Andy's Glasses

So when they said: ‘you need a 7-day heart monitor’, I envisaged something the size of a postage stamp, fixed under my belt, a couple of neat little stick-on electrodes wirelessly linked to it by blue-tooth and life would just work around it all, almost oblivious to its presence.

I didn’t expect three fucking great stickers holding 15 metres of cabling all attached to a car battery on a string dangling round my neck. I mean, WTF???

How am I supposed to work, play, LIVE MY LIFE!!! But it mustn’t come off. Other than in the shower. Which I do a lot. Other than that, it will monitor my every heartbeat. Literally. It’s its job, innit? Tennis will be interesting. I feel some sellotape may be useful.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t like Jeremy Corbyn very much. Not because he’s an anti-Semite, nor because he’s an Arsenal fan, not even because he is the worst political leader since… ok, he’s the worst political leader ever. At least Hitler got the roads built.

His only interest is in making political gains for him and his party. The country can go to shit for all he cares. He refuses to join in the collective, cross-party discussions about Brexit. He makes noises that its about ‘THE CATASTROPHE THAT WOULD BE A NO-DEAL BREXIT!!!’ in fact very loud, shouty kind of noises. But he wants assurances. Or he won’t play. Yet if the will of parliament is ‘no deal’ then who the fuck is that tosser to say otherwise?

Meanwhile, his own party condemn him because he won’t join in their demands for a new referendum. The ‘official Labour Party line, other than their leader’, as it could be known. But he won’t commit and he won’t join in. Which he should. Theresa May has essentially asked that for the sake of the nation, the parties jointly decide their priorities and requirements. That itself is impossible given the diversity of Brexit feeling within each party. But it can be attempted. Including the second largest party would be of benefit. To the process and to the nation. But ‘he’ doesn’t give a shit about either.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

There are worse outcomes to a vote. You could get none and the opponents 434. You could get 100 and… yeah, ok. But losing a vote in parliament by 230 votes is fairly… significant. Ok, its fucking humongous. Although the result has almost always been something of an inevitability, it was just the magnitude that was to be decided.

Jeremy Corbyn immediately tabled his ‘vote of no confidence in the government’ for two reasons. Firstly because it was politically expedient to do so, and secondly because he’s a tosser.

Because I think he was the only man in parliament yesterday who reckons Labour could do it better. Even though he has never said and will never be seen actually stating how ‘better’ would be achieved, or even what ‘better’ might look like, nor how he’d simply fly this ‘better’ past Europe who would embrace it totally. Due to his ‘charm’ no doubt. His statesmanship.

Tosser.

I rarely quote Boris these days, I’d gone right off him. Until last night after the vote, when he stated, quite rightly, that we should treat this not as a loss, more of a mandate from the British Parliament to say to Europe that the crock-of-shit deal that THEY put together and twisted and mangled from any form of British acceptability has been summarily rejected. Try again, and try harder. Lose the fucking ‘backstop’ for one. Don’t leave Britain in the situation where we’re obeying all European laws and rules but getting a say in none of them.

Even Boris, who never misses an opportunity for self-promotion, said that leaving Europe is not about WHO is doing it, its about WHAT is being done. Theresa May is merely the messenger. Plus, in reality, would Boris want that job now? Would anyone??

Oh yes, Corbyn wants it. I forgot. But only because he’s so stupid to imagine that his party would all pull together for this mythical ‘better deal’. The remainers would hug the leavers, the hards and softs would align in harmony and they’d all sing ‘the red flag’ together. Diane Abbot could count the votes.

For the total and absolute bore that Brexit has become, last night was very exciting. And that excitement continues. Probably won’t get boring again until next Tuesday.

As to ‘where we’re going’; NOBODY KNOWS.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So following the ‘curious incident of the left arm at breakfast time’, when said arm went ‘weak’ and shaky for about 3 minutes with no after effects nor any other symptoms, the medical world went frantic. Well, my medical world did. Because every doctor is assured, positive and with no ifs, ands or buts, that it was a ‘TIA’. A mini-stroke. Sure as eggs is ova. And there is a process. Most of which was done before my holiday, in the interests of even surviving the holiday! I had the neurological work-out, I had 20 different blood tests, I had an ultrasound scan of my neck arteries and I had an MRI of my brain. And everything was negative. Or positive. Depending on your perspective. It was all good anyway. No signs, no nothing. Don’t need statins, don’t need blood thinners, blood pressure shit, nothing. I AM the perfect specimen of frail old man. And thus needed to see a cardiologist. To eliminate the possibility of an irregular heart rhythm sending shock waves in my blood causing little clots. As I understand it. And quite frankly I’m a bit bored with the whole thing now so tend to drift off during the technical explanations.

The Doc last night was from Georgia. The Russian one, not the Confederate slavey one. My neurologist is South African. The Radiologist Indian and the neck one a little Jewish man from London. Without being too cynical, 3 minutes of arm weakness has so far provided two holidays, a term of private school fees, a 3-carat diamond and a BMW X-5. But ‘it’s a process’ and must be done proper.

The technician lay me down and shaved my fucking chest!!! I mean; where’s the dignity? Where was the stylist? This beautification was strictly utilitarian. We need electrodes ‘there’ and there’s hair in the way. No ‘how would you like it, Sir?’, not even a ‘who did your last chest hair cut?? Awful mess…’ Nothing. Just razor, buzz and I have a bald patch on each moob. ECG or EEG or whatever was fine. I produced a lovely graph showing movements of the FOOTSIE over 5 years. Ultrasound showed all was lovely and super. Well, it showed I do have a heart, contrary to popular belief. So he injected some of my own blood into my own fucking vein (like there’s not enough blood in there anyway), but having mixed it with sterile water first. Don’t ask. It was all good.

So if I’m so startlingly, perfectly, amazingly, deliriously fucking healthy, WHY DO YOU ALL FEEL I HAD A TIA???

I’m picking up my heart monitor on Thursday so they can check a week’s worth of rhythms. And pay for the ‘all weather package’ on the BMW.

Happy HEALTHY Tuesday

A xxxx

Don’t you hate it when a plan gets de-railed? I mean… I mean… I mean, could Theresa May have had any idea, when she formulated the now infamous ‘Chequer’s Plan’ that the extent of the de-railment caused would be this catastrophic? That it would lead not only to a massive rift in parliament, across all parties, including her own, but that it would also cause an immense disaster for Tottenham in the quest for THEIR DESTINY, by allowing a defeat by Manchester United yesterday at Wembley.

I could never vote for a party who could allow such a travesty. It is… unconstitutional. That defeat was undemocratic. I’m thinking of going to court for a judicial review to see if Rashford’s goal could be annulled as it hadn’t been ratified by parliament before he scored it. Just sayin…

And although some people may consider that the seemingly everlasting farce that is ‘Brexit’ has very little to do with top-of-the-table clashes in the Premier League, those people, I would suggest, probably don’t live inside my head. A place where connections are tenuous at best, conspiracy theories reign supreme and no man is an island. Except for Kevin Madagascar.

Today’s paper was full of ‘news’. But to me it all boiled down to just 2 stories. Tomorrow’s vote in The House over whether Theresa May should just be shot or instead hung, drawn and quartered, and the football result. There was only one. The rest don’t count. Harry Kane limping off towards the MRI scanning department only added to my woes, along with Sonny getting in an Uber for Heathrow for the Asian Cup.

The only good to come from yesterday (other than Lila turning up at my tennis court) was that Jeremy Corbyn is finally being seen for what he is. A tosser. His own party are abandoning his direction and planning to back ‘the deal’ in tomorrow’s vote. His ‘private army’, Momentum, are leaving him because they are fiercely pro-Europe (everything Momentum do is ‘fierce’) and he is a wishy-washy, fence-sitting Old curmudgeon who has absolutely no plan for Brexit, nor remaining, as long as he’s allowed to wear a duffle coat and spout his socialist mantras over and over and over and over… again.

Not a great start to any week. There again; it can only get better! Can’t it?

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’d just like to say from the start that Sir Andy Murray is the best tennis player this nation (depending on where you choose to put the borders) has produced since Boudicca ruled. Not that she could hit a ball, too busy fighting. He is a startling athlete, an amazingly tenacious competitor and to win Grand Slam tournaments and Olympic gold medals in the generation of Federer, Nadal and Djokovic is quite frankly outstanding.

But…

Sorry, I’m still in praise mode, mustn’t forget that. The hip injury is a major pisser. I mean, he’s only 31. Ok, ‘money worries’ probably won’t be an issue in his retirement. Which he’ll probably spend either as a pundit, a commentator or possibly by attending the charm school which he managed to miss out completely in his formative years. And later years. All years.

But…

His intention to retire speech had me in tears. Not as many as were shed by him, but tears. Because its not fair. Not right. He should have a few more years in him yet but no sportsman wants retirement in a wheelchair and I dare say that 5-set tennis at 90mph is not the best ‘therapy’ for a really dodgy hip. He wants to play knock-up tennis at 60 like proper people. Like English people.

But…

No, I mustn’t. Not today. Today its farewell (either after the Aussie tournament now, should he survive it, or at Wimbledon in the summer) to Andy Murray. The best BRITISH tennis player EVER. Not even any competition for that title. Double Wimbledon winner, US Open winner, double Olympic gold medalist and one of the top four players in the world, when the world was blessed with 4 incredible exponents of the game.

But…

No! No mention of whingeing, not a word about whining, nothing to do with the inherent Anglophobia, nothing about miserable bleeders AT ALL. Not today. Not allowed. Today I come to mourn Murray, not to bury him.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So first night back on Tuesday, having had breakfast on the plane about 3.30 am, Mel went to bed about 9, I tried my hardest to watch the second half of the Spurs Chelsea match, sat down with a cup of tea, took one sip and promptly fell asleep. Nothing to do with Harry Kane, with Dele Alli, with the VAR, I was just ‘done’. Went to bed. We woke up at 5.45 and that was it. By 6.30 we were out of bed and, pretty much, bouncing round the house. With what appears to be ‘energy’ but in fact is something much more sinister. Its just a false sense of security manifesting as bright and breezy. Though we both managed to get through the working day, probably due to the ‘catch up’ factor of first days back. We ate, then Mel fell asleep, quite literally, over her dinner plate. Took a bath and went to bed before 9. I followed soon after when the eyes would no longer do my bidding. We were up at 4am. Bit early, even for Lila Day. Talked til 5 thinking ‘this is it then’ and then a funny thing happened. It was 8 o’clock and Lila was knocking at the door. HOLY SHIT!!! Didn’t really matter because Lila can’t really tell the time yet. Though even she probably realised that the tick had tocked way longer than it should.

The (possibly only) good thing about long flights is that you get time to watch a few movies. Ones that you wouldn’t spend money on in the cinema but were deemed at least ‘watchable’ by those who (think they) know. Or movies that Mel won’t go and see. Like Ant Man and the Wasp. Well reviewed at the time even by serious filmos and I love all SuperHero stuff. I wanted to be one. But failing that, love all that shit. And especially women Superheroes. Nothing to do with skin-tight Lycra and tiny little skirts at all; what do take me for??? (Other than what I am). And so good, and funny and clever was Ant Man, that on the way back I watched WonderWoman. Every schoolboy’s fantasy. Ok, Amazon women, all alone and manless on their little island, but children get born. Odder things happen in the Bible. But I believe Wonder Woman. Another really well reviewed film and rightly so. It’s brilliant. Clever, funny, even political; massively anti-war and intrinsically ultra-feminist. And Gal Gadot…

But Identical Strangers was the real winner. The documentary about identical triplets (itself rarer than Mancunian United fans) who were separated at birth under an adoption plan. Which turned out to be some horrendous, almost Orwellian type psychological experiment in cahoots with the adoption agency. Starts off all schmaltzy as the triplets finally meet by chance but get darker. Much much darker. Amazing. Stuff.

Happy… Friday?

A xxxx

Do you remember when a ‘selfie-stick’ was called ‘your mate’? Or ‘a complete stranger asked to take your photo’? By the Taj Mahal, Victoria Falls, Shelf stand at Spurs. And because no-one now moves from their lounge to the toilet without a fantastic, super-efficient, self-editing, telephoto-enabled, high definition camera with in-built distribution system in their very hands, that’s not the way it always was. Just 20 years ago you’d have had to entered that toilet with a camera, developing kit (with little red light and chemical baths) and a fax machine. These days, before you’ve even ‘shaken’, your selfie is being ‘liked’ all over the frikkin world.

In previous ages the first item you’d pack for your holiday was: The Camera!!! Complete with 7 alternative lenses, ranging from 35mm wide angle to the monster 200mm telephoto which was 3 feet long and as heavy as the rest of your luggage combined. Nowadays its almost an afterthought. And I’ll be honest, if I’m visiting a city, I simply wouldn’t bother. The phone would more than suffice. And if I wanted something ‘special’ photographically, I’d use the iPad.

But packing before our recent trip, I just kind’a found my camera whilst rummaging for other shit and thought: hmmm, camera, I remember them, maybe I’ll take it.

It’s not a ‘big’ camera. I stopped doing the whole ‘SLR’ route when I heard of a bloke who fell off a ski-lift in what would have been a very ‘nothing’ event, but he fell on his Nikon and cracked most of his ribs. After that I went ‘small’. Compact. And my camera, which I bought at least 12 years ago (when did YOU last buy a camera?) is about the size of a phone. But has the capacity of 25 paparazzi. When we went to the Galapagos (probably the last time my camera was properly deployed) I took a stunning picture of some bird or other, from the boat, miles away, with my tiny little pocket Panasonic Leica. And it was brilliant. (I won’t mention the 22,000 crap shots of my sandals, blurred animals, Mel’s left ear and other delights that accompanied it). New Jersey Steve who took the same shot with a fuck-off Nikon on a special tripod he had to carry for his special ‘Guns of Navarone’ type telephoto lens, asked for a copy of MY pic!!!!

I’m not a photographer. To me ‘composition’ is an essay on the Merchant of Venice done in the 5th form, very reluctantly. I don’t have ‘the eye’ for ‘that shot’. But sometimes, like the famous ‘enough monkeys with enough typewriters producing the complete works of Shakespeare’, I get a good shot.

This one was again from a boat. In Doubtful Sound. I shouted for the sea lions to move to their left a bit, but did they listen? Did they fuck! Otherwise I’m proud of this. And for the fact that no phone on the planet (including mine; I tried) could get such a shot at about 200 yards on a distant rock.

Happy Wednesday. Apparently I have to go to work. What’s ‘work’ again?

A xxxx

Last year January was renamed ‘Veganuary’ as the march of the holiest-of-all-thous sought to spread the word, the seed (they actually allow eating of seeds; if not much else) of the Post Millennial Holy Inquisition that is veganism. Not just a menu option but an entire lifestyle, philosophy and all-embracing concept which needs to be rammed down the throat of ‘unbelievers’ at any opportunity.

This year they’re going to rename January as ‘Vaginauary’ after the part of the anatomy most closely aligned to vegans. Though I must stress, I have no issue with whatever anybody wants to eat, what they choose to wear, what they do. None whatsoever. It’s when it gets a little militant, a little jihadi, holy crusade-like that I start to shiver. And when it becomes an all out assault on the morality of non-vegans, my hackles are well and truly raised.

Because we know about animals and that possibly there are cruelty issues in the meat, egg, milk industries, nothing new there. And here’s the killer irony once veganism goes to the next level. That level of vegan shoes. The whole non-leather shtick. Because who wants wet feet? Ok, so they can make synthetic fibres waterproof, that’s fine. But did anyone realise that ‘synthetic’ is another way of writing ‘plastic’. Man made. Petro-chemical based. And synthetic fibres do not break down. Ever. Instead they stay as horrible little fibres which will, as does everything not biodegradable, enter the animal food chain.

Thus the animals that are the very starting point of the whole vegan thing, end up getting choked by the obsessive extrapolation of that well intentioned start. And the damage to the world’s eco-system by growing non-animal proteins is not great either. It’s not about the volume of wheat compared to the volume of grass needed for dairy cows. It’s about how much land/emissions are required to get an equivalent level of protein or good carbs. And again, those bloody vegans are ruining the planet totally for us animal-product exploiters.

Then there’s the obsession with vegan products which ‘are so much like meat… you might as well… eat meat’ but they’re vegan. And to enhance the taste and texture they load them with sugars.

So become a vegan. End up a great, fat, sugar-laden plonker with a totally fucked up and unsustainable planet.

Yet the most interesting part of the report I read (obvs. Where do ya think all this came from??) was that becoming vegan is the easiest way to hide an eating disorder. And that’s scary and horrible.

I’m home now. Arrived here about half an hour ago after an epic but not too horrible journey. 27 hours door-to-door. It’s 7 in the morning, I feel ready to go to bed despite having slept on and off for the last 15 hours.

Happy… zzzzzz… Tuesday

A xxxx

I didn’t realise when we booked our last 2 nights of the entire holiday, back here in Sydney, quite where things were. So we thought: let’s stay in the middle. What they call ‘Circular Quay’ here. By the bridge, the Opera House, by The Rocks and…

and by 96% of the world’s total supply of Ugg shops. It’s Australia’s biggest natural resource after all the animals that will kill you dead in 4 seconds with just a look. And sheep. Sharks. Opals. Dingos.

Mel wanted to buy some new Uggs (she should have brought her old ones back here to die really, would have been more poetic) and I inadvertently booked a hotel in Ugg Central. Thus the answer to the question ‘which Uggs did you buy?’ is: ‘all of them’. Shoes, gloves, ear-muffs, slippers… What else do they sell?

Fortunately I was down to my last twin for the morning so it was only half as bad as previous but still…

Sydney is a fab place though. We needed to get up to the Eastern Suburbs to see our mates before we leave, so just ‘hopped’ on a ferry. Cost, on an Aussie ‘Oyster’ card, is just 2.70 (less than 2 quid) and it takes 20 minutes on a fast boat ride out in the fresh air. Whereas an equivalent journey on the northern line takes 40 minutes, crushed half to death by halitosis-breathing unwashed slobs playing ultra-metal on their ear-buds whilst inhaling the air-equivalent of 10 Marlboro reds.

Tomorrow we leave. The following day we arrive home. Been special. Been amazing. The journey continues.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I want to talk about shopping. And to do so I need to discuss that most sensitive of subjects: gender!!!

I’m not saying that all women love to shop whilst all men would gladly RIP OUT THEIR OWN FUCKING EYES WITH A BLUNT, RUSTY T-SPOON!!! rather than to accompany them, because that would be a crude and facile gender stereotype paradigm which would be quite frankly, beneath me. True as it may be.

But today, in Christchurch, I (was dragged screaming) gladly agreed to a ‘wee shopping spree’ accompanied by the Shopoholic Twins. Either of whom could render you suicidal when in shops on their own. But together, the total is way greater than the sum of the parts.

I thought this phobia was possibly mine and mine alone. The whole shopping thing. But then I saw a young couple walking towards me, towards the way out of the store. And the look on the man’s face was one of ‘salvation at hand’, of ‘rescue from damnation’. A look of profound hope. Then, just as he was accelerating doorwards, ‘the woman!’, be she girlfriend, wife, short-term-rental or whatever, just pulled his arm and said: ‘oh, just a minute, darling’ and wandered over to look at one more dress, one more shoe, one more bit of coloured plastic, one scarf, one tea towel, one absolutely fucking anything.

And his face looked so despairing, so ‘shot down on the final approach’, so suicidal, so… so… so much like mine did that I had a revelation. That in fact it must be ALL men who hate shopping and all women who love it.

Yet that’s obviously wrong. It’s a generalisation and generalisations are always wrong. Ha, ha. Because, like everything else these days, this is not binary. It’s not about love/hate of shopping. It’s deeper. It’s about the way we shop.

Men need a car, they go to the showroom. They want music, they go the music store. They want trousers, they just go to the pub and tell their wives the shop had sold out of trousers. But it is specific. We shop FOR THINGS. Whereas women just shop. For fucking anything. Whatever catches their eye, a good bargain, a pretty colour, something… something… that I don’t have. Might be a lampshade in a new colour, a dress that is different from the 12,764 currently in the wardrobe, shoes, table mats, rugs, throw cushions, scarves, heated towel rails, a yacht, FUCKING ANYTHING!!!!! And of course, to buy ‘anything’ you must first examine ‘everything’.

It’s the sheer randomness that kills you. The pure directionless examination of every single item in every single category of items that makes it all such incredible agony.

And this on a great morning which started with ‘just’ a 7-nil win for Spurs. Whilst I was having breakfast. How brilliant. Next year I may have to go away on holiday for the entire season to ensure such amazing results. Llorente? Never doubted him. Errr…

Very happy Saturday

A xxxx