Andy's Glasses

They published the most tragic photo ever. I don’t mean, like Lila grimacing or Joey in mid-poo, I mean an horrendous picture of a father and daughter both dead on the banks of the Rio Grande, having failed in an attempt to swim across from Mexico to the USA. They’re from El Salvador. Well, they were. Now they’re not anything. And the photo is emotive and quite frankly devastating. And shows the desperate measures people are prepared to take ‘for a better life’. Maybe a life of greater standard, better education, more affluence, or maybe a ‘better life’ free from the ridiculously high death rate in near-lawless El Salvador. Either way, America is the dream. Which became the absolute worst possible nightmare. Because dead El Salvadorians is always tragic. But a dead kid, a 2 year-old, is simply the worst of everything imaginable. And the front page on the Evening Standard the other night was that terrible picture with the headline along the lines ‘Trump did it!!’ Almost murdered them himself. How? By putting up a border and imposing limits on immigration, checks on refugee applications and for not just simply saying ‘come in, everybody, we can help you!’

Much like we do here. And they do in Australia. And (now) Germany. And France and Canada and virtually every country THAT YOU’D EVER WANT TO LIVE IN.

I hate Donald Trump. I think he’s stupid, dangerous, awful and the most ‘fake’ man ever to accuse the entire world of fakeness against him. I find him a loud-mouthed bullying half-wit. But America had border controls before Trump and will certainly have them after. They just weren’t, and won’t be, as loud as they are now. And no country can afford to simply open its doors to millions of doubtless worthy causes banging on their door. Britain voted to leave Europe to ‘take control of the borders’. Whatever the fuck that might mean in Nigel Farage’s mind.

That poor El Salvadorian took what he considered a ‘calculated risk’. Unfortunately his risk assessment was awry and it ended in total disaster. As it does for thousands every year who die in similar circumstances trying to ‘break in’ to a country, however good and genuine the reasons for wanting entry may be. Talk of ‘wall building’ didn’t kill this poor couple. Desperation did.

On a brighter note, things are looking up for Jeremy Corbyn. Oh, actually, they’re not, they’re looking pretty bleak. He let twice-shamed anti-Semite Chris Nicholson back into the party after his latest suspension and caused a stir. Well, in fact, ‘Jeremy’ had nothing to do with it at all. It was the ‘national executive’ wot dunnit. But everyone knows that its all rigged and nothing that happens in the current Labour Party happens without political considerations, consent from the top man and maximises the number of true Corbynites hanging round Westminster. 108 Labour MPs have signed a petition against bringing Nicholson back. That’s a lot. That’s not a mere protest. That’s a revolution. I hope. And if the guillotine is dusted off in Labour HQ, let’s hope that Corbyn is the first to test its potency.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

You can always tell when England are playing in a big sporting tournament. Well, generally you know anyway because World Cups and stuff are quite well publicised. But its the headlines. They’re the real benchmark for progress. And its always the same, whatever the sport. It starts with the massive optimism. The ‘blank slate’. The ‘everything to play for’ mentality and the sometimes true belief that ‘we can win this!!’. As happened with the cricket. We have home advantage and as number one ranked in the world in one-day cricket we entered the tournament as favourites. Which never ends well.

After a win or two the excitement reaches explosive levels and it just becomes a foregone conclusion, a virtual parade to the trophy. Then we lost to Pakistan. Oh well. They were never supposed to be that good, brought us down to earth, good reality check, don’t get over confident, blah, blah. Then we lost again. And yesterday we lost again again to the auld enemy. Not the Scots, they’re even aulder and not actually playing, but Australia. And that stings. That’s mean and horrible. We hate losing to Australia more than any other cricket team. It’s like losing to Germany at football.

And that’s when the headlines change. When the parade to victory becomes a little more statistically complex. We have two games left and if we beat both India and New Zealand then we’re in the semi-finals, no problem. But if we win just one of them…

Then it all comes down to other teams doing things, or not doing things, which may, or may not, affect our ranking, depending on the results of even other teams doing yet more stuff. Its like being a Spurs fan. So basically; we need to win. Every game. I’m sure that never featured in the original game plan, because we already won the tournament before the first ball was bowled. But now its important. Winning. Against two very good sides.

COME ON ENGLAND!!!!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I watch the BBC news. Every night. It’s on ‘series record’. Forever. Can’t miss it. It’s like my 5 prayers a day all wrapped up into a neat little 25 minute segment. It’s sacred. And it has to be BBC. Because I pay 175 quid a year, and will my entire life, even after I’m 75 for my sodding license and I need to get value from it. Ok, I watch Killing Eve too so that’s becoming something of a bargain. Add in a few ‘rockumentaries’ on BBC4 which were all made in 1983 and that’s my tv for the week sorted. Until the football season starts, obvs. I can’t watch the news on ITV. It’s horrible. Sky News is just rubbish and the 24 hour news channels simply endless padding and waffle. If I want to know about the trade in locally sourced, recyclable, hand-made straw baskets from Ethiopia employing at least 14 people and regenerating somewhere I’ve never heard of, I’ll google it. Don’t need to watch a 75 minute ‘story’ on CNN.

So I ‘know’ the main team at the Beeb. Some I love, some I don’t. But having researched this, pretty unconsciously (as in most of my life) I’ve reached a conclusion. Concerning the two journalistic ‘stars’ of our nationalised tv channel.

I like John Sopel (America; never seen without a White House), but don’t like Lyse Doucet (middle-east; terrible voice). Love Clive Myrie and Hugh the Welshman and Rita Chakrabarti and Sophie Rayworth.

But the two who dominate the news screens, and have since the whole Europe issue began (ie before the vote, when it was all stupid buses and other lies) are Laura Kuensberg (Politics) and Katya Adler (Europe). Both are quite brilliant. Incisive. Talented. Analytical. But their styles are so different.

Katya Adler (who speaks 73 languages fluently and 27 more just because) presents a warm, accessible face, always quite positive, even if the news she’s delivering isn’t. Always bright, matter of fact and upbeat. She’s always interviewing a Barnier or a Junkers or some other Euro stuffed shirt and asks difficult questions with charm and friendliness.

Laura Kuensberg interviewed Boris yesterday. She prefers a more… IN YER FUCKIN’ FACE!!! approach to journalism. She has one of those naturally whingeing, nasal voices and only employs it in a very negative and completely aggressive way. She is a pit-bull with a Scottish accent. So she cuts straight to the point. No messing, no circling round issues. “Mr Johnson, what do you say to people who think you’re an untrustworthy CUNT!!??” That kind of thing. She doesn’t leave wriggle room. In fact she doesn’t really ask questions but just puts very strong opinions, always scathing, and forms them into questions. “Would you say that failure to talk about the row with Carrie just leaves people questioning your character and fitness to run a government?”

Today she’s interviewing Jeremy Hunt. God help him.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Here’s the sports round-up. Though if you substitute ‘football’ for ‘sport’, which my mind pretty much does on its own, there is no round up. Other than the Under 21 European Championships, which I seem to have completely missed. And the Women’s World Cup, which actually became of minor interest yesterday. Which I’ll come back to later because there are 2 British sports-people who actually did rather well yesterday.

One was Lewis Hamilton who notched up yet another Grand Prix win in France yesterday. He started the race first and ended first. In the intervening 4 hours, safe to say, absolutely nothing happened. Other than pollution. Lots of pollution. But we don’t shrug off Hamilton as a mere whizz kid. He’s no longer really a kid, for a start. And he is rapidly becoming ‘the best F1 driver ever’. Which makes me kind’a proud. If only I could ever force myself to watch it.

And then in a much more real sport, Andy Murray won the final at Queens. Ok, it was ‘only’ the doubles, and real men don’t really play doubles. Really. But considering he had a new hip fitted about 4 months ago, you have to admit he looked ‘fairly mobile’ as he hurled himself round the court, twisting and turning and… being Scottish. The only surprise is that the new hip seemed to have made him smile more. I only saw the bits of the tennis they showed on the news (can’t watch tennis on tv unless its Wimbledon, absolute red-line rule) but he smiled more in six 20-second snips that he usually does in 27 hours of Wimbledon. Great surgeon.

I turned on the tv and there it was, before my very eyes: football. Played by women, but football. England were 3-0 up and it was 65 minutes gone. So I’d definitely missed the good bit. What I saw was decidedly underwhelming. But then I heard what had preceded and I was impressed. The Cameroon team were elbowing people in the face, spitting at opponents, shouting and screaming at the ref, arguing with the God that is VAR. It sounded brilliant. Yet all I was left with was a bunch of pony-tails, and a few affro hairdos, strolling round a park. With a ball.

Don’t think they played any cricket yesterday. Another sport I can’t watch but otherwise love (go figure).

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The good things about gardening are:
1. Your garden looks lovely
2. …
3. Errrr
4. …

And that’s what I’ve been doing. (Fucking) Gardening. And its… great!

Normally I limit gardening to using very loud and powerful devices. If ya can’t fill it with petrol it ain’t fer me. But sometimes the rules need to bend a little. In the interests of marital harmony and a pretty garden.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my garden. Front and back, both beautiful and gorgeous and flowering with… flowers… an’ shit. But when Mel says ‘we need a few border plants’, my heart sinks. And my back starts aching before we’ve even reached the garden centre. Where we buy little packs of flowers in disgusting polystyrene cases (very environmentally friendly they are too; and you know how much I care!!!) and they’re such good value that you can fill a car boot for 40 quid. Hundreds of plants. Purples and whites and blues. Never red. Mel doesn’t like red flowers and I find anything in Arsenal colours offensive. Even a pansy. Interesting choice of flower…

And that’s ‘job done!’ But of course its not. Because every one of the little fuckers needs to be dug in, composted, protected, loved, nurtured and watered within a centimetre of drowning. Every fucking day. And as I’m in charge of all ‘dangly things that spray all over the place’, the hosepipe becomes my own cross to bear. My own ‘bete noir’. (And if you’re familiar with French euphemisms for ‘nob’, mine ain’t black).

I rose out of bed this morning at a strange angle. I didn’t have a protractor handy but guessing, I was listing by about 30 degrees from the vertical, just from the waist up. I walked past our mirror and saw a bent up old git looking back at me. Which is a depressing way for any young man to start the day. However: I did what I do every Sunday, when the toll of Saturday’s physical excesses reduce me thus, and have a soak in a hot bath. That makes the problem simply go away! And then, once I’m on the tennis court, the movement improves it back to 100% very quickly.

But ten minutes bent over a flower bed with a fucking trowel and I’m Groucho Marx once more.

Therefore I need to spend much more time on the tennis court and way less doing gardening. Doctor’s orders.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Boris and his (latest) bird had a barney. A big one. So ‘big’ that a neighbour called the police. Though not before pressing ‘record’ on his phone and sending it to the Guardian.

There’s no law against having a row with your partner. Apparently other people do it at times too. Even to the point of ‘GET OUT MY FUUUUCCCCKKKIIIINNNNGGG HOUSE!!!!!’ Or flat. It happens. It’s human. Not necessarily humanity at its best, but we aren’t always at our best.

Nor, dare I say, does ‘having a row with your bird’ imply any major character flaw or moral vacuum or render you unfit for high office. It just happens.

Yet its made the headlines in every single daily paper today, other than, bizarrely, the Guardian. Who a. Had the story first, and b. Fucking hate Boris and all other Tories.

Yet the Guardian is right (never written before, nor will be again). This is a complete ‘un-story’. It is nothing. A domestic squabble. And unless we are privy to the cause of the ruckus, which we’re not and we won’t be, it has to be relegated to a completely irrelevant day in the life of Boris. We can’t judge him on it, we won’t vote for him because of it and we won’t banish him from Prime Ministership due to it. Cos we don’t know what ‘it’ might have been. And thus all the Tory papers have said, basically, ‘so what?’ and all the Labour papers have been calling him ‘unfit to lead the country!!!’.

Similarly politicised is Mansion House Gate where Foreign Office Minister Mark Field was having his tuxedo dinner waiting to hear our esteemed chancellor speak, when a group of climate protesters ran in, screaming, even though they were dressed quite smartly in their red dresses. They were women, I’m guessing. Mark Field sprang to his feet, grabbed the nearest red dress, with its contents, and frog-marched it out of the room to the waiting security. For which he may now face charges of assault. And again, all the climate changers and other tree-hugging types are accusing him of most charges short of rape and child abuse. And most Conservatives are asking what he should have done to disrupting hoarders of trouble-makers. The decision as to what’s ‘right and wrong’ in this is once again merely a reflection of your political position before the ‘attack’. If you change ‘tree huggers’ to any cause you are personally sympathetic with, and ‘business leaders’ to a nice group, like ‘Spurs fans’, your perspective changes too.

Whereas the cyclist who knocked a pedestrian over is a bit different. He was, by all accounts, a considerate and careful rider, using his voice and a loud Claxon horn to warn pedestrians of his presence. He tried to avoid the pedestrian. But they ‘met’ in a heap. Mainly because said pedestrian was staring at her fucking phone at the time. The court found it an equal cause accident but, for some reason, awarded her costs against the cyclist, of 100 grand. And here there is no ambiguity, no preconceptions applied, this is really simple. Anyone walking along, crossing roads, staring at their phone is a tosser beyond the norm and everyone else has the right to murder them if they see fit, without facing any charges. Rather, rightful death of a zombie should bring a reward.

I make no judgments.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

We’ve all heard about ‘tactical voting’. So you vote in an election for party you don’t want just to prevent a party you hate even more winning the seat. We’ve all done that. Personally, I’d vote for the Ayatollah tomorrow if it meant Corbyn would never achieve power. Though, and this is kind of important, that would be MY CHOICE. And as long as you are exercising your democratic right on those terms, that’s fine. There’s a big difference between voting for someone you hate and being forced to vote in any direction, whether you want to or not.

And this is the line that, allegedly, Team Boris crossed yesterday. Not content with a winning margin so big it could even fit round his waist (not a lot can, these days), Boris was, as always, thinking of ‘the big picture’. So as his colleagues and competitors were concerned with who would make that final cut to accompany the Blonde to the Members’ Vote, Boris was more concerned with which of his competitors would be present him with an easier task for the endgame. He decided that Michael Gove would be more difficult that Jeremy Hunt and thus did all in his not insignificant power to arrange it thus.

Gove is an intellectual heavyweight, a remarkably agile speaker, has a fierce knowledge and understanding of virtually everything and is very slippery in debate. Hunt… seems like a nice guy. Oh, and, according to sources, is a qualified football linesman. Which would win my vote but possibly is not a stand-alone essential for the highest office in the land.

So Boris, or rather, Team Boris, employed all manner of tactics to ensure that it was Hunt who would finally stand against him, rather than the far trickier Gove. They bullied, they applied ‘tactical voting’ to others, because Boris’s lead was so great he could afford to sacrifice a few of his own votes to ensure the challenger of his choice. His team then enforced Boris’s will by in some cases, actual threats. ‘Do you like your job? Do you want to keep it???’ type threats. And worse.

This is all legal, ish. It’s within some grey and woolly democratic lines. It’s ‘always been like that’. None of which makes it right. If the Tories wanted a squeaky clean leader for them and for the country, Boris wouldn’t have been allowed in the building when they started the process. His ‘fallibility’ is part of his charm. Arguably he’s spent more of his political life falling than he has standing.

I just don’t trust him. Whether that will make him a better leader (having no morals whatsoever never stopped Putin leading, nor Trump) I don’t know. But whatever, the Boris show rolls on.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Abdullah Patel was one of those lucky selected few who enjoyed about 2 of their allotted 15 minutes of fame to ask a question to the Tory leadership hopefuls on Tuesday night, ‘live’ on the BBC. His question to Boris was, essentially, about the power of words to cause hurt and enduring consequences. He was talking, specifically, about BoJo’s infamous comments about women in burqas resembling ‘letter boxes’. And the implication was that such comments fuel, enable or at least provide an acceptable context for Islamaphobia. Good question. You’d’a thought.

But Mr Patel, a schoolteacher and Imam, was possibly not the man to be live on the BBC. Because research has shown that… research needs to be done. Before allowing anyone on prime time (or otherwise) tv. And even with the extra money that the BBC are getting from those poor, starving over 75s, they fucked it up.

Because our Abdullah is no ‘mere Imam, nicey-nicey teacher’. In fact he has a long and distinguished history of posting comments on social media that neither you nor I would really agree with or deem ‘fit for any kind of publication’.

‘You’ wouldn’t like the comments about women, basically, white women are all sluts; nor the acceptance of the random murder of a British policeman by a Muslim as being the fault of British Foreign policy. And ‘I’ wouldn’t like the ending of that which says; ‘the real problem is Israel’.

The program’s producer has claimed simply that Patel suspended his Twitter account and thus none of the highly inflammatory, nasty or evil postings could be seen. Then he fired it up again, after the debate, for the whole world to see the radical within, once more.

But the school at which he worked, contentiously installing a segregation policy even on the parents attending assemblies and meetings, would have had access for years to his poisonous, radical outpourings. And if he’s been spouting his bullshit at least since 2003, when PC Stephen Oake was murdered, his online profile must extend way beyond the Twittersphere and onto articles and forums all over the web. Which you’d kind’a think the BBC might find without too much trouble during their ‘extensive’ research. Although there was another questioner who actually works for the Labour Party. Which is very different from being a Labour member or voter, who have every right to question our future PM.

Abdullah Patel is piece of shit. An assessment I make based on… the fact that he is. But a question to the BBC: HOW FUCKING HARD CAN IT BE TO FIND NORMAL PEOPLE TO ASK THE BLEEDIN QUESTIONS???? There’s only 60 million candidates out there for that job.

Happy Thursday. Mine started at 4.55am. Other than Spurs Paul, what time did yours start?

A xxxx

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