Andy's Glasses

A word of good cheer for the inevitably miserable, depressed, suicidal and gloomy Arsenal fans. Just when those poor devils thought that yet another season under the management of the depressing Frenchman was set to end, yet again, with absolutely nothing to show for it, other than how awful their team is, a little good news for them. Because on Thursday night, whilst they were absent from the Emirates, but somehow still counted among the “58,000” (which looked like about 25,000) slitting their wrists during the second horrendous humiliation by Manchester City in 4 days, elsewhere they were holding the ‘prestigious’ London Football Awards. And the great news for Gunners is that a. the award for ‘women’s player of the year’ went to one of their own, and b. it wasn’t given to Mezut Ozil but to an actual woman called Jordan Nobbs. So there we are; something else to put in their trophy cabinet to please the fans who aren’t actually going any more but appear, numerically, to be there anyway. Well done Arsenal!

And its cold out. Its amazingly, incredibly, horrendously fucking cold out. Today is ‘warmer’ by reaching a lofty 1.5 degrees ABOVE freezing. Poor Rachie in Berlin is enjoying -12. Lucky she comes from really tough and heroic stock or she’d be on the first flight to Barbados. But with the snow and ice comes a degree of difficulty. Which they manage to manage in Canada, gives them no problem in Sweden or Norway, is just a way-of-life in parts of China, but over here causes a simply amazing and incredible amount of absolute disasters. Ok, we’re not as familiar with snow as perhaps the Swiss or the French, but fuck me, we are just hopeless. And the worst thing of all is not what happens but how unbelievably slow the authorities are to act. In any meaningful way. Sending a bobby on a bike to a motorway pile up involving 63 cars is some way short of actually ‘solving’ the problem. Having 17 chin-stroking jobsworths in hi-vis jackets standing around drinking tea next to a train full of people that’s been stuck for 18 hours is not the same as any kind of ‘action’.

Its the same in ‘normal’, non-Arctic times. There’s an accident on a road. So the police shut off 2 of the 3 lanes for ‘elf’n’safety’ concerns, then stand around for 12 hours looking at the wreck whilst traffic builds up for 23 miles behind them.

Our people are simply great, possibly world leaders, at ‘stopping things’ when it gets a bit hairy. But everyone concerned, the people sitting in cars immobile for 15 hours in the New Forest, those stuck on trains in Weymouth, they’re concerned with getting off, getting out, getting warm and safe and dry and fed. They want to go home.

So yesterday, when a train stopped just outside Lewisham station in south London, after 2 hours, in the freezing cold, being told nothing and just watching yellow jackets walking back and forth outside, the passengers took it upon themselves to break a door open and ‘escape’ onto the tracks. Ok, which were live at the time, but fucking good luck to them. They walked the 200 yards to Lewisham even though the police were called to prevent this ‘decidedly unsafe action’ from occurring. But if the authorities consistently do nothing about the people involved in disasters, then quite frankly, fuck ’em. At least being electrocuted would be warmer than freezing to death. And certainly quicker.

Well done once more to Arsenal, and happy Saturday

A xxxx

Now this is proper snow. Its not two-and-a-half millimetres of ‘the wrong kind of snow’ which fucks up trains from Yarmouth to Inverness, its not just a ‘light scattering’ as we normally get for about 10 minutes before it melts. No. This is proper. This is close-the-schools, build-a-snowman, get yer sledge out, stay-at-home and don’t drive if you can avoid it, snow. The full Canadian. We have ‘red’ weather warnings. We don’t normally get past yellow. Even though the snow’s still white. And people don’t have a clue how to drive in the snow.

Coming up through Hampstead last night an Uber driver had stopped where he really shouldn’t have stopped, at the bottom of a snow-covered and icy hill, so he could pick someone up, blocking the road for all. But when he drove off he did so at about 8mph. Oh, careful. No, fucking ignorant. You need to maintain your momentum going up a hill in the snow/ice and that speed don’t do it. You drive as fast as you can til you start sliding. Then you enjoy that slide, do a couple of 360s, if its safe, then slow down a bit and you’re fine.

The snow didn’t stop the fun at Wembley last night. Spurs played their cup replay against Rochdale and won 6-1. The score is irrelevant, the game was irrelevant, the real ‘star’ of the show was the VAR. The Video Assistant Referee. And that bastard caused delays of 8 minutes during the whole game.

I don’t care that Lamela’s goal was deemed not to be a goal; we scored plenty. I don’t care that we won a penalty that the ref hadn’t given because the VAR showed it to be so. As we all know, only limp-wristed tossers, mentally-impaired whingers and serial child-molesters blame all the game’s ills on poor refereeing. The ‘normal’ among us accept refereeing decisions as just part of the game. And right or indeed wrong, it don’t waste 8 fucking minutes when you’re sitting in -4 degrees of blizzard and not being informed why and what the VAR hath spoken.

We don’t need VAR. Its only to appease low-life excuse-mongers desperate to keep their jobs. And those who think that VAR is some kind of ‘god’, some ‘absolute’ that is perfect and beyond question, are so wrong. It just gives the whingers something new to moan about and they’ll be constantly demanding to increase its scope, causing yet more delays.

Happy snowy Lila-day

A xxxx

London has turned into a winter wonderland. Which is gorgeous, long as you don’t have to go out. From inside it is beautiful, peaceful, WARM and sunny. Out there its fucking hell. Ice and snow, trains cancelled, tubes disrupted, roads closed, cars crashed, slush and slip, cold and messy. And as my ‘worst man-flu ever’, personal epidemic, enters its third week, still having minor problems regulating my body temperature as I alternate between ‘shivers’ and ‘too hot’, both at the same time, getting dressed for this weather poses problems. You put on 19 layers, cover everything except your eyeballs and you’re fine. Til you get on the tube. Then you sweat. Like a mo’fo. So you unpeel, stopping only when you reach underpants and vest as optimum clothing for the temperature. By which time you’re half way there and need to start putting it all back on so you don’t freeze at the other end. And if that doesn’t piss off everyone else on the carriage, coughing repeatedly all over them certainly does. But heh, this isn’t about making friends.

Going to the Hampstead Theatre tonight to see ‘Dry Powder’. Supposed to be really good, stars Hayley Atwell and was booked months ago. Before… the disease! If I can manage to stay awake and not cough all over the stage I’ll consider it a result. And if the coughing doesn’t piss everyone else off then checking the football score at Wembley for Spurs Cup replay certainly will. Again; not about making friends.

Europe used to be our friends. Until we decided we’re not going to play with them any more. Which was a bit like cancelling a gym membership because it seems a bit expensive, and then realising that cancelling would mean you can’t actually go to that gym any more. We want to leave Europe and stop paying them all that ridiculous money. Yet still want all the benefits that the money used to reap. That’s half the team. The others want no ‘benefits’ whatsoever, want complete autonomy from Europe in every sense, keep your trade deals and your open borders, stick your zero tariff up your collective jacksy, we’re off to play with Japan and China and America!!! (Europe currently accounts for about 75% of our trade, the rest of the world, 2.6%. I’m not a mathematician.)

If we actually had a collective plan on what we really wanted, that might help. But we don’t. And even if we did those Euro-bastards would probably veto all of it. Other than that; its all going really well.

Right, I can delay no longer, gotta start getting dressed for the journey. Should be out in an hour. Or two.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

For most of my adult life the nation of Belgium has played way less than even a ‘bit part’. Ok, as a kid we used to go to Knocke-Zoute in the summers to freeze my pre-pubescent testicles in the North Sea, and in fact had some great holidays. But Butlins in Bognor Regis counts as a ‘great holiday’ for kids so the bar is not that high. But then suddenly, the world became Belgium. Well, the footballing world became Belgium. Having never had one Premiership player from that nation, suddenly one arrived. Can’t remember who, possibly Thomas Vermaelen, maybe Vincent Kompany, followed swiftly by our very own Jan Vertongen. All centre backs, all brilliant, all of the new, ball-playing, attack-minded variety. Not the ‘solid as a rock’ (and moves about as quickly) type as centre backs once were, these were a new breed. Imported from Europe’s least significant nation (other than Luxembourg, obviously). The floodgates opened. In came Fellaini, all 6 foot nine to the top of his affro and Nacer Chadli and Moussa Dembele, Ramelu Lukaku, Benteke, followed by even more simply brilliant players, Eden Hazard, Kevin (all bow) de Bruyne, Toby Alderweireld, Thiebald Courtois, all with stupid names and all wonders of the modern game. Ok, maybe not Benteke, but he tries.

But what really sets the Belges apart from ‘normal’ footballers is that they are, in the main, way more intelligent. Perfect English is a given, but they speak in sentences, they’re funny, they’re humble and they’re clever. And the cleverest of all, the nicest of all and probably, over the years, the absolute best of all, is Vincent Kompany. For whom I’ve had a man-crush for years. Because he is the perfect footballer. Big, strong, no-nonsense and ‘ard-as-nails, but always sporting, clean as a whistle with not a thuggish bone in his body. And a leader. Such a leader. The type of leader that every team wants and Arsenal haven’t had since Tony Adams and Patrick Vieira left the game.

Yet Vincent (as I call him) is old. 31. And has sustained 41 injuries in his time here as captain of Manchester City and Belgium’s national team. And his manager, Pep Guardiola, knows the value of a true leader. As he appreciated at Barcleona with Carles Puyol, always playing the man even when pumped up with painkillers and strapped from head to foot. Thus did an ‘as fit as he can be’ Kompany lead Manchester City out for yesterday’s (whatever-) Cup Final. And he was dominant, outstanding, totally in control and brilliant and even scored a great goal.

I cried. Ok, only on the inside, but it was a simply magnificent moment in the outstanding career of a true legend of the game.

City won 3-0. Same score that Arsenal lost by. Hmmm. But really it actually looked like Arsenal lost by a far greater margin. According to Wenger, his team were beaten by two dodgy refereeing decisions for the first 2 goals. I think Arsene had been watching a different game to everyone else. Which actually made his pathetic comments sound more desperate than the usual just plain stupid.

And Spurs beat poor Palace. Which was almost even more brilliant that a dozen Caribou Cup Finals, or Carabou or whatever.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Friday night is ‘special’. Anyone can do it but for Jews its always special. Its a family night. A get together. And we celebrate the start of the sabbath (drink whisky), re-align with the spiritual world (eat chopped liver) and re-affirm our closeness with God (that’ll be the roast chicken then). And its a wonderful tradition and its delightfully inclusive in that if you hear of any ‘strays’ knocking around on a Friday night, or friends of the kids in town or anyone worthy, you get them involved. Even if they’re unworthy fucking freeloaders, you do what you have to. Because its nice. And for some reason food never tastes quite as good as it does on Friday night.

And last night I didn’t go. As Friday nights have been moved to Lila’s house so we don’t have to move her, when I arrived home from work, I parked my bike and thought… BED! Along with ‘warm’ and ‘unmoving’ and ‘sleep’. Its probably the first Friday night dinner I’ve missed in my entire 61 years, other than holidays. Of which there have been a few, I grant you.

Because, in medical parlance, I felt like shit. Worse than shit. Like… Donald Trump’s shit.

I’ve had some undefinable, persistent, horrible condition for about 2 weeks. And because of staff shortages, I’ve had to go to work every day, when really I should have been at home with a team of nurses, doctors and masseuses, or in a hospital. But in the mornings I feel relatively ok. I cough a bit, but otherwise quite normal. Then as the day progresses I get achy, shivery, cold, hot and the coughing increases horribly, which means every muscle in my body gets strained. Even the ones that were aching from the flu symptoms. And I get really tired. Like, ridiculously tired. The journey home, 45 minutes of relatively easy travel, felt like the homecoming of Odysseus.

I was asleep by 7.30 last night, just couldn’t stay awake, needed to be warm. Then of course I woke up drenched in sweat, but that’s fine because I don’t have to go anywhere. I slept for about 12 hours. A record. Though Lila’s beaten that and she’s only had 10 months to compete.

No tennis, no martial arts, no nuffink. I’m officially ‘resting’. Other than an appointment with a doctor this afternoon. Only opening my eyes for the rugby and for tomorrow’s virtual entire day of football on tv. Its like the Gods of Sky knew I’d need mindless entertainment so saved 3 entire matches, all really exciting prospects, for my special day.

When man-flu becomes just flu, you know there’s a problem. If I was a horse they’d shoot me. And if I was a French horse, they’d then eat me. So it could be worse. Just doesn’t feel that’s possible.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

In the wake of the latest (of sooooo many) high school shootings, last week in Florida, Trump has come up with a brilliant solution. And perfectly in keeping with the ‘old lady who swallowed a fly’ paradigm I mentioned last week. Let’s arm the teachers! Brilliant. And brilliantly American; the way to cope with too many guns is to increase the number of guns. Simple. You do the maths. And also increase ‘gun control’ by adding a new question to the pre-purchase questionaire: “are you a fucking nut-job or total psycho? (Answer Y/N)”.

The odd thing is that the rest of the world simply can’t understand the American obsession with its second amendment. We just don’t get it. And they, on the other hand, can’t understand how anyone wouldn’t want all the firepower they could wish to own.

They banned guns in Scotland after the Dunblaine massacre and since then there have been no mass shootings at schools. Same in Australia; guns banned, shoot-ups finished. But that is simply not an option in America. You hear gun lobbyists and they justify, they defend and they just live on another planet. One in which the possession of weapons does NOT in any way positively correlate to the amount of gun-crime generally and school shoot-ups specifically. “Naaaah, that’s NOTHING to do with people owning automatic rifles, bump-stocks, grenade launchers, armour piercing rocket shells, nothing whatsoever”. They make wonderful analogies like ‘YOU DON’T BAN CARS FROM SOBER DRIVERS JUST BECAUSE OF THE DRUNK ONES!!’ They simply don’t get the link.

Firstly because they’re all, effectively, paid handsomely to defend gun laws, by political donations from the NRA, and secondly because guns are not viewed over there in the same way as everywhere else. We would see ‘a gun’. They would see a ‘Colt 45; nice piece, high-powered, bit of kick on it, have one myself but mine’s gold-plated with a hide covered handle and cow horns on the front sight’. They live guns, which become something of a status symbol in certain parts, both the quality of weapon and the quantity and variety. ‘This is my deer-hunting rifle, this ones for boar, those 3 for high schools and that one there is for intruders, burglars, trespassers and ni- other things’. They clean them, count them, polish them, engrave them and have family trips to gun shops to buy, to look or to simply drool. And that is the environment that their kids grow up in. And really, unless that stops, or at least options become more limited in terms of assault rifles and automatic killing machines, then kids will continue to die for nothing.

Because Americans, it would appear, choose their right to hold guns over the lives of the nations’s children.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Here’s the rules for ‘giant-killing’ in Cup Football.

1. The Giants killed must ALWAYS be someone else’s team.
2. The Giant-killers must be lower league rubbish, preferably from Up North.
3. The relative monetary values of the 2 teams must be HUGELY different.
4. The giant-killing is greatly enhanced by the arrogance of the giants. By their attitude of entitlement to success. Even if that success is not due to the history of a football club tracing its roots back to the Battle of Hastings, but more due to the ‘investment’ by a bored Emirates playboy billionaire looking for a new toy about 10 years ago.

So how is any of this relevant to the match last night between Wigan and Manchester City?

Nottingham Forest were ‘giant-killers’ in the previous rounds. They beat Arsenal. So a team who lives in the top half, maybe even 7th/8th type position, of the Premier league, gets beat by a team from the next division down. Giants duly killed. Albeit only Arsenal.

But Manchester City? I’ll repeat: MANCHESTER CITY??? Who are being hailed this year, as they run away with the league and not just beat all who come before them, but trounce them, as not merely ‘the best team in England’ but actually, possibly, the ‘best team EVER in England’. Holy shit! And they went to Wigan and got beat. A lowly ‘First Division’ side, which is two whole leagues below the Premiership upon the very pinnacle of which sit Manchester City. So far at the pinnacle that Jose Morinho, manager of second placed Manchester United, has been on anti-depressants since October. And they’re not working because he still depresses me every time he opens his mouth.

I was just kind’a watching the second half of the match, amazed it was still 0-0, and was semi-distracted. But was then gripped. Wigan were amazing. Against the team who score more goals than everyone else put together, this bunch of lowly northern half-wits were keeping City out by sheer grit and determination. To such an extent that Pep unleashed Kevin de Bruyne from the bench. So the Wigan boys, exhausted after 70 minutes of constant defending, have to face the fresh legs of the best player in the league. Yet even he couldn’t create his magic. Whereas at the other end, grossly over-valued full-back, Kyle Walker, showed exactly why he was no longer good enough to play for Spurs and gave the ball away to a Wigan guy who, cool-as-ya-like, scored the winning goal.

The stuff of dreams. The fuel of legends. The magic of the Cup.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

The first road trip you simply have to do from LA, by law, is to Las Vegas. How can you not? Its so close. In that American way of being close on a really big map but hundreds of miles of endless driving to actually get there. Though its worth it. Even though I don’t gamble. Not really, I’ll stick a few quid into a slot machine, you just have to, compulsory, but actual gamblin’? Naah. But we would go to Vegas for a weekend to save money. It worked like this.

In the LA Times there were always offers to entice people to Vegas. If you had a hotel with 9,000 rooms in it, you’d want a few bods kickin’ round. And the hotel rooms they’ll gladly give away, so they can make their real money from the gambling. So they offer ‘room at the Flamingo Hilton, $20 a night!!!’. And five of us go. One room. The rooms are massive, several double beds and we only used to sleep a bit anyway. And worked out that if you change, say, another 20 dollars into quarters and sit at a machine, they keep bringing you drinks. Free, obvs. In the UK its illegal to ply gamblers with free booze, but over there?? So we put a few bucks in a blackjack machine, and you win and you lose and you win, and after 3 hours you’re either ahead $2.50 or down $3.64. And you’re blind drunk from the endless margaritas, beers, JD & cokes, whatever. You then take your money to the ‘all you can eat’ buffets that all the hotels do, and pig out all you need. Fill a bag. Fill your car. And best of all, Vegas is in the desert. Always hot, always sunny. So you spend the day getting over your hangover at a massive pool in glorious climate.

Me mate Paul had worked for a car hire franchise. And despite what you think, the car that you pick up in LA and drop off in San Francisco is not always just part of some great global ‘stock’ which all ‘balances out in the end’, that ain’t the case. Paul’s Dollar Car franchise, on Hollywood Boulevard, was one of 3 privately owned by one guy. Who owned all their stock. So when some bastard from Texas chose to drop his Chevy rental in San Francisco or Palm Springs, or even Vegas, to fly home from there, those cars needed to be collected and returned to base. And when Paul left Dollar he stayed friendly with the owner and was ‘on a list’ of people to call up when cars needed collecting. And off we’d go, to some great but not too far destination. Best of all, Byron, the owner, had a plane that he flew. ‘Just’ a twin engine turbo-prop but still a really cool, and pretty useful way of getting relatively long distances quickly. So along I’d tag to pick up various cars (love cars) from various places (love places) whenever schedules and needs aligned.

We did San Francisco, we did Palm Springs, we did lots of California. Free ride there, all the tourist shit you can do in a day/2 days, free wheels back.

But if there was anything better than traveling and other people’s American cars, it was, to a 25-year-old me, women. And the best place in the world, so it seemed, to meet and acquire such things was at the pool at our apartment building on good ole Hollywood Boulevard. The building wasn’t called ‘Decadence Central’, nor ‘If this is Hell then that’s where I wanna live’, but it should have been.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I never believe I’m ill. Even when evidence may exist to the contrary (throwing up, fever, sweats) I just think ‘naahh’. Just soldier on, you’ll be fine. Cos I am Man. And therefore pretty stupid, by design. So when Saturday came, as it often does at the end of a week, rather than take the opportunity to just rest and do nothing, I gave in to a temporary ‘feel good’ and went to tai chi for my usual 8.15 class and from there to tennis. Which I had to, because the sun was shining. And having played for the last 4 months in various degrees of damp/wet/cold/grey/horrible, to play in the sunshine when the courts aren’t covered in ice was too much to resist.

Mistake really. I ran out of energy that I never really had to begin with, came home and slept. And to show you how really ill I really am, I cancelled my booking for today. I’d never do that unless in a semi-delerious state. And I’m still coughing. Not all the time but it sounds horrible. And I cough up stuff that I’m not sure whether to spit into the toilet or take to the council dump. Nice.

Lucky I’m not an actor then, having to film sex scenes. Cos you wouldn’t want my saliva at the moment. Even if normally that is something you find appealing?

But new guidelines are being drawn up in Hollywood to protect actors and actresses from… well from EVERYTHING. In a typical over-reaction as we enter the post-Weinstein era, any touching between any two humans in any capacity whatsoever will now produce a ‘me too’ reaction and the ensuing legal action. Obviously. Everyone tends to over-react to big events and Hollywood normally over-reacts to everything. So the combination is severe.

In kissing scenes no saliva shall change… hands? Ok, no exchange of saliva. Presumably along with any other bodily fluids that might normally, in pre-me-too times, have been acceptable. No more. We need to protect actors of all genders, sexualities and combinations of the three. Or more. As yet undiscovered. Hmmm.

And all because ‘sexual abuse must stop!!’ as of course it must. Not that mere legislation can effect such a thing. Sexual abuse has never exactly been ‘legal’ or ‘part of the contract’ and that doesn’t seem to have prevented much. But is sex simulation in a movie that is part of the script, is that ‘abuse’ or any other of the terrible me-too things to occur? Acting is difficult, which is why when someone does it really well they become big. You should never be watching ‘acting’, you should only be aware of the character. And if that character is totally believable then the actor is doing a great job. But what if that totally believable character wants to have sex with another totally believable character who loves him/her/it/them/any of the above?? Then they have to be protected from ‘abuse’. Like touching. Snogging. Fondling. Because that’s abuse. So Hollywood needs to produce a metaphor for sex. In the old days that was ‘cut to the post-coital cigarette’. But smoking is now more of an abuse than raping a gerbil so you can’t use that. Maybe fondling at a suitable distance away. About a foot should do it. That should be safe.

Or you could just cut out all sex scenes until some vestige of normality has returned to the purveyors of silver screen entertainment after all the real horrors revealed of late.

I’m wonder if they’ll remake Blue is the Warmest Colour just to show how easy it could all be.

Happy, healthy Sunday

A xxxx

It was about this time that Steve’s girlfriend arrived in LA. She was a gel, whose name I’m struggling with at the moment, but it’ll come. But as a gel she was unhappy with the level of provisions in their flat. So she wanted to do a ‘shop’. A big shop. And neither Steve nor Joey had a car in LA. Presumably ‘hit men’ don’t use cars or if they do they just rent them or steal them. Steve had his motorcycle shipped over from New York, but that wasn’t much use for ‘big shopping’. Though for all else, it was fantastic. A massive Kawasaki 1100, loud, fast, fabulous. The girlfriend borrowed my car. No problem, I said, I need it for 6 to go to work. “Phah”, she said, “I’ll be back long before then”, as it was about 3 o’clock and the supermarket was one block away. By 5.45 ‘no problem’ had become a potential problem. By 6 it was indeed a real problem. And at 10 past 6 Steve gave me the keys to his bike. Which I’d ridden before but never properly ‘borrowed’. He loved that bike whereas I had nothing but contempt for my car.

And after that we simply ‘car-pooled’. Or ‘bike-pooled’. Just take whatever’s there. And if I got to the bike first, where was the tragedy if I chose the $20,000 bike and kindly left 250 bucks’ worth of Detroit garbage? As I pulled into the car park at the College on a balmy night (they’re all balmy), helmetless (cos I was stupid and there was no ‘helmet law’ in California in 1982), I was indeed the coolest dude that’s ever been in my head.

Saturday Night Live is an American institution. Has been since it started in the 1970s. Its still on now, with Alec Baldwin providing endless amusement as Pres. Trump. By 1982 the show was fielding regular stars like Eddie Murphy, just before he hit the movies. SNL has always been a massive springboard for comedy talent. But I didn’t watch the ‘new’ ones, I was generally out at 10 on a Saturday night. But on the ‘local’ tv channels (as opposed to the networks) they showed the ‘old’ SNLs every night. From the late 70s. And they starred Dan Aykroyd, Chevi Chase, John Belushi, Bill Murray, Steve Martin, all before they became mainstream ‘stars’. I would always watch it when in, they were brilliant. Of course I knew Belushi and Aykroyd from the Blues Brothers (which started as a sketch on SNL) movie and Animal House, Bill Murray from Stripes, but to see them all in early mode, rough cut, unscripted, was fantastic.

And then my hero, John Belushi, died. At Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard, couple of blocks from where I was living. He basically snorted himself up his own nostrils. Had a problem. Being John Belushi, it was a big problem. If you’re interested in his incredible life, there’s a biography by Bob Woodward (of Watergate fame) called ‘Wired: the short life and fast times of John Belushi’, which is as manic as it is amazing.

So you know what you do when your feeling doomy and gloomy? As Belushi said himself in Animal House: “ROAD TRIP!!!”

And we had a few.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx