Andy's Glasses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And on that happy note; have a super Saturday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Friday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Monday

A xxxx

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