Andy's Glasses

When someone posts something contentious on instagram in the UK, they generally get a 5 year prison sentence. And because there’s as much room in our prisons as there was yesterday in Tottenham High Road, to accommodate these ‘evil posters’, we have to free up the space by kicking a few rapists back out into the community. Maybe some child monsters, armed robbers.

If I was going to commit a serious crime, I’d do it in France. The French judicial system simply loves dangerous criminals. Hence the old-age dudes who broke into Kim Kardashian’s hotel suite, tied her up, held her at gunpoint and nicked an obscene amount of jewellery, which has never been recovered, they received sentences of just 2 or 3 years. Which meant, because of their time already served while waiting, that they all walked free. Or rather, due to their age, ‘crierched free’. (It’s how old people move, if yer not familiar).

Which seemed incredibly lenient to me. Kim said ‘it was the most frightening thing ever in her life’. Not including when she first looked into a mirror before any work had been done and saw herself as God made her. That was so scary she’s made the careers of 19 plastic surgeons in California.

But these guys, to the French, they’re just ‘nice old boys’, it is not, ‘ow you say?, nice, to bang them up for the rest of their lives. I’d like to ask the judge if a gun is any less of a gun if its held by a geezer of 75?

Yet there’s the other side of the story. Spoiled stupid rich bitch in possession of more money than the population of 3 Parisienne arrondissements, flaunts a 6 million pound ring in public and thinks she’s safe because, like Barbie, she’s over 80% plastic.

Ok, I’m not a big fan. Of someone who’s become famous by encouraging a generation to obsess about every facet of their appearance. Your tits are too small; make ‘em bigger. Your ass is too skinny; make it MASSIVE. Your husband’s an abusive piece of shit; get single. Nose too short, eyes too… eye-like, lips too… un-lippy; just fill it/cut it/inject it/whatever.

Alright, I’ve had work done. We all have. You simply can’t stay this beautiful without help. But the Kardashians made a career of it. They normalised vanity at the expense of all else. And made fortunes doing it. What does that say about the people who enriched them by watching it?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Look, we won a trophy, I’m not going to get so exited about it, we didn’t invent a cure for cancer, its ‘just’ a football trophy. In the grand scheme of things, when judgement day arrives, it won’t have counted for much. I get all that. Its just a matter of keeping things in perspective.

We won a cup. ‘A’ European trophy. Not, alas, ‘the’ European trophy, but the other one.

Which, in my mind, makes us the second best team in all of Europe. (The first won’t be decided until next weekend). And as we know, the European leagues are by far the best in… well, Europe, yeah, but actually IN THE WORLD!!! Which makes Spurs, the second best team in the entire world. And unless we discover life on other planets in the next 12 months, we’re the second best team in the ENTIRE FUCKING UNIVERSE!!!

We may well have ended the season just one place away from the drop, but you simply can’t argue with the data. Which doesn’t mean we have to ‘rub people’s noses in it’. That would be neither considerate nor friendly. However, its worth just a quick flick back through your various whatsapp messages (they never go away; they stay forever and can and will be used in evidence against you) for any that depict empty trophy cabinets, the word ‘Spursy’ or pretty much anything football related, and send them a photo of our beautiful trophy with the words FUCK YOUOUOUOU!!! superimposed over the top.

Anyway, its just lucky I’m not ‘that sort of person’ who would gloat, demean or belittle.

This morning as I was e-biking to work, I was knocked off my bike. By a van. White one. He’d stopped, facing my direction of travel, to turn right. And he did turn right. Before I’d passed him. Why would you wait? Kill two birds with one stone. Or, kill one cyclist with one van. Either way. But he didn’t kill me. He hit my back wheel and off I came. Though, in the grand scheme of things, quite gently. And over I went. No damage. No bang on head, no breaks, no real wounds beyond the capability of a band-aid. And I have to confess, I swore at the driver!! I’m sorry, and (possibly) ashamed, but profanity left my mouth in a driverly direction. So I knew I wasn’t concussed.

But I was fine, the bike was fine, about 6 people just ‘appeared’ there helping me, offering love and kindness. Not to the fucking driver, they hated him. But other than few (literal) scrapes, all was good.

Until I got on the bike and realised that one pedal was broken. Which is annoying because I didn’t bother taking the name or licence number of the driver. But he can’t be hard to find. Indian geezer driving a white van. If you see him, tell him he owes Andy a pedal.

Be careful out there. And don’t mention to Mel. She’ll never let me out again.

A xxxx

Oh what a night, late-ish May in twenty twenty… five
Oh that night that made me come alive
What a feeling, what a night.

Oh what a night, set in Bilbao with which nothing rhymes,
United and Spurs had such a happy time,
UEFA League final, such a night.

Oh what a night, two hapless teams with little skill or fight,
Falling over, mis-timing, flailing bright
Til Spurs did score in a game so tight.

Oh what a night, now Man United pulled out all the stops
They had to score to avoid being top of the flops,
But the goal was hard to find.

The game moved on, the time passing at snail speed
With Lila and Joey we were nervy indeed
We replaced the beer with snacks to feed
But still United wouldn’t concede.

United pressure, relentless, pressing
Our defence strong, what a blessing
A shot at goal, surely in our net!!!
But Micky Van der Ven flies airwards, the ball to get

Later on a headed attempt surely bound to go in!!!
Vicario saves, I swore a lot, is that really a sin?
The final whistle, the Cup, the glory,
And that, my friend, is part of the story.

“Your trophy cabinet’s empty”, so the tossers cried
For years and years that mantra, an assault on our pride?
I never cared, not one bit, ending high in the league, that was it.
Trophies come or not, that was a secondary bit.

But now we have a trophy, and I’m pleased as Punch
going to go with the Legend to have champagne with our lunch.
But all those who now have no song to sing
Seem to be deprived of silverware themselves, that’s the thing.

By their criteria, they have miserably failed
Whilst by finishing seventeenth, our stock has sailed.
And what to do with Ange?, that’s now what we ask
He promised a trophy, was equal to the task

Champions league awaits us: (God help us all)
I hope this won’t be pride before the fall.
But we have some cash, and we’ve become a desirable team,
Is Ange the man to take us to highs we’ve never seen?

So much to enjoy, so much more pleasure
I’m just going to enjoy these days, take it at my leisure.
Next season’s a mile away, loads of time to go,
Meanwhile, I might just polish ‘my’ trophy, but literally so.

Very, ecstatically, deleriously Happy Thursday

A xxxx

At LAST!!!!, Mel came home from Naples. At last. I’d reached the point where I could barely cram another sock in the laundry basket. Was almost on the verge of having to buy a second basket! Anyway, she’s back from Naples. Having left me, without a carer, the WHOOOOOLE weekend. As she and the twin went romping round Pompei, cruising round Capri and living the dolce vita, but literally. Cos iss Italian, innit.

So a fab weekend. Marred only by… the most horrendous travel travails EVER!!!

There’s a stark warning here for all potential travellers who are unaware of the post-Brexit rules for entering Europe. You need one full year on your passport. BUT, it is NOT from the expiry date on your passport. Huh? No, that’s too ‘simple’, too ‘easy’, too ‘British’. You have to add 10 years to the DATE OF ISSUE of the passport and you need one clear year til that date. And passports are always issued a few months before the 10 years start.

Hence as the twins were actually going through the departure gate to board, ‘the other twin’ was pulled up. Although she had 14 months til the ‘expiry date’, she was 5 days short of the ‘issue plus ten years’ date and they wouldn’t let her on. A red card.

They returned from Gatwick. We (younger daughter is a total ‘ace’ at all things travel, and, it must be said; not much else) booked a flight with BA in the afternoon, using air miles, so just 25 quid for both tickets, and importantly, using a Canadian passport. Which the twins, born many, many, many years ago in Vancouver, both have. Born in the Gold Rush. Or thereabouts. So, back to Heathrow, this time, just f’ra change, and off they flew to Naples.

That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Yesterday they arrived at the airport to return to be told of ‘delays’. Hours. And hours. Again, we tried to get onto a BA flight which was leaving the same time as their original one, but on time, and seats were available, on air miles again, but this time for £1, but… but… but… it kept giving an error message. Which, after hanging on for half an hour to speak to someone, I learned was because you can only book flights until 3 hours before departure. And it was only 2. So they waited. And waited. EasyJet provided their usual, generous ‘compensation package’ of a visit to the airport restaurant for their lovely “all you can eat, for 4 Euros” special. It almost covered a bottle of water.

Mel arrived home at 3.30 this morning. Without a door key. Because none of this was in the ‘original plan’. But as we all know: man plans, airports laugh.

Happy Return

A xxxx

On Friday morning Mel went to Naples. Twinny trip. I’m not a twin so I wasn’t invited. But… a whole weekend! Time off!!! What shall I do??? Leisure time. All to myself! And FA Cup final weekend too! I’m ’livin the dream’.

This is what happened when I stopped dreaming.

7.55 am. Left house to got to Tai Chi. Punched some people. Kicked a few others.
10.05 am. Arrived home, cup of tea, banana and out for…
10.30 am. Tennis with Spurs Paul. Finished promptly because…
11.50 am. Arrived home, shower, dress, out for
12.20 pm. To pick up younger daughter and go to Lila’s end of year ‘RAZ’ show at
1.00 pm. Adorable. Shame about all the other groups of non-Lila kids.
3.00 pm. Return Rachie home, go straight off to Henley. (Henley???)
10.05 pm. Arrived home.

I went to Henley because I could. Ok, I could have gone anywhere, that’s true, England’s full of fabulous little towns. But the BoatMan is currently moored in Henley-upon-Thames and I had some new glasses for him. Because he regularly destroys them or loses them overboard. And though I don’t normally offer a delivery service, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, Mel was wandering around Capri, and the top down was on the car. If the specs were ready in February, he’d have had to get a train into London. But I wanted to go somewhere. I needed to drive. And as this one ended in a curry house, I don’t think I could have chosen a finer spot in the entire land. Henley is surprisingly beautiful. I’m always surprised when I leave London and arrive somewhere that’s not an industrial new-town shit-hole. But I do live a very sheltered life.

I opted to drive home with the top still down. Because: in order: it wasn’t raining; it feels nice; I’m fucking stupid. Because it was quite chilly. But I’M A MAN!! Alright, a fairly stupid one.

So today I took it easy. I played tennis. Cos that’s easy. Then I spent 3 hours power-hosing the patio. I thought it would be easy. It’s not Buckingham Palace with a 100 metre terrace ‘out the back’. But, when you’re washing it, inch by inch, it’s big enough.

Then I collapsed on the couch with a cup of tea, to watch Newcastle play Arsenal, because I’m a big Geordie and fan, and ooh-ayyy the lads and stuff and it was so good I only slept for about 40 minutes of it. And ‘we’ lost anyway.

Happy relaxing Sunday

A xxxx

I was rummaging around for something or other, as some of us of a more ‘slightly disorganised nature’ tend to do whenever we need ANYTHING, and I came across this photo. Haven’t seen it for years. I call it ‘self portrait in black’n’white’. I could have painted one, put a few tits on my head, morphing into a Minotaur from the neck down, few cherubs floating round, maybe some bloodshed in the background, but instead I stood in front of the mirror with my fabulous Canon AE1 and snapped. I was in a ‘photographic phase’ of life. Which no-one born after 1985 will in any way understand. Because photos were not a part of everyday life. They were something that needed to be arranged. You needed to carry a big, lumpy, expensive camera around with you. And because ‘film’ was expensive, you generally took ‘a photo’, rather than ‘take 9 and pick the best’ as is the current ethos. You certainly didn’t get your camera out every time you ate a croissant or had egg & chips in the cafe. It wasn’t done. Sending photos of your penis was… difficult. But could be done.

I had a ‘dark room’ to develop the films, rather than wait 2 weeks for Boots to do it. Ok, I had a kitchen in my flat with a light-switch. Same difference. Dark enough. And it never ceased to amaze as you put a piece of special paper in a chemical bath and watch the picture ‘arrive’. Slowly, ghostly, quite amazing. Though generally, when done at night, as it kind’a has to be, with a mate or two who are ‘into film’, we’d probably have been a bit stoned, whereby virtually everything becomes ‘amazing’.

I reckon this was about 1985. It’s a very ‘Haircut 100’ sweater. Which my daughters and Tory Boy find most amusing. IT WAS COOL BACK THEN!!!! NO REALLY!!!!

I won’t apologise for the sweater. It’s always unfair to make contemporary judgments on historical norms. Bit like apologising for slavery now. Or judging Mel Brookes a ‘racist’ for Blazing Saddles. So the jumper was state of the art. The haircut was what it was. Having spent the first 5 years of my late-teens having it ‘straightened’ every fucking week, suddenly I was ‘on message’. And the cigarette (again, no-one born after 1985 will know what that is), was an essential. Just for effect. All 20 a day, just for the Jean-Paul Belmondo look.

Amazing that I’m even more gorgeous now than I was then. But I work on it. It’s called photoshop and delusion.

Happy Memory Thursday

A xxxx

So I ‘get’ Donald Trump. I really do. He just doesn’t do details to any extent. Only money details, then its to the nearest hundredth of a cent. Everything else is just ‘big; really big’ or ‘doing great things’ or lovely broad brush stroke sentences which are meaningless in any analytical way.

I just don’t see how world peace is served, as he claimed yesterday, by a $142billion deal with Saudi Arabia to provide arms. Guns. Rockets. Missiles. Ammunition. Ordinance. Fighter planes. Nuclear fucking warheads for all I know. Does that sound ‘peaceful’?? 142 bil gets you some serious fire-power. I’m even a bit pleased because a few bucks’ worth of the sharp ends will probably find their way into a few Houthis in Yemen, and we all hate the fucking Houthis. The deal will also scare the shit out of Iran, so that’s also a big positive. And the Saudis are our allies. They pally with Israel. They’re anti-terrorist, even though al-quaeda was started there. That’s not Mohammed bin Salman’s fault. He wasn’t even there at the time. He was over in Turkey having dissenting journalists murdered.

But now Donald is moving further afield in the Middle East. Syria, to be precise. Now that the horrible, tortuous, murdering Assad regime has been deposed, Trump is pallying up to the new, de facto leader, Ahmad al-Sharaa, the former al-quaeda terrorist, American held prisoner and now the guv’nor of the new ‘free’ Syria. Unless you’re an Alawite, then you stand a good chance of dying or disappearing, rather than enjoying ‘freedom’. Trump feels that this ‘attractive young man’ (WTF???) has a chance of ‘greatness’. Furthermore, Syria is appealing to America because of its oil and gas reserves for which it will need help in accessing. Trump’s really good at digging holes in other people’s countries.

I think that if the nation of Qatar offered to give me a 300 million pound plane to fly on, I’d take it. Especially as its fitted out for Royalty. And though possibly a bit more ‘Prince Andrew’ than ‘Queen Victoria’, we’re talking majorly ‘flash’ here. The Qataris have fitted it out with all the luxury and gadgetry you could ever wish for; champagne fridges, cocaine tables, pussy-grabbing recliners and secret compartments for Hamas leaders to cross borders undetected.

You can’t expect moral judgments from Donald Trump. Just not gonna happen.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I got a ‘lectric bike. You know that.
I love it like the 3rd cousin I never had.
I only use it when the temperature is over 15 Celsius-es and the weather GUARANTEED to be dry. By God. Or the BBC weather app. Same difference. That’s the rule.
I hate all rules.
Even sensible ones.

And so to yesterday. When the weather app told me there was ‘a chance of rain’, like 15%, maybe 20% in the late afternoon. Yet as I prepared to go to work it was the definitive summer day. Warm, bit balmy, sunny, clear, cloudless. The temptation was just too great. So I broke the rule. And had a wonderful trip in. Fun, fast and furious. The latter being most of the drivers I encountered. My only defence being ‘fuck em’.

As I was about to leave work, the sky had indeed darkened. Ah, so ‘20%’ means it can happen. And there was a tiny little ‘shower’, which I waited out, then left to come home just as the sun came out again. Great timing. I survived the 20%, now I’m good to go.

And I was fine and good and lovin’ it, as always, as I came up into Hampstead village. When a few droplets landed on me. Ok, no problem. Nearly home and, being ‘sensible’ I had my little, almost waterproof Uniqlo scrunched up in the back box. I retrieved it, brought it back to jacket size (they’re amazing those things) and carried on, my wayward son.

I blame the BBC. And God. Because the rain that followed was not 20% in any fucking language. I know, that was the ‘chance of rain’ but have some sympathy, FFS, I’m pedalling up the hill, as fast my electric motor can carry me, getting rather wet. I reckon we were up to 80%, if not more!!!

And then, ‘more’ happened. As I rode around the Heath Extension, rain levels rose to 264% and as I felt my testicles getting soaked through my jeans, my shoes saturated, the Uniqlo’s ‘water-resistance’ laughing at me in the quite unbelievable torrent, I thought, oh well, I’m wet now, its strangely warm, like a tropical storm, this is as bad as it can get, I can put up with it for the 4 minutes to home.

But, ‘bad as it can get’ needed a rethink as the rain turned to hailstones. Big ones. Yet still small enough to go through the ventilation slats on my helmet. And they fucking hurt.

Mel wouldn’t let me in the house. I was dripping. I stripped off completely at the front door and was put in the tumble dryer. Ok, my jacket was. All I got was a towel. I must be losing my physical appeal.

I’ve written to the head of the BBC. And to God. And next time it says ‘small chance of rain’, probably best to ask the question: yeah, but how much rain?

Happy dry, sunny Tuesday

A xxxx