Andy's Glasses

So it’s taken America about 3 weeks to see beyond the bravado, the bluster, the total bollocks, which is the work and words of Donald J. Trump and start panicking. Realising that their self-professed ‘saviour’ is in fact a liability of global proportions and a moron to boot. And when America panics, it does so as it does everything; in money. The stock markets plummeted on Monday, having since the inauguration been buoyant and rising on the bold and a bit vague promises by the Orange Man. As the Nasdaq dropped more than 4% in one day, the sweetest irony of all was that Tesla was the biggest loser at over 15%. Bringing Elon Musk’s ‘personal loss’ this year just $132 billion. I mean, should we re-think this whole ‘no-God’ thing?

Trump speaks a lot of words. A lot of words. And always twice, making it even more words. All of which carry a threat. A promise. A demand. A statement of intent. But never in any qualified or quantified manner. He has a deal with Russia and it’s big. BIG! He’s going to exact revenge on Hamas for the hostages, ‘like the world has never seen’. LIKE. THE. WORLD. HAS. NEVER. SEEN. Ukraine doesn’t hold many cards. Russia holds all the cards. All the cards.

Nothing of any substance. Nothing you can base your economy on, look forward to peace from, even make the proverbial fucking ‘deal’ from. Just superlatives spoken in a manner fit for any playground. Obviously not in the senior school though.

So the markets in the US are positively quaking at the realisation that the tariffs, should they actually start in earnest, will result in massive inflation for Americans as their fuel bills rise if Canada imposes its own taxes. Trump, inevitably, doubled down and raised the tariffs from 25 to 50% but then delayed them. The incoming PM of Canada, Mark Carney, (almost) ‘one of our own’, won’t take shit from Trump, nor donate his nation as the 51st state.

So whilst Trump sees himself as ‘the solution’, most others view him far more as ‘the problem’. Like changing sides in the Ukraine/Russia war every 10 minutes. That helps.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

They have officially found not one but two people in the world who actually give a shit about Colleen Rooney. Amazing, when you think about it. But these two individuals are the ‘rubbish-content bidding mavens’ of Amazon TV and Disney Plus. They not only have the usual, peripheral, inconsequential, irrelevant awareness of Mrs Rooney that every single normal, decent person of an intelligence anywhere above ‘clinically sub-normal’ has, but the ‘winner’ from Disney + has agreed to pay Colleen 10 million quid. And those, like me, who might say “well, I wouldn’t get out of bed for less than 9.5 mil!!!”, have to accept that that is precisely what they’re paying that horrible, useless woman to do. Get out of bed. Eat breakfast. Shout at the kids. Go to the gym. Make dinner. Sleep with Wayne.

It’s a new ‘fly on the wall’ series, (God help us), to be filmed chez Rooney. In Cheshire. Where they live and really should never be allowed to leave. They are to become… The Next Kardashians!!!! The Rooney’s four boys similarly all have ‘K-‘ names. Except one who only got a hard C because they don’t like him so much. Kia (after her favourite car), Kolin (made that one up), Klueless and Colostomy. Sweet.

Well, we assume all four are the progeny of Colleen and Wayne. We’ll know once they’re a bit older. If any show any signs of beauty we’ll know they’re not Wayne’s. And if any start to look like an old granny, we’ll know they’re not Colleen’s. And that may sound a bit awful but we’re talking about a footballer and his glory-seeking, monetising, publicity-whoring, litigating wife.

I’d like to think that the only person on the entire planet who might find such a ridiculously moronic programme of any interest at all would be Rebekah Vardy. Because that vindictive imbecile will sit there with her husband, Steptoe Vardy, glued to the Rooneys in a purely schadenfreude-ish way.

Yet the most damning indictment of ‘the British viewing public’ is that Disney is shelling out 10 mil because it knows that sufficient numbers of viewers are expected, and doubtless are already clutching their remotes in readiness. Those same viewers who spent 73 weeks watching Kim Kardashian’s putting her make-up on and having her tits enlarged. Then reduced. Then enlarged again.

The only issue of any interest is whether they’ll dub Wayne’s voice into English or use sub-titles.

Happy Viewing

A xxxx

Well that was quick. Yup, it was. Just a short, sharp burst of skiing to see… the mountains?, because I missed them?, if I could still ski?, if I still liked it?, whatever. Three days, wham, bam (though, thank the Lord, not literally), ski a few hundred k and come back IN ONE PIECE. Job done.

I am to skiing what John Lennon was to Pickleball. What the great Jean-Claude Killy was to the war in Ukraine. I’m just one of thousands of clueless people flying around, out of control, down snow-covered pistes. Because I’m a danger to myself and everyone else, I travel with 2 lawyers. Travel insurance can’t keep you out of prison. And we ski hard and fast. Then have a coffee stop. Then we ski even harder (caffeine does that) and stop for lunch.

Which is a very big deal on a mountain. The restaurants simply don’t need to bother with anything, because the views are without doubt superior to looking at Marylebone High Street from Fischers. Or watching the buses go down Park Lane as you eat chateaubriand. So the mountain restaurants ‘have you’. Once you’ve de-skied, you’re there. People walking around on ski boots always reminds me of the elegance of seals when they’re waddling across a beach. It’s something out of its natural environment. And a restaurant which seats 200 people will have, like one toilet. Unisex.

I appreciate that taking food up mountains to fuel these eateries is neither easy nor cheap, which must reflect in the prices. But there’s been a change since my last ski, best part of 10 years ago. These lovely eateries have up-status-ed themselves. From cafes serving hearty, wholesome food, to restaurants worthy of kings. Or, at least, princesses.

All I ever want for ski lunch is a cheese omelette and chips. They do it wonderfully up there. And if you have to pay 15 quid, that’s the price, and fine. Ok, just a sliver of tarte tatin to follow; don’t want to run out of energy on a mogul field. But now that is not, in most places, on offer. If it is, they sprinkle truffle oil on it and charge you 35 Euros for your omelette. Chips extra. They have changed from lovely French ‘cafes’ to ski-in ‘fine dining’ restaurants, with all the pretensions that brings. You can still get a burger (as I did, obviously), but the only one they offered was Wagyu beef. The chips were pommes frite avec truffle oil (obvs) and a few other added price hikers.

Its a French thing. You wanna eat spag bol., go to Austria. And avoid penury.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Of course, I forgot to mention yesterday the other BIG thing about skiing, once the horrors of ‘pre-par-ay-shun’ are done and you’re ready to head downhill. It pays just to spend a few seconds looking around. Because although you go ‘downhill’, it’s actually a mountain. One of many, cos they hunt in packs, these Alps. And the entire, 360 degree panorama is just spectacular. Beautiful. Clean. Fresh. And more beautiful. And so clear and bright and sunny that you can’t understand how there’s still snow on the ground. But you realise the answer is that there are teams of French people working all night long preserving what is left and adding to it with artificial snow cannons. Because it’s hot out here. Like really hot. So by after (long) lunch, there’s not a lot of life in the lower slopes. But that’s the price you pay for skiing in sunshine.

And as I skied I wondered about the actual process. As I’m flying down a mountainside at, what, 40kph? 50??, I’m reacting to every curve, every turn, twist, bump and change in surface quality and incline. But here’s the best bit: I don’t have to think it and ‘operate the system’, it is fully autonomic. An autonomous car needs about 150 CPUs to keep it straight and true and avoid killing too many people. And we do the same thing. With just one CPU. I’m not saying it’s perfect, otherwise I wouldn’t have had just a minor spill this morning. I say minor because I didn’t even suffer a bruise as my ski caught some rut or other and over I went. Ok, a little bruise to the ego but I can cope with that. Maybe my legs were tired? Maybe old people shouldn’t ski? Or maybe my CPU just went awol for a fraction of a second. I landed on my bum and, even more important than avoiding concussion, the ski that came off stopped right next to me and didn’t go accelerating down the run, so I could continue.

So is the ability to ski so amazing (which it is) that it must be attributed to an Absolute Creator, who made us complete and able to ski whilst sending a text message simultaneously, or is that just proof of evolution and ‘how far we’ve come’? If God had wanted us to ski would we not have 4 foot long feet? Made of wood? Or carbon fibre, better?

So many questions. But it’s not about philosophy, nor theology. It’s about adrenaline. The best drug in the world. Other than statins. Ozempic…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So here’s what you do.

You wake up at 4 in the morning so you can get to the airport by 5 to sit in the regular EasyJet luxurious discomfort for 2 hours, get into a car for another hour or so, get stuffed into as many layers of clothing as you can find in your case, put on a pair of boots specially designed to press on every sensitive part of every foot, and then work on the not normally sensitive parts, grab a pair of skis, some poles, put on a helmet, even though its 25 degrees outside… ok, it feels like that by the time you’ve dragged your skis up the stairs to the first of two cable cars.

By which time, you’re wondering why you do it. What could possibly be worth that much aggro, inconvenience and discomfort? And being France, obviously, they charge separately and cripplingly for aggro, inconvenience AND discomfort.

Then you’re up high, you click into your skis and…

You’re in heaven. Not literally, unless you turned the wrong way, but metaphorically, wonderfully and a bit rapidly really. The ultimate feeling of freedom as you glide effortlessly and sinuously down the piste. The skis, which weigh 56 kilos when you carry them, weigh nothing when you’re standing on them. Your fucking great, rock solid, clumps of clamping, squeezing ski-boots are transformed into red slippers that Dorothy would be proud of. You even forget the horrible helmet which they make me wear.

Lila’s mummy asked if, after an 8 year hiatus, ‘it had all come back’; ie the ability to ski. To which I replied, ‘I never had it in the first place’. Because to have that you have to be French. Or otherwise really annoying. Or learned from childhood. The rest of us just ‘wing it’. Yeah, I’ve had lessons in the past. Old dogs, new tricks kind’a thing. But it doesn’t matter. It’s like re-writing Marx’s mantra. From each according to his inability, to all, according to their ability to GET OUT MY FUCKING WAYYYYY!!!!!

And best of all, skiing leaves no room for ‘casual thoughts’ creeping in. You don’t ponder Ukraine, Trump is as far away as Courchevel (miles away from here), even tax is forgotten. Skiing, as the Bee Gees said, is about Stayin’ Alive. But having so much fun while you do it.

Have a lovely Monday

The Ski Bunny
Xxxx

There was a time when there were but three, measly tv channels. BBC2 finished at about 11pm, the other 2 went on a little longer. We never thought: “oh, this is shit! We need 56 channels showing repeats of Top Gear, all night long and re-runs of old football matches, plus, we need channels where you watch what you want, when you want, any time of day or night. We need a world fit for proper stoners, with boxes of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes all around us!” We never thought that. We just thought: it is what it is. As you do. Put another record on.

So when a new film came out, there was excitement. And you went to see it… in a cinema. And the way it worked was, the film was released in America in January. By about June it was ready for British consumption, once we knew for sure than not too many Americans had died watching it and it was safe. But the ‘big’ films didn’t immediately go to all cinemas. No. They spent the first week or two only available to view in ‘Leicester Square’. Possibly in a few other poncey, grandiose movie theatres in other parts of the West End. And only then were plebs allowed to see the wonders, in the comfort of their own, local Odeons. Not sure if northerners got them even later, but they should have done. If at all.

We’d only go to Leicester Square if the movie was an absolute must-see which you simply couldn’t wait another 2 weeks to watch it round the corner. It cost more in the West End. So when a new Bruce Lee movie came out, we’d go. Lots of us. Kung fu-ing our way down Old Compton Street afterwards looking for food, Japanese baddies to fight, or both. (The Japanese were ALWAYS the baddies). Even though the storylines were appalling, predictable and rubbish, we’d pay our money to watch the worst dubbed films ever made.

And with my (very dear, now departed) mate, Stan, we had another rule. We’d go to Leicester Square for any movie with Gene Hackman. He was that good. Never typecast, always different and always with a wry humour. Except when he was Lex Luther in Superman when it was pantomime humour, obviously brilliantly executed.

He won one his Oscars for playing a tough guy cop. And yet he was truly amazing as a nerd in ‘The Conversation’, hilarious in ‘Heartbreakers’ and incredible in ‘The Royal Tenenbaums’.

In a way its quite fitting that the best actor of his generation, along with his mate Dustin Hoffman, died in a weird and suspicious way.

Keep ’em guessing til the very end, Gene. Or even beyond.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So now will you listen? Now do you get that I’m so brilliantly… brilliant!, that my instincts and what have previously been known as ‘mishigarsim’ (insane ideas), are in fact true, correct, wonderful and SCIENTIFICALLY VALIDATED!!! All those people who’ve been campaigning for years to have me sectioned under the mental health act can eat humble pie. Though I’ve maintained for decades that eating pie of any kind is healthy. Pie is made from flour, which comes from some plant or other, thus is at least one of your five a day.

But this headline in today’s paper is my defining glory as an arbiter of ‘wot you should and shouldn’t eat and drink for yer good elf’.

Mel and I will come home from a long walk across the Heath on a sunny Saturday afternoon, hot and sweaty. She’ll head to the fridge and fill a glass with ice cold water. I put the kettle on. “Don’t you want some water???”, she asks, incredulously. “No. I want tea!!” But it’s a hot day!!! Yep, but I want tea. 1.6 billion Indians can’t all be wrong.

In fact I drink tea all day. Water is just the most boring drink. It brings, literally, nothing to the table. It’s fine for swimming in. Holding the goldfish. Cleaning the car with. Probably a few other things. But drinking? Heaven forfend. Because tea is a wonderful drink. And now, we learn, it filters ‘all the metals’ out of our water. You know, those pesky lumps of steel that get stuck in your teeth, all that zinc floating around, they adhere to tea leaves and thus leave the water in your tea pure and clean and, well, non-metallic.

So there you have it. In the Times, no less. So it must be true. The only questions which can’t be answered with a cup of tea can be answered with whisky.

There’s also the latest move by our latest government. You know, the one filled with dickheads, and dickhead-esses, apologies for the initial exclusion, and led by a dullard. That government.

We’re taking all the money we currently send overseas for ‘good causes’ and spending it on tanks and bombs instead. So all those poor people around the world will have to eat bullets. And our military will come back to its former glory. So we can attack Russia. Or America. Same difference, currently. But what will happen to all that overseas aid? How will the Gazan children get properly radicalised if UNWRA don’t have the cash to make suicide vests? How will all those charity sector CEOs maintain their mid-to-high six-figure salaries if the money’s cut for starving people in Africa? I actually find myself in the rather unusual and somewhat uncomfortable position of agreeing with Kier Starmer.

Time to put the kettle on and drink some tea rather than iron and lead!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

When I went to summer camp, aged about 14, I spent some time snogging. Its what you do when you’re 14. Hours of it. Sometimes with other people. And one gel who was rather cute had what could be called ‘a slight overbite’. Not the full Bugs Bunny, just a bit toothy, in a good way. And at some point we snogged. And you could feel those teeth and…

Anyway, that experience has made me overly sensitive to the slightly Claudia Schiffery, mildly toothy look in women. Of course, once I married, I became monsnogamous, so my days of going weak at the knees at the sight of someone’s incisors are long gone.

And all because, none do that toothy thing finer than Felicity Jones. Who stars in the Brutalist, alongside Adrian Brody. Who is overendowed in other facial regions. In a good way. And who is, quite frankly, brilliant in the incredible and wonderfully drawn out, 3-and-a-half hour epic, which is that movie.

The filming is beautiful. And although the action is fast-paced, the film goes in a sort of ‘reverse bullet time’ in which what should take 3 minutes takes 9, but you never feel its dragging. Brody, as the fictional Laszlo Toth, ponders every question before answering. A visual, silent, deliberation prior to reply. So you just relax to the pace of it all and as a consequence, its doesn’t really feel like a long film at all. More like ‘a short day’.

And although its not a ‘holocaust film’ in the usual sense, it is very much so in the way it portrays how lives were massively affected by it. The agony of refugees, the searching for cultural identity and acceptance, the physical after-effects, most notably on Mrs Toth, (Felicity with the teeth), and subtly, on Laszlo’s fragile mental state.

Its also about an architect fighting for ‘the integrity of his design’. Which is what all films about architects are about. Mainly because if you made a movie about an architect sitting in front of his drawing board for 19 hours, that would seem overly long.

And its quite dark. And at times… brutal.

Quite simply, if you like movies, you just HAVE to see the Brutalist. And you won’t be disappointed. I’m always wary of movies which seem to be ‘running away with the awards’ because I’m very cynical about Hollywood motives and the manipulation of critics, who, after all, are only one opinion. Bit like me, really. One opinion.

Happy Monday

A xxxx