first dumbing down the language. And more threateningly, by everything being ‘a deal’, there must always be ‘the other half’ of the deal. The quid pro quo. The payback.

Rachel Reeves was on the news the other night talking of her attempts to ‘make a deal’. A year ago she would not have said that. She’d have tried to sound posher. More educated. She’d have used language befitting a Secretary of State. Rather than a trollop who sells handbags in the market. Ok, she was trying to make this deal with Trump, so no point using big words or unnecessary syllables, but we’re now learning a new language from Americans???

And what’s the ‘deal’ by telling Zelensky to just give in to all Russia’s demands, ceding 20% of their country to them and giving up the Crimea altogether. I don’t understand how this is a ‘deal’? Trump thinks that because ‘then they’ll stop bombing’ is an acceptable payment. Trump is a tosser. But a tosser who makes big noises and promised to ‘end the war in 100 days’. Which ends on Tuesday. Meaning if the ‘deal’ is not in the bag by then, he’ll change from just being a tosser, to actually looking like one. Thus the pressure. With JD Vance (no less!!!) telling the world that American has other things to do, other places to fuck up, other wars to get involved in, it can’t spend all this time on Ukraine. To which I, personally thought, “good, then fuck off!!!”, perhaps leave Ukraine to those who might try and stand up to Putin, rather than engage in submissive sexual activities with him.

Right, I’m going to do a deal with Mel now. I’ll go out for a walk with her if she… errrr… goes out for a walk with me! (She normally won’t be seen with me in public).

Let’s all make (fucking) deals,

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Ok, so the Pope was a shirt-lifter. Aright, a cassock-lifter. He was gay. So the recent rumours being rather maliciously spread, would assert. And much as both myself and definitely the quality controllers of this site try to avoid gossip, scandal, reactionism and anything else you’d normally find in the Daily Mail, there are some snippets which are just simply too good to pass over. I’ve never been ashamed to lower my standards, and I’m proud of that.

Yet here’s the irony: the Pope is fucking celibate. Let me rephrase that for purposes of contradictory expression: the Pope is celibate. He has to be. Does it really matter whether its gels or boys that he DOESN’T shag? He’s the original V-cel. The opposite of an ‘INCEL’. They are ‘involuntary celibates’ who live mainly in America who live out their sad and sorry lives moaning about lack of sex and trying to murder the women who they blame for their plight. Thus, a v-cel. A voluntary celibate. As are all Catholic cardinals. Well, they’re supposed to be, its just that sometimes…

How hypocritical would it be for the leader of the world’s Catholics to promote celibacy whilst engaging in naughty deeds with little boys. Or big boys. Even with big girls would be just wrong.

Today we bury Pope Francis. I say ‘we’ but I’ll in fact be playing tennis. As my mark of respect to the Pontiff. It’s the least I can do. I could get on a plane to Rome and ‘become part of history’, but there are many histories in this world. I have a similar desire not to get on a plane to Kyiv to be part of that history. And even less to get on a train to Anfield for tomorrow’s dose of ‘history’.

When I was 8, Winston Churchill died and I experienced my first ever ‘state funeral’. And I was in a state. They’d taken off Saturday morning cartoons to show horse drawn carriages riding very slowly round Westminster. Where’s the fun in that. It went on forever. I never forgave Churchill, nor the (2) tv channels for that day. IT RUINED MY LIFE!!!! Consequently, I’ve been a state… everything-a-phobe ever since. Royal Weddings? Burying Queens (I don’t mean the Pope, that hasn’t been proven), or even burying old Argentinians. The agony of all that synchronised slowness, the very tone of the voices of the commentators, the ‘pain’ you can hear as they speak. All bollocks. I’d rather watch re-runs of Friends.

As as I mentioned, tomorrow we go to Liverpool to… basically, get beaten. We’re always beaten there but tomorrow will be way more significant. They need just 1 point to secure the league title. And it’s all down to mighty Spurs to stop them. I’m taking all bets on a Spurs win, just call me with your credit card number.

Happy Burying the Pope Day

A xxxx

It’s a disease. Possibly a ‘mental health issue’. But the colour purple has become an ongoing addiction for me. And like all addictions, it carries its own momentum, regardless of… well, regardless of anything really. At certain times of year the problem is amplified. Most notably, the week following Easter. It’s a biblical thing, and being a biblical literalist, I have no choice but to follow.

On Good Friday, Jesus died. Crucified by the Romans. Not pretty, but there ya go. That’s life. Hm.
The next day, possibly the one after, they buried him. Because that’s what you do.
On Easter Monday Jesus was resurrected. By God. Well who else was going to fucking do it?
On Easter Tuesday Jesus went round buying up all the unsold Easter Eggs at knock-down prices.
On Easter Wednesday he was probably sick.
Amen.

The reality is that we all take the bits of the bible which appeal to us. The Pope (God rest his soul, once they finally bury the poor old man and give him peace) ‘lived according to Jesus’, as one Cardinal said, because he was all about servitude, humility, kissing feet and all that kind of shit. That’s not for me really. Spurs fans don’t kiss feet. So I pick the bit involving Easter Eggs. Unless, like yesterday, those bastards at Waitrose had sold all the Easter Eggs and could only offer cut-price chocolate bunnies. And boxes of little eggs. Which I obviously bought. To go with my 2 great big Lindt bunnies (didn’t put them in the photo in case they fight with the Cadbury ones). Then we went to Aldi and got their last 2 Cadbury’s big eggs. Phew. The Crunchie bars are just normal ‘essentials’ and the Picnics are a rare find and a big favourite, so I grabbed a couple when I went to pay the paper bill.

The moral is (moral? Me???) that if you sell Cadburys chocolate cheap, I will buy it. If you wrap other chocolate in purple, I will know. And find you. And hurt you. The problem is when to STOP buying. Can you ever have ‘enough’? Or even ‘too much’??

No. Personally, speaking on behalf of myself AND Jesus, the answer is ‘no’.

So go buy some Cadburys today. God wants you to. Almost the 11th commandment.

Happy Thursday. The diet will have to start on Friday.

A xxxx