Andy's Glasses

It’s all a load of rubbish. Waste disposal, iss’all rubbish! Which its always been. But the collection of our waste was never a stressful thing. It was just ‘a thing that happened’. Every week. Rubbish bins out, bunch’a dudes come along, sling them over their shoulders, tip ‘em into a truck, bish, bosh, job done, see ya next week. Ok, half the rubbish ended up in the garden, on the street, strewn around generally but as a concept, it worked.

But then they started over-thinking it. They invented two things. Hi-viz jackets (the sure sign that ‘elf-n-safety is at work) and ‘Wheelie Bins’! And the world changed. And ‘segregated waste’ further complicated something that ain’t that difficult.

So we have ‘general waste’ and we have ‘recyclable waste’, both collected on Wednesdays. The ‘food waste’ we stopped doing because every week foxes managed to wrestle the containers open and drag slops all over everything. I had to get permission from the council to cease and desist which was really complex due to the difficulties in proper waste processing. But I thought they might send me to prison if I put a used tea bag in with the discarded tennis shoes. Or worse, get a fine.

“I don’t want to put the food waste out because the fucking foxes get to it and make an unholy mess”.

Barnet Council Man: “Don’t then”.

“Oh, should I put the food waste in the ‘general’, the ‘recycle’ or the ‘green; organic’ bin then?”

BCM: “Don’t matter. Whatever ya want”.

Which immediately told me what everyone pretty much suspects, which is that although the councils obsess about colour coded and waste-specific bins, it all ends up in the same land-fill, somewhere near Loughboro’, or even in Your garden. I don’t care, long as they take it away from me.

But last year due to ‘cuts’ in budget, Barnet council said that the ‘green’ bins, for garden waste ONLY!!!! would only be collected every 2 weeks. And its not just a matter that when our hedges are cut it could fill 9 bins (not a big garden but humongous hedges so I can run around naked), but more that you can’t remember which is the week for the green waste. And if you miss it and don’t put the bins where the men trip over them, they don’t get emptied. So by the next 2 week collection, its all composted itself and is spot welded to the inside of the bin in one solid, horrible, smelly lump which doesn’t budge when tipped over a lorry.

I was just sitting here when I heard the gentle tones of the rubbish lorry(s) and in ‘green bin panic’ just caught them in time.

Getting my bins emptied. I feel like I’ve conquered Everest. Or booked an Air Miles return ticket. Shouldn’t be that stressful.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There was a big crowd gathered in Embankment Gardens as I limberly (after my physio) ambled to work. Big crowd. Saw a few big furry microphone things, cameras and a lot of milling. And there, in the midst of all this, was the little black-n-white character that is our mayor of London. Sadiq Kahn. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. He either has 20 black suits and 100 white shirts, or he has one of each and a washing machine.

And although I’m not quite on Trump’s level, I am not a fan of Sadiq. Ok, you can be worthless and ineffectual, but at least make the right noises. When I saw the interview, on the news later on, he was asked a question about whether he was ‘doing enough’ following the weekend when 4 ‘kids’ were killed. 3 knifed, one shot. His response was how sad he was for the families, devastating effects, blah, blah, blah. Ok, said the journo, but ARE YOU! THE FUCKING MAYOR!! DOING ENOUGH TO COMBAT THESE TYPES OF CONSTANT CRIMES?!?!?! Well, to lose a child, or a brother, in these circumstances… I can only offer my deepest sympathy… blah, blah, fucking blah.

I love the idea of having a muslim mayor of London, but not that one. Nothing to do with him being a muslim, everything to do with him being a plonker.

And to represent London means you represent one of the most culturally diverse cities in the world. If I ever remake Mary Poppins, I’d make ‘Burt’, Dick van Dyck’s chimney sweep character, Polish or Croatian. Yet its really that ‘changing face’ of London that really upsets, I feel, the Donald Trumps and Katie Hopkins of this world. But we can laugh at this ‘spat’ between Trump and Kahn as childish, stupid or more sinister as we please. Kahn feels politically pressurised by his Party to be as anti-American as decency (if not stupidity) allows and Trump has odd views about Muslims as he does about most things. So a right wing Islamaphobic President and a left-wing Mayor of Pakistani origins are never gonna be BFFs.

Like it or not, England is now multi-cultural. But the Conservative Party isn’t. As one wit said ‘diversity in the Tories means Magdalen and Charterhouse’. So whilst the rest of the country and mostly the capital increases its racial diversity profile, the Conservative party doesn’t. It remains the party for rich old white men. And really, even though I would vote for them tomorrow (ABC rule: ‘Anyone But Corbyn’) I feel they really need to address this. To avoid being seen as even more ‘out of touch’ than they currently are.

On Sunday I spent some time telling Joey all about Brexit.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So where was the elephant? Last night? On Channel 4 when they had the ‘next prime minister’ debate, where was the great lumbering cuddly blonde elephant? There was a pedestal, empty. It had a photo of Boris upon it. But no show from (probably) the next PM of our fine nation. But he’ll only be (probably) the next PM if he doesn’t screw it up by saying something stupid (like ‘I love you’.) And if he’s not there he can’t upset anyone. So that’s one debate down and no massive foot-in-mouth faux pas from President Boris. Instead there were the five also-rans. Geeky, Creepy, Squeaky, Cheeky and Dominic Raab. And much as they need to slag off Boris as much as possible, to enhance their own chances, they are all painfully aware that the Big One will in all likelihood be the winner and thus they all want to be in line for the good jobs when Boris takes over. So calling him ‘untrustworthy’, ‘unpredictable’, ‘stupid’, ‘shag anything with a pulse’, or ‘tosser’, might likely be prejudicial to becoming the next Home Secretary. Even though they apparently implied such things at every opportunity.

I didn’t watch it. Because I can’t see the point. It won’t affect ‘my vote’ whatever they say, because I don’t get one. And yeah, its of some marginal, peripheral interest to see what these people have to say, but other than the 150,000 Conservative Party members, for the rest of us it was just a new, media-inspired form of political masturbation. With no happy ending. And it became a shout-fest of five guys who are all very familiar and comfortable with each other, all yelling at the same time about Brexit. Inevitably. And its not like we ‘don’t know’ these characters. We see them most every day on the news, in chat shows, in interviews. To hear them all say the same things they’ve been saying for weeks, but this time, all saying it simultaneously, really holds no great appeal.

Though I may watch Tuesday’s on the BBC just for… just for… well, just for nothing really.

But first, its time for some physiotherapy. The quasi-medical sadism that we all love to hate. My shoulder’s been getting worse (for about 40 years in fact) over the last months and I have some hip issues which a long beard won’t cure. So its time for some Physio. To try and hold together what, at 63 (yeah, funny, it was all fine on Saturday when I was only 62… as if), nature tries to cast asunder.

Hips, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its my birthday today. June 16th. Same as last year. Thanks for the (fucking) card!! And its the day after our wedding anniversary (so I’d ‘never forget’ even though I did and only bought the card half way through yesterday) and its also father’s day. Which personally, you can keep. If you need Hallmark to tell you to love your dad then either he or you is doing something seriously wrong. So we have lots to celebrate.

Which started today with the card ceremony (all 3) which took hours of waste paper production. And then moved to the tennis court. Where it only rained three significant times during the hour. Drizzled lots more. But real men, even at sixty-fucking-three (!!! How did that happen???), play tennis because they’re manly. And stupid. And know no better.

Last night we celebrated our anniversary. In style. Well, in our style. Which basically means that whatever we do we need to be on the couch in dressing gowns by 10 at the latest, possibly stretching to 10.30 if absolutely essential. Even though there’s no Match of the Day. It’s just how we like to end Saturdays.

So we booked dinner. And we thought: Zuma? (About 400 quid plus Ubers), or Roka (300 quid plus Ubers), it had to be ‘Asian’ but I’m not sure why, possibly the Japan hangover. I voted for fish’n’chips (change out of 20 quid but apparently ‘lacks romance’; phah!) So then I considered Gokyuzu, our new, mega-Turkish. And because its our anniversary we’d get a ‘meat platter for 4’ just for the 2 of us. Now THAT would be a celebration. Not necessarily of a wedding anniversary but certainly a celebration of gluttony, piggishness and greed beyond any sensibility.

But we ended up at Oka. Mel’s absolute favourite little ‘Asian’ in Primrose Hill. And its very ‘little’ and even though it was booked ages ago they’d managed to lose the booking, but with just about 7 tables we dined, we didn’t wait, we celebrated. And although its a glorified cafe, the food is wonderful, the sushi quite outstanding, yes, I know I swore ‘never again’ but I lied. And its cheap as chips. Ok, not as chips, which I wouldn’t have minded, but great value for really great food. And drink.

Home at 10, celebratory whisky and episode 3 of Killing Eve (series 2), on the couch. The perfect end to a perfect day.

Happy Birthday

A xxxx

Jo Brand caused a shit-storm this week and was one, little, pathetic, nanny-stated, overly-concerned, politically-correct moment away from police prosecution. For a joke. The comedienne (if you can still call them that, because there’s been no such thing as an ‘actress’ since 1974) said, on a radio show called ‘Heresy’ (ffs; in case anyone thought it was biblical readings or children’s hour), that people shouldn’t waste time throwing milkshakes over politicians when you can buy battery acid instead. The BBC edited the show (it wasn’t live even though it sounds like it; the Beeb aren’t quite that stupid) and passed the comment. On the basis that ITS A FUCKING COMEDY SHOW and a fairly ‘on the edge’ one, as its name might imply. It was not a ‘how to do violence better’ show, nor a ‘teach your children useful tips’ show. It is satirical comedy. Of the ‘humorous’ variety.

So why was Jo Brand’s commented investigated by the police. Who, because of their vast numbers and our total, national lack of any terrorist threats or knife crime, have so much time on their collective hands to waste vital resources on the hurumphing of a bunch of twin-setted, Home Counties retirees? (The single demographic of those ‘complaining about BBC radio’, in my mind.)

Because ‘she was inciting people to acts of violence!!!’. Bollocks.

In reality its because Jo Brand is very very dead-pan and dry and thus doesn’t give her punchlines with a BANG!!!!!! She’s subtle. Challenging. Saying ‘am I joking or is this real?’ And I love her for that. If not for the incessant left-wing politics, verging on actual Corbynism (the ultimate sin and unfunniest thing ever). So her comments need to be taken in context. That context being a comedy program called ‘Heresy’. Bit of a giveaway really. But not in the Home Counties. Where humour requires red noses and banana skins to remove any ambiguity between ‘funny’ and ‘real life’.

So did Jo Brand simply misjudge her audience? Who she possibly imagined were the midnight crowd above a pub in Shoreditch? Whereas in fact they were a mid-day radio 4 listening group who only tend to use the word ‘hip’ in conjunction with ‘replacement’.

I had a Jo Brand moment myself this week. Misjudging the tone of our little WhatsApp ‘group’, when a late night ‘chat’ got a bit boisterous and what some of us perceived as hilarious was viewed by others in a more personal and insulting way. Again, misjudging one’s audience.

Therefore you shouldn’t assume that everyone’s sense of humour is ‘on the same page’. Nor that everyone really likes insults and abuse in the same way that bizarre individuals like me do. Hard to take but some people actually have limits! Who’d’a thought? Though this should be easier to control or understand on a group chat than with a national radio show, I grant you.

Basically; LIGHTEN UP!!! Do as I do; treat EVERYTHING as a joke, except parking tickets and you won’t go far wrong. Won’t necessarily go far right either but that’s not he point.

Happy Anniversary Mel, you’ve put up with me for 33 years. Medals don’t suffice. Only medication.

A xxxx

So the Conservatives had their first round of leadership voting yesterday and immediately got rid of all the women. And some other geezer who no-one remembers, less voted for and was only there to avoid accusations of sexism after the first cut. Maybe politics is no place for a woman (nothing controversial in that sentence) or maybe its the ‘May effect’, I don’t know. But Andrea Leadsom, who I liked, is out. And Esther McVey is out simply because it is unacceptable in modern Britain to have a Prime Minister with a scouse accent. She looks alright but sounds like Stevie Gerrard. Had to go.

Boris was the stand out ‘winner’. But it ain’t over til the fat person of ambiguous gender sings. And now it becomes all about who gets the support from those eliminated. Because these initial eliminations are voted just by MPs. So between the 3 who are out, there are about 40 votes up for grabs for the other 7 who remain in the hat.

It’s a long process. I’m a bit bored with it already. Mainly because Boris stormed ahead with almost as many votes as the rest put together. Yet has tried to get out of a live tv debate with the other contenders. On the grounds, as my son-in-law, Tory-Boy, astutely pointed out, that Boris is his own liability. Or, to be more precise, his mouth. Because although Boris is by far the cleverest of this sorry collection, and certainly the funniest, he has a history of speaking from somewhere between his left foot and his anus. So to limit his time on tv is an exercise in risk reduction for the Johnson camp. Similarly, at his ‘launch party’ the other day, he limited the press to just 6 questions after his speech. Again, limitation of potential damage. When Boris speaks he can certainly crack you up, but just as likely he can spout something he shouldn’t be saying. As he did in Iran when allegedly pleading for jailed Zaghari-Ratcliffe but in fact inflaming her situation far worse by stating, incorrectly, that she was ‘training journalists’. Which is like pleading in someone’s defence over here by stating that they were ‘just innocently being a terrorist’. Such is the value of ‘free speech’ in totalitarian regimes.

Coming home from Tai Chi last night Sajid Javid was on the radio. A phone in. He was possibly the most underwhelming speaker I’ve heard since my last AA meeting. Ummed and aaahhh-ed and struggled to get his point across, other than in the obviously pre-prepared sound-bytes. But there again Rory Stewart is quite brilliant on the radio (where you don’t have to look at him) but scored least of all the surviving candidates. Mainly because he’s a transparently passionate Europhile and that, sadly, is not what the country needs right now.

So, with all the excitement of Transylvania versus Moldova in the women’s World Cup, (made that up; no idea who’s playing), we have the next round of voting on Monday. Even though its already looking like a long and drawn out coronation ceremony for Boris. Unless… unless… he fucks it up.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m thinking about my health. As I went to a funeral yesterday and that’s what you do. And I’m so relieved. Because yesterday in the paper they said that playing tennis increases your lifespan by 9 years. Holy shit. If I played more tennis I could never die!!! Because surely if you start playing at, say, 90, you’re guaranteed 99. Unless you fall over and break a hip.

So that’s 9 years in the bag. And then today, if you eat more fish and less red meat, you get a 25% increase in life. Well, they said ‘reduce the risk of early death by 25%’ but I’m not gonna be picky when I stand to live to, by current mathematical reckoning, 273. I do eat some red meat but not much. Very little. And if you avoid processed meats… well. You could live forever. Playing tennis and choking on fish-bones.

As a fish-eating tennis player, the world is my 750-gram-bone-in-fat-on-sirloin.

But really its all about moderation. Something I’m not very good at generally but as there was no mention of chocolate, processed, red or otherwise, in the articles then I shall continue to treat it as ‘neutral’ in terms of fat, sugar, calories and banned substance-ness. I’m also particularly ‘moderate’ when it comes to salad. Too many leaves will fucking kill you. From boredom, mainly.

Meanwhile, I’m loving ‘this’. The picture above. Uber’s new ‘flying taxi’. Mo takes to the skies. From Prius to THAT in one week. Except you can buy a ‘slightly used’ Prius for 15 grand and one of these will set you back 2 mil. But I don’t care. I don’t have to buy one. They take four passengers, take off vertically, then the 4 motors rotate 90 degrees to propel forwards. Or backwards (???) Only for cities. Or anywhere else with skyscrapers upon the tops of which are heli-pads. It’s like the Fifth Element and Bruce Willis’s flying car… but bigger. But its real, its brilliant and its (almost) NOW! (Well, in America by 2023; that’s ‘now’ in evolutionary terms.)

Now is also very late. Lila day. Busy day.

Happy Day

A xxxx

Now that’s football. The (current world champion and favourites) American women beat the Thai women 13-0 last night in their womenly World Cup match. Nothing feminine about that score. The Thai team offered a free massage to every American player after their very happy ending. I mean 13-nil!!! Were the Thais using a Scottish goalkeeper or something? I mean…

But still not convinced; if I wanted to watch girlie football I’d go to Arsenal.

And though its a million miles from my beloved beach volleyball, the American team are good to look at. Don’t know why; one fit babe with a pony-tail is much like the next, but Alex Morgan, scorer of 5 goals, of whom I’d previously never heard, stole my heart (or thereabouts) in a way that Ronaldo never could.

I am opposed to all forms of the objectification of women.

Except beach volleyball.

Next year my dad (may it please the Lord) will have to pay for his tv license. 155 quid. Which he’s had free since 2001 when the Labour Party decided to give it free to over-75s. Well, unless they make exceptions for the over 90s, Dad’s gonna cough up. In a monetary sense only, I sincerely hope.

And this is why I hate politics. Because you’d think, ‘ahhh, nice Labour government, looking after the old people and taking away their license fee, nice’ when they did it in 2001. But they actually did it because they realised that with an ageing population that ‘grey vote’ could be theirs for just 155 quid a (silver) head. George Osborne in 2015 then did a clever thing. Sneaky but clever. The £750million a year benefit of free licences was moved from ‘the public purse’ to ‘the BBC’. The beeb, even though that’s publicly funded too, had to cough up all that money from its own funds, raised by everyone else’s license fees. And that is unsustainable. But George made it the BBC’s unsustainable problem rather than the government’s. Which makes them the bad guys, rather than the government. Who remain (no pun) as they were, merely shambolic, pathetic, divided, impossible, ungoverning, useless and moronic. But not ‘bad’. In this (and possibly only this) instance.

Off to a funeral, alas. Work will have to wait.

Happy (or sad) Wednesday

A xxxx

Ok, gloves off, get ready, stand and declare. The Tories who wish to become the new leader and consequently the new Prime Minister (150 grand a year, company car, nice house, own police force, all the security guards you can eat) have thrown their hats into the ring for the first vote on Thursday. At which the parliamentary members get to reduce the field from its current 10 down to (I think) just 2 or maybe 3 (fell asleep at that point on the news) who go to the 150,000 members to vote upon.

There’s 3 blondes, Esther McVey, Andrea Leadsom and Boris, one bald one, Javid, and 7 who can’t be separated on hair alone, which is why Gove wears glasses. It distinguishes him from the crowd and enhances the nerd vibe he’s spent a lifetime very successfully creating. All generally wear suits. Or running gear. Most have held cabinet office, but not necessarily recently due to… Br…

They all have varied drug histories, but no-one gives a shit what the fuck they did when they were 18. Except the other 9.

Yesterday half of them gave ‘launch’ events. And this is what they said. In very specific terms.

We need to move forward!
The party needs new direction!!
I’m the person who can take us beyond the current shambles. And only me.
We need to re-engage the population with politics again.
I have a vision, not just of the present BUT OF THE FUTURE!!!!

In other words, a load of meaningless bollocks. Because guess what it all comes down to in the end? Fucking Brexit. In politics as in life. Brexit is all. Half the candidates are Leavers, half Remainers. They all speak in very positive terms about how easy it will be to finally implement Brexit IF THEY ARE IN POWER. Yeah. Right. They’ll get a new deal. They’ll leave without a deal. They’ll leave in October COME WHAT MAY!!! (Not Theresa, the other ‘may’).

Only Rory Stewart remains ultra-soft on Brexit. Mainly because, being a sensible and clever person, he doesn’t really want to leave at all. And despite his odd looks (Stan Laurel meets Woody Allen) he definitely makes the most sense out of all the chancers and tossers who see a cheap and ‘easy’ way to reach their ultimate aspiration. But he’s a Remainer. And you have to suspect that the 150,000 Conservative Party Members who make the decision, because of their age alone, are likely to be a majority of Leave supporters. I’m thinking pipes, twin-sets, country piles, servants, Rule Britannia, Maggie Thatcher and Winston Churchill.

To me it comes down to who can defeat Corbyn at a general election. Nothing else matters.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So the Sunday Times had a poll. ‘Should women footballers be paid the same as men?’

Oohhhh, that’s controversial. But in fact it ain’t. Not at all. Nothing to do with sexism, equality or anything else; its just economics. The boys’ game is funded by tv rights. For which the tv companies pay, literally, billions. And until the gels can generate the same viewing numbers, equal pay just isn’t going to happen. Not that people don’t watch women play football, its just that the numbers are minuscule compared to the men’s game. At the moment.

A more valid question for the Times to pose might be: ‘should male footballers be paid such ridiculous sums of money?’ When Eden Hazard will earn £400k a week after his move to Madrid this summer. When the ‘average’ footy fan earns £24,000 a year and the lowliest of premiership bench-warmers earns at least 3 times that amount every week. Obscene and revolting but its simply a reflection of the ridiculous amount of money floating round the beautiful game.

So perhaps the Women’s World Cup, being played right now in France, will change that, will convert the viewing, football-obsessed public to the wonders of ladies on a footy pitch.

Thus, I sat down and watched some, not all, of the England vs Scotland match yesterday. Just in the interests of… football. Of the ‘level playing field’ in every sense. And because there was no ‘proper’ football on at that time. And by ‘proper’ I mean… errrr… I mean non-gender specific, lgbt-inclusive, non-discriminatory… errrr… man’s football. But I’m on a learning curve.

And the football was good, it must be said. The passing accurate, the control neat and tidy and I really loved seeing 22 pony-tails bouncing over the pitch. But it didn’t engage me. I didn’t get excited about it. Which may be just me, which may be a prejudice so deep that I’m unaware. It may be because certain players are exciting to watch but you kind’a need to know who they are, and I didn’t. Because one swinging pony-tail looks much the same as the next. The game was less physical, which is to be expected with less testosterone around the place and seemed generally slower.

I didn’t love it. But that’s not a sexist thing. Because I love beach volleyball played by (particularly Brazilian) women, can watch that for ages. In fact have to be dragged screaming from the tv. And I approve of women in general, you’ll be relieved to hear. But much as it would be inappropriate to have a male ‘best tits’ competition, unless it was for the over-40s, obviously, I think football, currently, must remain a universal, inclusive, non-sexist, free-from-prejudice-on-grounds-of-gender-race-or-religion game. For men.

Now I’m going to run very far, very fast.

Happy Monday

A xxxx