Andy's Glasses

We left Tokyo and bullet trained it to Kanazawa. I wrote to tell you, then, because sleeping at nighttime seems to be a problem here, I collapsed in a heap of deep sleep. Neat.

Mel, who’d also been asleep for a bit, woke me up with ‘we’re there!’ The train was slowing down, coming into a city. I groggily roused myself (no coffee, no shower, no drugs), pulled the carry on bags from the overheads, gathered myself and left the train. With Mel but without my sweatshirt. Left as my gift to the lovely people of Japan. All 160 million of them, they can share it.

The station was fantastic and we got stuck in a food shop that was wonderful. We bought stuff, drifted outside into a sweet little market in the forecourt of the station. Wandered round, then finally got in a taxi and gave him the name of our hotel. Which we knew to be (according to Mr Google) 5 minutes away or a 30 minute walk. The taxi driver looked puzzled but eventually we got the name of the hotel to him. And he still looked puzzled. Plugged it into his phone and showed us that the hotel was in fact 65kms away. Lot of taxi fare.

The penny dropped. Or the yen. We’d got off at the wrong fucking station. We weren’t in Kanazawa but in Toyama. I’m guessing, about 65km away. We had UNDER MEL’S GUIDANCE!!!! got off at the wrong place, a station too soon. but I place no blame, no accusations, no… ok, I reserve the right to laugh about this each and every day as long as I should be breathing air.

Because it was just so funny. We took the next train, 15 minutes later, at no cost (we have ‘all you can eat’ rail cards) and I get to take the piss out of my wife for the next 47 dinner parties we attend. It was a win-win.

Kanazawa was fabulous too. And we went to the most amazing sushi place in the entire world. And this is from the least sushi-loving person on the planet.

We found this place on tripadvisor, on the basis of amazing reviews and that it was a 10 minute walk from the hotel. But it was a bit ‘off the beaten track’. And furthermore, the name I was looking for was no-where. There was a sign in Japanese but who the fuck knows what that said. No windows, closed door. Could have been a vet. A brothel. Massage parlour. But I pushed the door and saw people eating and a man in a chef’s hat. So figured this might be right. But it was tiny. Just a lovely old man, about 70, behind the counter, 10 people sitting all around, two little tables behind, 4 people each max, and the man’s wife bringing tea and sake.

You pointed on the vast menu (nigiri, nigiri, nigiri or, otherwise, 97 different nigiris) of a vast array of fish and ‘other seagoing things’, that we sometimes eat and sometimes just tread on and scream, and he made it, slapped it on the desk in front of you, and you just carried on talking, drinking. It’s leisurely. There’s no rush (you fucking, in a hurry, western bastard) that’s not how its done ‘here’. WE eat slowly and drink quickly and take hours.

The man was funny, even with the amazing gulf in language, the woman charming, the sushi the bestest, freshest, most everything-est you could ever eat anywhere in the entire world. Quite literally. And the experience quite magical. As are most things with enough sake.

And yet it convinced me yet further that although sushi is lovely, it is just not my favourite food. Not even close. Because it is essentially bland and tasteless, other than the soya sauce and wasabi, at which point it all tastes the same. If the fish has too much taste, its generally not fresh enough and rice is rice. I’ve had the absolute best, enjoyed it immensely. So I don’t need to do it again. You can keep your Nobu, I’ll take Dirty Burger instead. (HE’S SO UNSOPHISTICATED!!!)

Happy Saturday. On another train to Kyoto. I’ll decide when we get off this time.

A xxxx

I’m on a train from Tokyo to Kanazawa. Why? Because I am, that’s why. It was suggested to us, its half way between Tokyo and Kyoto and it sounds good. So we’re off. On the Bullet Train. Which is so clean, precise, on time and organised that you are reminded once again that this must be Japan.

Kyoto (the shit you learn from tour guides is almost endless; almost makes you wish you’d paid more attention more of the time) is the old Capital city. Because the Emperor lived there. But he only lived there because the big, bad, nasty Shogun lived in Tokyo. Or Eto, as it was called then. No relation to the ex-Barcelona striker who was Samuel Eto’o. And the Shogun (it all sounds a bit Mikado at this point) was the warlord who lead the Samurai warriors, from whom I am directly descended. Via the offshoot branch which came through Poland (read: ‘Swords and Sefa-Torah’ by Suzuki Goldberg, for more on this.)

Japan is steeped in ancient rivalries, wars, battles, all the usual shit that humans inflicted on each other everywhere in the world from when we invented ‘sharp things’ to when the Atom Bomb fell (going there next week). And Japan also had 300 years of ‘isolation’. No-one allowed into Japan from outside (flights were banned from 1463 to 1729) and no Japanese were allowed out. Isolation. Which ensured some kind of stupid ‘purity’ ideals, but also prevented information and technology flow. Things like ‘gunpowder’. So when the first invading force arrived with their cannons and guns, the Samurai quite literally had no idea what hit them.

It’s over now, obviously, otherwise no-one could ever play Nintendo. But its left a rather strange society, loosely caste-based, seemingly conservative and introspective but with inner ninjas just waiting to leap out in front of the nearest karaoke machine.

But its a failing system in which young Japanese are not marrying nor reproducing anything like they should. Because society’s conservative facade almost prevents normal, inter-gender meetings in bars and restaurants and clubs. Which has led to such a need and craving that not only has a massive sex industry grown all over the country (did a ‘red light’ walking tour last night; amazing, alas, no free samples) but even an immense spin-off of ‘escorts’. But genuine, no sex please, we’re Japanese, faux boy/girl-friends that you pay fortunes to. And who become superstars on billboards all over. You think they’re boy bands (who look girl-band-like in their androgynous lack of masculinity) but they are the Fucking A-list Escorts adored to obsessive levels by the teeny-Jap-ettes.

Basically, I’m loving it here. Especially now the sun’s finally risen in a meaningful way.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We took off on Monday at about 11.30 in the morning. They fed us, turned off all the lights and pretended it was a night flight. 12 hours, 2 movies, half a book and countless failed sleep attempts later, we arrived in Tokyo at 7.30am Tuesday morning, local time. Fresh as… someone who hadn’t slept at all but was then very ready. But we’d purposely arranged a tour to orient(ate) ourselves. And book the bullet trains that we are going to need. You need help. I need help. All I can get.

I don’t want sympathy. I really don’t. Japan, according to everyone’s ‘bucket list’ is number one. Everyone I spoke to in the last couple weeks anyway. And I’m here. And its very Japanese. Busy, chaotic, but in so many ways very organised. The tube trains have millions of passengers every day, yet you always get a seat. And they’re air conditioned. We arrived at the airport and spent 25 minutes in a taxi getting into town. On a freeway, completely empty and free-flowing. The first time we actually came to a stop was at our hotel. And that was in the morning ‘rush hour’ in which an estimated 20 million bods commute into the city. And on the streets, they are all there. Them and the 17 million who live in central Tokyo. But I counted them and reached 37 million very easily. Possibly more.

When we finally got to bed on Monday night, it was about 7. We crashed. And slept through til 8 the next morning. With just a few toilet stops and odd jet-lag moments. One of which, at about 4.30am, made me look at my phone. Spurs 1-nil down. Hmmmm. Do I want to try and find it on tv? If we had been 1-0 up maybe. But 1-0 down I went back to sleep.

We went to the fish market. What a place. Or a plaice? Though in fact you don’t get plaice there. Mainly tuna, crabs, shellfish, salmon and lots of odd bits and creatures that you just don’t recognise and would normally scream if you saw them alive or attached to the rest of what they came from.

This tuna, (bigger than Mel, in fact, so we didn’t hang around in case the man with the knife came back), shows to what extent the term ‘top to tail’ applies here. Basically, you can’t eat bones. Everything else is fair game. These fish sell for thousands of dollars. Because once you’ve put 2cm strips on a bed of sticky rice, that sells for $2. And in a four foot long, 18 inch wide (dead) fish, that’s a lot of sashimi. And eating sushi is what people really come for. They’ve moved the wholesale market, with the tuna auction, elsewhere but kept this bit just down the road for old times sake and for people to eat. You can’t eat a whole tuna from the other market unless you’re really hungry. Which, it would seem, the Japanese are. All the time. Every restaurant and cafe has queues outside, the good ones anyway. But you need to know what they sell inside, and that’s, apparently, a secret. Unless you know, or read Japanese. Amazing that obesity is not a problem here.

Then I woke up this morning to find that Liverpool had been beaten by Lionel Messi in Barcelona. The prospects of another ‘all England’ final are diminishing faster than the flesh of a fresh-caught tuna fish.

Fishy Thursday.

A xxxx

That’s the first disappointment really. You arrive in Japan pretty much at dawn and instead of a rising sun it looks like a bad day in Manchester. Wet, grey, mist, rain, dull. But heh, we’re in Tokyo!!!! Which you know because half the population are in demi-burqua-in-white mode. Surgical masks are everywhere. It makes it all a bit ‘clockwork orange’ but inscrutability is what made this nation great and then anti-pollution obsessions made it even better.

That’s really the only disappointment with Tokyo, the rest is just… just… just wow. Firstly it’s big. Secondly its bigger. Thirdly its so full of people you can barely breathe at times. Don’t think a mask would help. But I’m willing to try in the interest of international relations. Because they can’t see you sniggering at their masks from behind your own one.

The women here are wonderful. The young ones simply divine. Like little dolls. The men and boys are not. They’re like tragic caricatures. And they wonder why marriage rates have declined here so steeply that their population is set to reduce by 25% in the next 40 years.

Above is the ‘tube map’. And you use the tube all the time. You have to. Would take you all day just to get from Akihabara to Shibuya. Tokyo joke. Some of the lines are nationalised and some are private. And to link between the two you sometimes need to go to a different entrance at street level. And every station spreads about 6 blocks in each direction underground. They’re all signed in lots and lots of Japanese characters and a little afterthought English single word underneath. Or round the corner. Which doesn’t make it easy. But it does make it both fun and the cause of a major fucking celebration every time you just find your way outside. Lots to celebrate here.

Then there’s the restaurants. Oooooh, we all LOOOOOOVVVVVVE Japanese food. As in Nobu. As in the western interpretation of Japanese food. Ya don’t get that here. They’re all bloody fakes in Japan, nothing like the real thing. New York has 30,000 restaurants. Tokyo has 160,000. BUT: they specialise. You want sushi, you get sushi, probably the best sushi anywhere (doh). But you won’t get noodles there, or steak or teriyaki anything. They have their own restaurants. And the groups of similar specialties seem to group together. So you get 100 restaurants across 3 streets, but they all sell the same thing, done in slightly different ways. Basically, you walk into any restaurant here and you’re taking a gamble. Are you feeling lucky, punk? Or just hungry??

And then I learned from a guide the most fascinating fact ever. That in Japanese there is no ‘L’ sound and no ‘R’ sound. Which is why, stereotypically, orw dose retters get rost in tlansration. Because they can’t pronounce either and even those fluent in Engrish get a bit lost on that. ‘Lila’ is simply a non-starter over here.

Basically I’m lovin’ it here. If it would stop raining for an hour I could even love it more but even though they can’t pronounce ‘umbrella’ they can certainly sell them.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m off to Japan. Now. Soon. In the lounge at the airport fulfilling my basic requirement. Consume twice my bodyweight in food and coffee before getting on the plane. And then we’re Tokyo-bound. It’s a pilgrimage. I’m going to the place where my Sony Walkman was born in 1979 and my Suzuki 185. And although we travel regularly to far and exotic places, I’m really excited about Japan. And I don’t know why. Sushi, if I’m honest, I can take or leave. Though I’ll probably be taking a bit more than I’m leaving in the next couple of weeks. But its the toilets that really excite me. You hear so much about toilets that wash, dry and powder you, that caress you warmly and lovingly, that are so amazing, so wonderful, so… so Japanese, that the act of merely taking a piss can leave you in a heavenly, revitalised, invigorated place for the rest of the day. They sort out your yin from your yang and leave you in heightened feng shui.

Mel is looking forward to feeling ‘tall’ as she calls it. Elevated from her normally minuscule 5 foot (nearly)1 by the diminutive average of the indigenous peoples, she’s hoping to ‘tower’. In relative terms.

You travel round Japan on ‘bullet trains’. It’s what you do. I’ll keep you posted. We’re going to Kyoto (anagram of Tokyo; its like the town planners back in 1643 were only given 5 letters to choose from, and one of them was a repeat). And we’re going to Hiroshima. Which I find exceptionally exciting and I’ve rented a Geiger counter just in case.

But I have to leave Lila. For 2 whole weeks. And that’s the painful bit really. I’ll bring her back her first Samurai sword. Unless someone else buys her one in the meantime.

And I’m also away for the last 2 weeks of the football season. Almost as painful. 8 hours ahead, Tuesday’s Ajax match played at 4 in the morning Tokyo time. But amazingly, having lost so abysmally to West Ham on Saturday, Spurs have yet again dodged another bullet (train). Because Arsenal managed to lose again, heavily, appallingly, unconvincingly, morale-shatteringly and… ok, badly. 3 losses to ‘lower’ teams in 8 days. What is known, in Tottenham, as ‘the dream’. Then Chelsea and Man United had the inevitable and prayed for draw, leaving us still 3rd.

Sayonara

A xxxx

Donald Trump is coming over for a state visit. The full works. He’ll be dressed as Henry VIII with a stick-on beard and paraded up the Mall in a horse-drawn carriage so the crowds can adore him. They’ll probably let him take Melania to the Tower and cut her head off, then its over to the Palace for dinner. With 200 people, dignitaries, leaders, royals, the lot. William and Kate will be there. Harry and Megan too. Meg will have her own table for 1 next to the main table because no-one likes her, even though we used to love her. Theresa May will be there, bending Donald’s ear to see if maybe he’d like to vote for her deal as no-one over here will. It will be a grand affair. Evening gowns, black tie, be-jewelled, silver service, the best cutlery brought out, no plastic knives and forks or pizza buffet. Even though Donald would probably prefer that. But Her Majesty the Queen will be there and doesn’t do pizza lap-dancing. Not at the Palace anyway.

But one noted absence will be Jeremy Corbyn. The leader of Her Majesty’s opposition party, the Marxist’s Trotskyist, the anti-semite’s anti-Semite, the elbow-patcher’s duffle-coat. It’s not that the Queen didn’t invite him because she tries to keep scumbags out of the Palace as unfortunately for her, scumbags are part of the job. Come with the Crown. Otherwise she’d have had to ban Prince Andrew, Prince Edward, Sarah Ferguson, her own husband and many others. Her Maj did indeed dutifully invite Jezza but he declined, refused and snubbed our monarch as an act of principle. You can’t get more committed, more moral, more simply splendid than that, can you? He passed over a free dinner because of his exemplary standards. What a (fucking) hero. Personally I have no principle that is more important than free food. That’s why I’m not the leader of the Working Man’s Labour Momentum Bully Party for Communists.

The only problem is; no-one’s really sure what that principle might be.

Donald Trump is not being invited because he’s a misogynistic, ‘pussy-grabbing’, Pringle-wearing slob. He’s not being invited in celebration of being ALMOST innocent in Russian collusion charges. He’s not being invited to play golf. He’s invited here as the incumbent President of America. It’s not personal. It’s national.

Any sensible Brit, (thus precluding all of Labour and Momentum, sadly), realises the importance of the USA to us, here on our little island. It’s what keeps us safe. Ok, a few nukes help but Russia would never invade or attack us whilst America is onside. Twice in OUR world wars, the Yanks have come to help us. Normandy was NOT their war, but they came, they helped, they fucking died in their thousands for us. Furthermore, nostalgia aside, when (if?) Brexit comes, we need trade. And what better than a country with 360 million to trade with? So its not about Trump, who I hate, but about America, which I love.

But Corbyn won’t eat at the same table as Trump. Even at 200 yards away, as they have very big tables at the Palace. Yet oddly, he was happy to eat with the leader of Hammas. Got a deliveroo with President Xi of China (human rights? What are they??). He’s had pie and mash with 14 assorted known IRA murderers and would happily drink vodka with the Russians who came to murder the Kripals. Or any Russian.

Thus Trump ain’t the problem, ain’t the principle. America is the principle. All that capitalism, all that ‘establishment’ in one place. And also, never forget, Corbyn is, above all else, the Tosser’s Tosser.

Happy Sunday. Unless you are an Arsenal fan, like Jeremy Corbyn.

A xxxx

I last visited the area of London commonly known as ‘Tottenham’ about 2 years ago. It was a bit of a hole, if I’m honest, with dingy streets and dodgy shops and dirty pavements and dire transport facilities and… decadently… dependable… doggedly desirable… dastardly…

Anyway, in the middle of all this dross stood Mecca. White Hart Lane. The ‘world famous’ (both in Finchley and Seoul) stadium of Tottenham Hotspur football club. Which by itself and all alone, was a place of wonder, awe, reverence and delight. Among the kebab shops, pocket-sized supermarkets, pound shops, ‘massage’ parlours and fried chicken take-aways.

Today I returned. And a miracle had occurred. Not just that the old stadium, the one I’d loved and cherished my entire life, was now gone! But that in its place (and about 14 acres surrounding ‘its place’) stood the New Stadium. Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, even though it will always be called ‘The Lane’, whatever the corporate world thinks otherwise, (terms to be discussed).

And it is a miracle. Because it is massive, magnificent and marvellous. The Spurs shop is the size of Harrods. Without all that horrible green everywhere. It’s the biggest club shop in Europe. The Goal Line bar inside the ground, at 65 metres long, is the biggest something or other in Europe, or the world, or the known universe. Doesn’t matter because the whole place is just one big superlative. As you wander round it simply amazes by not only how fabulous it all looks, but by how it all works and most importantly, how it feels. It feels like home, but a new, bright, sparkly home made to the most unbelievably high standards. And amazingly, uncommonly, for a new ground the atmosphere is just sensational. Even though big grounds generally suffer in such areas over small, intimate, louder grounds. Not here. Not at Spurs. Because the design, as well as being aesthetically beautiful, is stunningly effective. You feel like you’re right on the pitch. You feel ‘right there’.

It was expensive. Very expensive. But what are the alternatives when you desperately need more space, more fans, more tickets, more corporate areas spending money faster than it can be printed? You could build a third rate, atmosphere-free place like the Emirates. Or you could get a ‘ready made’, like the London Stadium, or better still, steal it from the London Legacy, the Corporation of London and the Borough of Newham and just hope that there’s no public inquiry. Or you do what Spurs did and give a massive injection of investment, prestige and positivity to an ugly, undeveloped area so that the local businesses and residents can thrive alongside.

And that’s it. I’m not talking about the football this afternoon, that’s fucking irrelevant to the topic under discussion. I want to remember the moment for the splendour, the grandeur, the massive ‘wow’. Not for some lowly east end scum who chose to not just rain, but to piss on my parade. Though this game was lost by Spurs rather than won by West bloody Ham. I’m erasing that bit from memory… NOW!

What game??

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Ok, bruvvers wot works for Transport fer Lunduun, dis is ‘ow we copes wiv shit wot ‘appens on are trains, right?

Less take an ‘ypofetical, right? Some geezer, f’rinstance, decides to take a walk along the tracks around Euston, in da rush hour. We need a plan, a guideline, for da union. And its diss:

1. Shut off the power to the line, immediately and wiv’out delay. In case this ‘ypofetical geezer is, like, Usain Bolt, shut off ALL the ‘lectricity to ALL the line. All 97 miles of it. Juss in case.

2. Go for a cuppa tea. Now da power’s off iss all safe, innit, so relax wiv a nice brew to enhance critical thinking.

3. Realise that, in this ‘rush hour’ scenario, there are upwards of 50,000 people trying to travel on the northern line. Well fuck ‘em. They’ll ave ta wait.

4. Under no circumstances make any announcements that might prove useful to these non-union bastards leaching off the blood of workers by using our trains. Announcements can be made, on a strictly local level, but with as little information as is possible IN ALL CASES, not providing any facts that may enable these people to get home by other means. That might cause excess capacity on other lines and our bruvvers there will have to work more.

5. Make sure, at all costs, that the TFL ‘live feed’ on the website maintains the words ‘good service’ for at least 25 minutes after there is in fact no service. Looks better on the page.

6. Remember the line to give to all the 50,000 who approach you for information, insight, advice: “I dunno”.

7. If ya dunno nuffink, might as well take another tea break. No trains, nuffink to do, right?

Last night, coming home to see MY baby, who was waiting for me. 2 hours later she was in bed, night had fallen, I was in an Uber on the last leg of an exceptionally tortuous and circuitous journey. Cos some tosser had gone for a walk along the fucking tracks at Euston. And the multitude of tossers working for TFL make no efforts to give the stranded passengers any worthwhile or workable info. They might as well work for EasyJet.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Attack is the best form of defence. So we’re told. If you’re in their faces then they can’t be hurting you. Can they? And sometimes you defend before you’re attacked. Then its called an attack. Which is confusing. But we’re not talking war, we’re talking football. In which sustained attacking is the best way of keeping the ball ‘down their end’ and thus away from your goal. Ok, defending teams use this and attack ‘on the break’ and that’s dangerous if you’re attacking too strongly, leaving your own defences weak. You’ve basically got 11 men and its all a matter of how you deploy them.

Last night at Spurs, Chris Hughton, the ex-Spur and nowadays Brighton manager, deployed his men in what is known as the ‘parked bus’ formation. In which you line up your 10 outfield players in front of the goal and keep them there for 90 minutes. The ball gets hoofed away up the field so your forwards can break but… they’re all in their own penalty area so back it comes. Wave after wave. And its very hard for attacking teams to break down. Doesn’t make for the most exciting game of football but it is pragmatic.

And Chris Hughton needs to be one of them. A pragmatist. His team currently sit 4th from bottom. Just 3 points ahead of Cardiff and with Arsenal and Manchester City to play in their last 3 games, he’s hoping Cardiff can fare worse than his team and he might be able to nick a point here or there.

That was the plan. And it seemed to work for 88 minutes. It was also playing to Brighton’s strengths. Because they are great defenders and not too brilliant in attack. Their plan is generally: defend, defend, defend, score from a corner. But last night they didn’t get many corners, enjoying less than 30% of possession.

Yet this wasn’t all about Brighton. There was another team involved. A team who had dodged one bullet when they lost on Saturday because the three other teams who could have threatened their league position all miraculously failed to win. In Manchester United’s case, rather spectacularly. So Spurs desperately needed a win to secure 3rd place in the league, at least for another week.

Indeed a battle of desperation. As so many are.

I almost felt sorry for Brighton when Christian Eriksen’s goal screamed in. Almost. I was too busy shouting, screaming and leaping up and down with the immense relief. The pundits said how Brighton ‘deserved something from the game’ (footballing euphemism for ‘a draw’) but in a way playing with no intention of any kind of attack really shouldn’t be rewarded.

Manchester United play tonight. They play Manchester City. In what is almost the league decider. It’s Manchester City’s game in hand. Win it and they overtake Liverpool. And then, with both having 3 matches left which should all be easily won (as if), that would leave City as champions. And to be honest, no-one wants that.

Brilliant result for Spurs. Sorry Chris, that’s the way it goes.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

What a weekend its been. I can only remember one consistently sunny Easter weekend in my adult life. About 40 years ago when a group of us rented a Thames river boat and spent the time sailing in the sunshine much to everyone’s amazement, ours included. As we’d packed umbrellas, waterproofs, wind-wear, storm clothing, thermals, the usual Easter anticipatory essentials.

But this weekend felt like a summer holiday. Tennis in the sunshine? What’s that all about? Never catch on. But because of Liladay, Mel & I had a 5-day break. Which again never happens usually but this weekend the Gods conspired it. Quite literally as she never works on Easter Sunday (her practice is open all other Sunday mornings) and Saturday was a Jewish holiday upon which she always closes too. So as not to offend many of the ghetto dwellers in her area. Easter and Passover rarely coincide so perfectly due to the Jewish religious calendar being lunar and no-one really knows when Jesus rose up. There’s no Cctv footage. And sunshine is a tonic. No doubt about it. Ok, that and 4 of the top 6 teams in the league failing to win, leaving the status quo unchanged, almost, which means Spurs are still 3rd. Phew. Dodged a fucking bullet.

But best of all; its been a virtually Brexit-free time. As if the entire nation, politicians and press included, just called a great big TIME OUT on the most boring, agonising and laborious political process since… the last one.

We’ve been talking about climate change, and I dodged another bullet there by going to the V&A on Sunday because yesterday the protesters sat down outside the Natural History Museum next door. Fine by me. Good though the Dior was, I weren’t going back.

And there was the terrible bombing in Sri Lanka in which 300 perfectly innocent people died for some cause as yet identified or claimed, but its probably an international Islamist action as apparently the local bunch in Colombo ain’t bright enough to have co-ordinated such a mass murder without help.

So yes, even without Brexit we can still really appreciate just how fucked up the entire world is.

But it felt good while it lasted.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx