Andy's Glasses

Its a funny thing. Summertime in the City gets very quiet, particularly on Fridays. People ‘working from home’ (phah), taking a day off to have a long weekend, its always the same. Come Friday the City quietens down. Which is fine for the commute but another indication of how work patterns have changed and are changing. Because so many people can work from anywhere. Ok, not the dustman, nor the hamburger flipper necessarily, but for many officey tasks you are no longer required in the office. You can do them at home. Or, as half the tossers round here seem to do, perform them on their phones whilst blocking public walkways and stepping obliviously out into busy main roads. I’ve renamed them. Didn’t like ‘zombies’. Its an insult to zombies. I like ‘tit-in-a-trance’. Because that’s exactly what it looks like.

But in between the work bits (or possibly during them, for those ‘working from home’) there’s always the tennis and the cricket. Those bastions of the British Summer. And in the cricket ‘we’ the English team, have made it to the world cup final. Which would be sweeter than sweet at the best of times. But its being played here, making it even lovelier, and best of all, we didn’t merely beat the Australians in the semi-final but summarily thrashed them. And so brilliantly. By bowling them all out and then scoring a shit-load of runs in a very short time. That’s the ‘abridged’ match report.

And at Wimbledon today there is THE MATCH of all matches. Roger Federer playing Rafa Nadal in the semi-final. First time they’ve played since the final here in 2008. Widely regarded as ‘the best tennis match ever’. Consequently the tickets today are changing hands at up to £17,000 a seat. Which makes my 175 quid BBC license fee seem like the bargain of a fucking lifetime.

I can’t wait for the finals of the mens and womens tennis (equal opportunity sports watcher… for some sports) and the cricket. So excited that I’ll be in Berlin. Where I’d imagine there won’t be too much excitement about the tennis and they don’t know what cricket means. Note to self: in future check the full diary of ALL sports before booking anything. Though a weekend with the ‘daughter less seen’ will be wonderful.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

‘This Wimbledon is the best ever! But isn’t it? Really??’

We have this conversation every year. Its always brilliant but the one that’s before your very eyes is, by its sheer immediacy and total… there-ness, the absolute best. Best shots, best rallies, best dresses, best thing to watch, RIGHT NOW, with no reverting to memory or knowledge or even thinkin’. Coco Gauff. We’ve never had her before. Serena… yeah, been round the block a few times but still the most awesome Ladies’ player ever. With no competition whatsoever. And a character. So unlike the 486 blonde, pony-tailed (though different pony tails from the footballers), hard-faced, semi-robotic East Europeans who are generic, ubiquitous and therefore completely interchangeable. Just doesn’t matter. Federer? Playing, at 37 years of age(!!!) like a man of… 36. And Nadal, still playing like a Spaniard and Djokovich, still… Djokovich.

And its brilliant and we love it. And it takes us away. To a brighter, shinier, cleaner, nicer place. Where there’s no Brexit, there’s no Farage. No Trump. No Conservative leadership bollocks and NO BREXIT.

And no Tommy Robinson. Mainly because he was in court today, rather than on court today (tennis joke: ha, ha, haaaa…)

He’s the leader of the English Defense League, which is a political…something, standing in a non-racist, non-segregationist, non-neo-nazi way for good, honest, lower class, working (or claiming benefits) white people who farkin’ hate immigrants, forinners, darkies, chinks, spics, wops and injuns. And Tommy, whose real name is Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, but doesn’t use that because hyphens don’t go down too well in the company he chooses to keep, was in the High Court today after his appeal to the contempt of court sentence he received a while ago. So his ‘supporters’ marched down Fleet Street today to drink beer. And show their support. And their tattoos. Lots of both. So I went and mingled with my fellow countrymen. Then came in and took a long, hot shower. Must have been a thousand people. Which, as well as showing what great support there is for extreme right-wing thought (if they ‘think’ at all), I find terribly depressing.

One Tommy Robinson, there’s only one Tommy Robinson… repeat until you fall over drunk.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Boris Johnson doesn’t play tennis. He thinks he does, in those ridiculous pink floral shorts, but he doesn’t. He’s as ‘sporty’ as a kilo of extra-mature cheddar. To play tennis you have to look like Roger Federer. Or like me. You have to have grace, elegance, a tennis racquet, style, a winning serve and a winning smile. Boris fails on all but the racquet. Slouching around like Igor in a Frankenstein movie. Though at least Igor could manage to keep his shirt tucked in.

To be Prime Minister you need none of the above.Which is good news for Boris, shurely our next PM, shuuuurely? The mere fact that he hasn’t shot himself in the foot during the leadership hustings with some almost-Islamophobic rant or diplomatic faux pas means he’ll probably breeze right in, in 2 weeks time when the results come in. And Boris will win not because he’s in any way ‘better’ than Jeremy Hunt, but purely on the grounds that he’ll (hopefully, probably, possibly) be able to beat Corbyn or whoever in the next general election.

Oddly, Boris has come out against Sir Kim Darroch for calling Trump ‘inept’. Which is itself a bit odd as Boris himself said similar things about the POTUS implying, if not actually stating, the ‘tosser’ status of the great man. Hunt is supportive of the Ambassador in Washington and has offered ‘strong words’ against Trump’s tirade against Theresa May. Who, other than putting the Ambassador there, has very little to do with that or anything else any longer.

But that’s Trump. Like a scolded child he has to retaliate. And against anyone. In Trumpworld one Brit’s the same as the next, right? So pick on Theresa and use Brexit as the medium of your displeasure because Brexit is the universal shit-storm of which every single member of parliament is in some way guilty.

Boris ‘will take us out of Europe on 31st October’, deal or no deal!!! How he’ll do that I have no idea because leaving is subject to parliamentary approval and getting that for the ‘no deal’ scenario, with Labour now actually unified against it and with a parliamentary majority of about 3, and that’s with the Irish, less at least half a dozen Tories pledged to vote against such a thing… well, you do the maths. But Boris is high on ‘optimism’ (his word), possibly low on realism. Probably ‘cloud-fucking-cuckoo-landism’ (my word) and feels ‘confident’. Just like Theresa May felt every time she went to Europe or put her ‘deal’ before parliament.

I don’t care who runs the country, long as its not Corbyn. But my personal preference would in fact be Roger Federer.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So you leave home Monday morning, earlier than usual due to staff shortages, but you’re buoyed by the lovely weekend, spirits lifted like the American women lifting the World Cup (female variety) on Sunday afternoon, its bright and sunny, Wimbledon’s around and it feels like ‘there’s everything to play for’. Then you arrive at the tube station. Where there, waiting for you, on the platform, all 6 million of the viewers of Sunday’s football final. Not cheering but now wearing civvies and looking a bit more miserable than they were in Lyon, but all of them. Because there were no trains. Well, none forthcoming. But fortunately, this was Transport for London. And they, above all others, know the value of information, of keeping people aware of circumstances, making their travelers know every option and alternative possible in the light of the very obvious problem, and helping them navigate around it.

They said nothing. Not a fucking word. Not even that there was a problem. Though it didn’t take an Einstein to work out the massively large numbers of people milling round were relatively unusual. So we had to guess. The describer boards showed all trains going ‘via Bank’, even though we later learned that there was no southbound service at all, whatsoever, on the Bank branch. Lucky its a ‘live system’ otherwise there could be ambiguity.

I limped into work. Having learned from the driver that there’d been a ‘points failure’ at Kennington. Phah! Bloody points! Kennington! Phah!

Coming home I checked to make sure they’d fixed ’em. Sent a geezer with a hi-viz jacket, hard hat and soldering iron to do the biz, only to learn that the Northern Line now, is suspended in another part, due to signal failure at Archway. On ‘my bit’. Where I need to be. But by circuitous re-routing and clever planning (called ‘a bus’) I made it home.

This morning it was worse. Much worse. Not sure if this was the points or the signals but they suspended the entire Northern Line south of Camden. Which is basically, the bit everyone needs to get to. But its ok. They apologised for ‘any inconvenience’ so that’s fine. As was the clear and concise messages, notices and instructions. Which said, essentially, ‘huh??’

Meanwhile, the tennis brilliant this year, which I say every year, but it really is. The cricket is reaching its climax. And the women’s world cup finished with… with… with the end. And it was ok, and it was physical and brutal and… almost exciting at times. But as good (as the real thing? shhhhhh)? In a ‘pay equality’ kind’a way? Hmmmm…

Happy Northern Line

A xxxx

When you read about Italian food, they seldom mention whose side that nation fought on in the war. Similarly, you rarely find a Siamese restaurant, not cos the food’s shit but just because they call it ‘Thai’. In reviews of American diners or purveyors of vast quantities of smoked meats (America doesn’t really do ‘cuisine’ as such, more ‘obscene’), its unlikely to mention the slaughter and dispossession of any native Americans. Same with Australia. Not the quantities, just the attitude, talk about their food (prawns… barby….) but don’t mention the Aborigines.

And yet if you write about Palestinian food (Times Magazine, today), you are perfectly at liberty to throw in as many political statements as a bowl of hummus, 100 grams of za’atar and some delicious flat bread, soaked in olive oil, can stand. And most of the comments, discreetly but potently used in throw-away manner whilst extolling the virtues of the perfect falafel, are wrong. Just over-used tropes. Just a load of bollocks, purporting to be a ‘right on’ understanding of the world, by some quasi-leftish (leftish? In The Times???) tart(e) jumping on some perceived PC bandwagon.

Who visited ‘Palestine’, (which doesn’t exist), ate like a pig and missed no opportunity to mention walls, deprivation, refugees, impossible border crossings and the unfairness of life. Which is fine. If you’re writing an informed political piece on the middle-east and balance it with mention perhaps of Hamas? Without whom there’d be no need for a fucking wall and before whom there in fact wasn’t one. No mention that all these ‘refugees’ are so at their own choice, all having been offered life as Israeli citizens in 1948 in the same houses they’d lived in for all their lives. And finally lost what remained of Palestine in 1967 after a war that they initiated.

But its not the accuracy or stupidity that galls me. It’s the assumption that you can’t write about Palestinian (works as an adjective, just not as a noun) food without criticising Israel but in no other area of the world would such comment be in any way acceptable. Slagging off Israel, good or bad, is in fact acceptable. It’s when you ONLY slag off Israel that people like me start setting fire to newspaper magazine articles.

Happy fucking Sunday; grrrrrrrrr…

A xxxx

There’s a fascinating article in today’s paper telling all fathers exactly what they need to know about daughters. But, like, who’s it for? Everyone who is a father of daughters already knows everything. And we had to learn it ‘from first principles’. And basically, if you have a daughter, or, like me and Spurs Paul and Dom, you’re ‘blessed’ with more than one, then you’ve really learned the hard way. And therefore can live without a double-page psychobabble spread in the Times validating itself by the inevitable ‘surveys and studies-have-showns’. Particularly as most of these studies took place in America. Where daughters aren’t same as here. They’re more… American, for a start. So they’re probably armed to the teeth from age of about 4. When the teeth whitening fixation starts. Though that’s not just American daughters but Osmonds too. Of any of the 5 main genders.

What the article says, reading between the 1,274 lines, is: spend time with your daughter and you will reap the rewards this side of heaven. Same as with any kid of any flavour, give them attention. They’re (little) women, FFS, they all want attention. And jewellery, cars, love, adoration and more gifts. In that order.

It said that fathers and daughters have a great relationship generally until about 12 years old (I’m guessing that’s the daughters; although in some parts of Oldham…) and then it turns to shit. Because fathers dread fear and hide from the whole female puberty thing. Well not all men. I got in touch with my inner menstrual cycle and pedalled like Bradley Wiggins on steroids right through it.

Just returned from the British Museum where we went to the see the Manga exhibition. Keeping that Japanese thing going. Since our return we’ve eaten sushi, been in a Prius, had a feng shui check on the garden and tortured some British PoWs. It’s part of our life now. So the Manga thing was just too tempting. Mel had a lesson in how to draw such things when we were in Tokyo but you don’t realise just how massive Manga is. And its not all about drawing images of sexually provocative little girls with massive eyes. It’s about stories. Manga is a comic book endeavour which started as political satire columns in newspapers and magazines. Now it embraces everything from Sci-fi and horror to love stories and kiddy tales. All illustrated so beautifully.

And we got caught up in Pride. All of central London was caught up in Pride. I was the only man not sporting a rainbow tutu and stiletto heels. And I regret it terribly.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So the printer at home started doing funny things. Like dragging half a ream of paper into the carriage at one go, then saying ‘paper jam!!’ Like, ‘no shit!’ And ‘well who fucking jammed it???’ I showed my brother. Who comes round to play bridge every week, but as he’s a professional compooooter troubleshooter and installer of networks and all manner of technical things, it would almost be rude not to ask him. Though with printers, the answer’s generally the same. Even without looking. ‘Buy a new one’. Because they’re cheap and when they go wrong they can NEVER be righted. Which I knew but just thought I’d check for confirmation with a ‘fessional.

And for about the price of buying a set of new ink cartridges, you get a brand new, all singin’, all dancin’, all… all fucking everything! except printing, printer.

They used to call it ‘plug’n’play’. The implication being that even an idiot could get it all working within the blink of a very slowly-blinking eye. Like a hippo’s eye maybe. Well they certainly underestimated my level of idiocy. Anyway, I plugged, I did all it said, until it got to ‘now go on the HP support website and instal’. Ah. Ok. And its actually www.123.hp… etc. And all through its about ‘123’ because what’s easier than that? Michael Jackson sang about it with some of his brothers when… when he hadn’t become a child abuser. When he was still black. When he was still alive.

And this is easy as 473zN4.8173 when expressed as a binomial quadratic expansion of the nearest root to 3.16 expressed in binary. (z = the static flow constant for liquid under constant pressure, N = the length of a donkey). That easy.

The website is shit. Opaque. Leaves you in that fab limboland of ‘has it started? Did it finish? Is it working??’ And thus I failed. But it was bridge night and the brother sat down at the computer and… and failed too. So today, I had to forgo 2 hours of Lila-time to speak to some Russian babe at HP Support. High on skill, low on charm. She ‘came on’ to the computer, as if by magic, and in just… just 2 hours, gave up. But had managed to circumvent the problem so it does in fact look like the printer is working. Even though, by her exacting (Russians. What else??) standards she’d failed and will be volunteering to be sent to Siberian hell. Which was pretty much how those 2 hours felt to me. Sitting there watching my screen being invaded from elsewhere and still getting ‘error’ messages all over the place.

But I can print. I should feel grateful. Not suicidal.

Happy hi-tech Thursday

A xxxx

Tottenham Hotspur have signed a new football player!!! It’s true. In fact they’ve signed two!!! And everyone thought we were just ‘done’ with the transfer market forever. As long as Harry Kane breathes air there shall be NO MORE PLAYERS in our club. We had enough. Loads of ‘em. You only need 11, FFS, and we must have about 30. We also signed Leeds winger Jack Clarke but he’s staying there on loan for this season. Because we just don’t need him. We virtually ‘strolled’ into the champions league after a unique ‘no-one signed in twelve months’ period. So now we have 2 new players!! Holy moly, we might even WIN the Champions League!!! Now we have a new player. His name is Tanguy Ndombele and he’s a Frenchman (we’ll forgive him) playing for Lyon. As our most expensive player everrrrrr, our hopes and dreams rest upon his not insignificant shoulders. He is, hopefully, Paul Pogba without the attitude, the moods, the absences, the toys thrown from prams.

And Lyon. How significant. Because that’s where, last night, England Ladies bowed gracefully out of the World Cup, losing their semi-final to the USA. Who cheated their way to victory with the help of VAR, by hacking down our striker and then having the audacity to save possibly the worst penalty kick I’ve seen from a sighted person. My grandmother could have saved that.

I watched the game. Most of it. Ok, I’ll admit I fell asleep for part of it, installed (or fucking tried and failed!!) our new printer for other bits, but I watched a majority of the game.

Because I was exited by the prospect. But tragically disappointed by the reality. Women footballers do ‘the same job’ as their male counterparts. Like I do ‘the same job’ as Roger Federer when I play tennis. Or when he plays at optician. But I don’t expect the same salary as he gets (if fucking only!) because he plays it at a totally different level. And tragically, possibly temporarily, the women play football at a different level to the men. Maybe that’ll change with time. Maybe the player pool is too small to find 20 superstars. But that should increase now the World Cup has certainly raised the profile of the game. The Americans have a bigger population and their women have been playing football for decades. Or ‘sucker’ as they insist on calling it. So they are indeed better.

But as a definitive ‘premiership snob’ you get used to possibly the highest level of football there is and other matches (like the men’s internationals too, if I’m honest) tend to disappoint. The women’s game is technically very good but just really lacks ‘fizz’. It lacks the magic, the unpredictability, the moments of wonder and awe. I’m sorry, but that’s how I see it. But maybe, with time…

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Wimbledon’s here. Well, its always here, just round the corner from Kingston upon Thames, if you can face the journey. Down the A3. Follow the roadworks all the way and you can’t miss it. But I mean ‘Wimbledon!’ The tennis tournament. And again, I mean ‘THE’ tennis tournament. There are loads of others, some of them apparently quite big and important. But nothing like Wimbledon. Americans may view the tennis season slightly differently, the Aussies view everything differently and the French would argue just because they’re French and its what they do. But Wimbledon is just… its just Wimbledon.

I love tennis. I play it every Saturday, every Sunday at my little club. Summer, winter, rain (to a degree) or shine, I’m there. Because I lack the imagination to think otherwise. And I speak to the coaches there who often say, ‘you going to watch the final today?’ with all due excitement. ‘It’s **********ova playing ***********ova in the Roland Garros!!!’ Or, ‘the men’s final at the Open!!!’ And the answer is always the same. A brief and abrupt ‘No’. Non. Nein. Nyet. Simply not interested in any of it. I sometimes cast a cursory glance at the results of these ‘other’ tournaments in the papers, but for me, the ONLY tennis to ever watch is at Wimbledon. To be there is to be in a place of total magic. And on tv, it is just the best. Though due to ‘constraints’ (work, Lila, eating…) I am limited most of the week to the highlights program. Which is fab. Quick fix. John McEnroe. Claire Balding. It’s still on ‘series record’ from last year. They should offer ‘lifetime record’.

And yesterday was such an amazing start to the fortnight. A little gel of about 12 beat Venus Williams. Who is 39 (how did that happen?) and played yesterday like a 49 year-old. But even as such, she’d be a 49 year-old Williams. And they’re not like mere mortals. The force is strong. Ok, Coco (as I call her) Gauff is actually 15, but is the youngest player ever to qualify. And the youngest ever to win a match in the tournament proper. And the youngest… yeah, ya get the drift. She’s fucking amazing, precociously talented and ‘the next big thing’. Without a doubt. But how can a 15 year-old have the mindset to beat her own idol on a stage the likes of which she has never before encountered?

But wonderkinds can peak early. Is Naomi Osaka, the American and Aussie champion, already ‘over the hill’ at 21???? She lost yesterday in the first round to a tiny little girl from Kazakhstan. And Naomi didn’t look champion-like at all. Though the little Kazakh is something of a nemesis to Naomi.

And in the mens, Setefano Tsitsipas looked awesome. Even though he took 5 sets to beat an Italian. But the Greek hits the ball harder than anyone. Harder than Federer. Harder than Djokovic. Harder than me. Though he doesn’t have to fish them out of the brook when he hits them that hard, like I generally do.

Happy Wimbledon Fortnight

A xxxx

We popped over to my old mate’s yesterday. And when I say ‘popped’, I actually mean ‘struggled for hours against he hoards of incompetent lane-blockers, reverse-gear-only tossers, clueless fuckers and, even more profoundly, ROADWORKS!!!’ Because my mate lives in Kingston. The one that’s ‘upon Thames’ though its probably quicker to get the Jamaica one on the basis that you don’t have roadworks in the sky.

The trip from my house to his house (women have NO ownership in my world) is about 14 miles. I’ve done it thousands of times. Round the North Circular to Chiswick. Down to Kew (the pretty bit) on through Richmond Park (the gorgeous bit) and there ya go. What could be easier? I’ll tell you what could be easier, is if they left the fucking roads alone. Which local councils seem totally incapable of doing. And their preferred choice of roadworking is on the weekends. Cos no-one’s going to work, are they? Maybe not. Some do, but on a lovely weekend what’s nicer than to ‘pop’ round to an old mate, to the Park, to Epping Forest, to Hampton Court, to the seaside, the countryside (if you must), to any of London’s vast array of ‘stuff’ wot is great on sunny days.

But you can’t. Because they’re doing roadworks. Everywhere.

Took an hour and half to get there. Should be 40 minutes. But I spend the extra time quite usefully. Growing ulcers. Shouting. Screaming. Swearing. Its nice.

We finally arrived. Exhausted. But a barbecue for 17 people sorted that out. Even though there were only the 4 of us. And we played. My mate’s house is a shrine to Steve Jobs, apples everywhere, not one of them to eat. But he loves toys. Including this rather super ‘little’ Harley Sportster. I’d show you the video but its been banned by the noise abatement society. Cos that bike is FUCKING LOUOUOUOUOUDDDDD!!!!! And its mildly incriminating as I rode it without a hat. Ooops.

For the return leg we used Waze. And in Waze we trust. Spent pretty much 40 minutes going over speed bumps down tiny little side streets then landed on the North Circular at Wembley. Going the right way! Who’d’a known that places like Acton and Park Royal actually exist? Like, in the real world.

Almost a pleasure to get back on the tube this morning.

Happy Monday

A xxxx