Andy's Glasses

I simply cannot understand the appeal of Jeremy Corbyn. Let me rephrase that: I fucking hate Jeremy Corbyn. Yet people support him and his toxic, evil, destabilising views.

In the wake of the ‘Salisbury affair’ Corbyn remained defiant in defending the right of Russia’s presumed innocence after 2 people, hated by Putin, were found near-death after ingesting military grade Russian nerve agent.

Then last weekend after Assad (with his lovely allies; da Russians and da Iranians) dropped chemical bombs on a civilian population in Douma killing at least 70, Corbyn came up with some wise old words. Sadly, long after everyone else had come up with far more understandable recriminations and offered more pragmatic actions. But eventually, with everyone saying “but you MUST say something!! Its an atrocity; people have died!!!” Jeremy finally stepped up as ‘the statesman’. And said that we need to find evidence first, investigate before condemning and the solution to this problem must be achieved round a negotiating table after a cease-fire”.

What a total fucking tosser.

In fact I think the current status in Syria is one of ‘cease-fire’, maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, the words are empty and meaningless with Assad/Putin/Ayatollah. They do as they please, when they please.

And its Putin’s presence in the mix that gives Jeremy his issues. He simply can’t condemn a man who is a ‘communist’. Albeit, allegedly a man richer than every single capitalist in the world. Thus ‘the cause’ of communism/socialism/whatever becomes more important to Corbyn that the lives a few children.

I suppose no-one’s ever thought of ‘peaceful negotiation’ before. What an inspiration he is.

Oddly, his very strong sense of ‘never comment until you are SURE of all facts’ only seems to apply when Russia is involved. When Israeli soldiers killed 7 Gazans, who it now comes to light were part of a 3000 strong army under Hamas leadership attacking the Israel border with violent intentions, Corbyn was the first off his blocks shouting his condemnation and demanding action. Yet for lovely Mr Assad, with his long history of chemicals-against-the-masses, he is far more equivocal.

I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: I hate that man.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

What can we do about Manchester City? They have a ‘massive problem’. Ok, not in line with chlorine attacks in Syria, the imminent war with Russia, the gender ‘pay gap’, but still, its a problem. The team have won the league. The hardest, most competitive league in the world (Bayern Munich just won the Bundesliga for the 6th consecutive time, Celtic are about to win the Scottish league as they’ve done every year for 9 decades, Real Madrid and Barcelona pretty much win every Spanish title and no-one cares about the French), and City had it wrapped up last October. They might have faltered against Liverpool, buckled against Man United and (may it please the Lord) get FUCKING HAMMERED AT WEMBLEY NEXT WEEKEND, but its a done deal. Though it is a bit odd that the team I myself even called ‘the best club team in the world… probably’ have started to show vulnerability and even fragility. And from a fan’s perspective (the only one I have) the vulnerability against Liverpool hurts but the fragility against Man United simply kills. No fan wants ever to be on the receiving end of “2-nil, and you fucked it up, 2-nil…” (repeat until the pubs have closed and the last buses long gone back to the depot). Because after that, and I speak from a vast experience, you stop trusting your team even when they have a ‘great lead’. You live in a state of panic. You start hearing things at your ground from fellow fans, just after we’ve taken a 1-nil lead, like: ‘oooh, that’s a bit too early for us to score really’. At 3-nil up you’re really worried.

Spurs used to be like that. For decades. Fragile. Unpredictable in adversity. Unable to close out matches. And yet now I have a confidence in them, in the players, in their mind-set, in the way they play, that I’m comfortable with. I don’t get in (so much of) a panic when we’re 2-0 up and concede a goal in the 63rd minute. Well, only momentarily, perhaps. But I have faith. I believe. And trust me, that’s new.

And attributable to Daniel Levy. The club’s chairman. Who just received a yearly pay award of 6 million quid. And as he’s famously ‘mean’ about player wages to the extent where no-one quite knows how he manages to ‘underpay’ (100,000 a week?? Underpay???? But heh, this is football) our array of superstars, but he does and keeps them happy. He found us the absolute best manager in the world who, coincidentally, earns a similar amount, which is a total bargain. And he’s building us the best stadium in the league for next year.

What Toby Alderweireld thinks he’s worth is irrelevant here. Its like bemoaning Stephen Spielberg earning more than Kate Winslet. Its not comparable. Daniel Levy is the boss. He can earn what he wants. He runs a massive, multi-million pound company which turns a very healthy profit and keeps me very happy. His pay is simply not comparable to ‘the talent’. However talented they may be or think they are or, worse still, their agents think they are. Its facile and stupid to compare salaries of people doing completely different jobs.

Happy Monday and if someone says ‘we need more rain’ at any time in the next 6 months, I’m going to kill them.

A xxxx

The White House has a weekly Bible Support Group meeting. So the cabinet can get nearer to Christ. They won’t address the gun-laws which result in the death of hundreds of children each year, but they want to be next to Christ. So they can have Jesus and Donald, kind’a ‘together’. Wow. One turning the other cheek whilst the other puts his hand up skirts to find the other cheek. That’s a kind of symbiosis in itself. Its the first time such weekly meetings have been held there for over 100 years.

And with good reason. Mainly that you really don’t want bible-bashers having any influence on the running of a country. Ever. In any circumstances. Whatever fucking version of the ‘bible’ they choose. Because then you end up with Iran. Or the Taleban. Or to a lesser but more common degree, with Ireland (both Northern and the Republic) and even parts of America itself.

Because the bible imposes restrictions that have no modern right to be there. Its regressive. Its a story-book of allegorical, fictional tales and once you start treating it with any kind of literalism then you’re fucked. And its also, in case you missed it, the most easily manipulated rule-book ever. It can justify almost any atrocity, from burning gays to Apartheid, from Female Genital Mutilation to ISIS, with anti-contraception, banning abortion and female repression all thrown in for free.

There is no mention in any bible of ‘Tottenham Hotspur’. And they’re God’s own team! So how valid can it be?

The dude who runs the White House bible classes offers great insights. He says that ‘homosexuality is not supported by the scriptures’. Like ‘flash player is not supported by Windows 7’. His groups are run by various ministers, but never by women. Again, incompatible, will not compute. Women are in charge of the children but NOT anything churchish or prayish. Its in the scriptures, so it must be obeyed.

As if the White House wasn’t fucked up enough.

Meanwhile, Manchester, last night, OMG. Amazing game, wrong result only because it gave Morinho the right to be even smugger than normal. If that’s possible. But the BIG GAME was at Stoke. And a brilliant and totally deserved result for my boys. Whatever anyone else says.

Tennis rained off agaiaiaiain! Terrible. I’m going to find a bible class instead.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So a robber breaks into a home at night. Living there is an old couple. The husband is threatened with a screwdriver by one burglar while the other goes upstairs, where lies disabled wife, to find the ‘swag’. A melee ensues in the kitchen and the 78-year-old home owner stabs the burglar once resulting in the scumbag’s death. I make no judgments or preconceptions. Innocent until proven whatever, even if you’re a serial burgling low-life preying on the elderly. As was, errr, coincidentally, the case here.

The police arrested the old man for murder.

And the entire country went: WTF???

Murder. Which involves its own implicit level of preconception, otherwise its manslaughter. So this 78-year-old went to bed and what? Phoned a few burglars up to get one round so he could stab him? He went to the kitchen with the express purpose in mind of committing a deadly sin?

He has since been released to face ‘no further charges’. But really. I mean, REALLY!

The man should have instantly been proclaimed a hero, presented with a medal for valour and given a peerage for ‘helping the community’ by getting rid of at least one totally parasitical, nasty criminal shit-head.

If you stab a man on the street, or a woman (must remember not to discriminate next time I’m looking for a stab-victim), that’s generally a bad thing. On the grounds of ‘why were you carrying a knife?’ But when someone comes into your home with bad intentions and weapons, then I’m afraid all bets are off. You can gun the fucker down. But probably don’t have a gun. Unless you’re Tony Martin and he ended up in prison. Which was the most unpopular move ever perpetrated by police except the repeated shooting of black men in their backs. But that was American police and they have different rules.

So the law, as I understood it (10% information gleaned from the Daily Mail, 90% guesswork), changed after that case so that if intruders are in your home, the force you use may indeed be ‘disproportionate’. Which to me says ‘you can kill who you like in your own house’. So be careful next time you pop in for a cuppa tea. Not that I’m inviting you.

Everyone’s excited about the game tonight. If Manchester City beat Manchester United at Old Trafford they not only win the league but do it at the home of their neighbours/rivals. The final insult. Like when Arsenal won it at Spurs. Like a kick in the teeth. Like stabbing a burglar. Whereas I’m more concerned with the truly massive game at Stoke this afternoon. Every game Spurs play is now a 6-pointer, if not more. And we don’t want Stoke having some kind of ‘resurgence’ at this point in their sad and doomed lives.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Its amazing how fast you can hit the floor. I’d thought that my extensive training in tai chi would have me totally in control of all bodily movements without even thinking about it. We practice ‘falling over’ all the time. How to fall painlessly, how to fall in control and be up again to defend or attack pretty much instantly, how to roll, anything you may need in a fight. But not, apparently, in a fight with a protruding paving stone. So my back foot hit the stone, my front foot having leapt into action that I might catch the really annoying pedestrian lights by Farringdon station that were green and only about 30 yards away and if you miss them you have to wait an horrendously impatient 3 minutes (feels like a fucking hour) before they change again.

And that sudden change in my momentum was like the carpet being pulled out from under me. I just went down. Splattt!!!! as Batman would say. Glasses flying, both knees BANG! onto the concrete, hands out in front. I jumped up (avoiding the karate stance, thought I might appear even more stupid in the circumstances), some nice people offering assistance to the old man, someone else handing me my glasses, another asking as to my wellbeing. Oddly, I was fine. And said so. Thanks very much. You’ve all be really wonderful. And I ran off again and still caught the light change. It happened that quickly. Then I took stock.

Trousers a little dirty but not torn. Good thing. Though both knees smarting. Ah, my right knuckles seem to be bleeding. Quite a lot. Never mind, hold a tissue there. Fine. Well, what a lucky feller I woz.

Then I noticed that my left hand, holding the tissue against my bleeding right, looked and felt a bit odd. The little finger, to be precise. It didn’t behave in the way I’d kind’a known it to behave in the previous 61 years. And it felt funny. Not funny ‘ha-ha’, just odd. A bit numb, a bit painful. At the same time. And was at a very slightly odd angle. But I could wiggle it and bend it so diagnosed it probably wasn’t broken.

But as it got more swollen and everyone at work said it needed an x-ray, I relented and spent a wonderful 2 hours at St Thomas’s hospital. Where it was confirmed that it was luckily neither broken nor dislocated, just badly sprained.

The A & E was actually remarkably brilliant. Ok, it takes time but they are wonderful, efficient and consistently charming and helpful. Even funny. Great people doing the most amazing job imaginable. And often unimaginable.

Happy Thursday, try to stay vertical if at all possible. Trust me, the alternatives are not nice.

A xxxx

Another day, another mass(ish) shooting in America. At YouTube’s hq in California this time. Fortunately (relatively) only 3 people were injured and it wasn’t at a school. This was on a different kind of ‘campus’. A Google campus.

But this shooter was different. This shooter was a woman. A gel. A female. Ya get the drift, I’m sure. The shooter was a ‘she’!

Yet in a world of equal opportunity, why shouldn’t it be? Its actually discriminatory to assume that all mass shooters are men. Or should be men. But really, if women do expect equal pay in the market-place, they need to compete on equal terms. Three people injured represents relatively low productivity for a ‘mass shooter’. I mean, 3 people shot is just a spilled beer on a Friday night in Tennessee. Its just a row over a parking space in Downtown Tallahassee.

Would you expect woman shooters to be neater? Clean up afterwards?

2 people were shot here on Monday night. Separate incidents but it made the headlines. In the States it probably wouldn’t even make the news. Done by a man or a woman.

But maybe there is change in the air. Because of the recent marches across America, the youth are protesting loudly and clearly about gun laws. And if for ‘youth’ you read ‘voters soon’ then at some point even the most retarded of NRA-funded Republicans must start to take note. As was noted on the marches, the right to bear (ridiculous, military-grade, automatic) weapons is more important than the right of children to be safe at school.

Some day… and then there’s just the small matter of the 320 million guns already in circulation out there.

More importantly, Liverpool play Man City tonight in the Champions League quarter final, first leg. And that is a mouth-watering prospect. The two most attacking teams in the country, the highest goal-scorers, the biggest… whatever. And whilst City might appear to have the slight advantage that they can often manage to defend at the same time, something slightly lacking in the Scousers (Scousers: Mo Saleh, Manio Sade, Roberto Firmino…), it promises to be wonderful.

Though I’m still drooling over Dele Alli’s first goal on Sunday. Even though Ronaldo scored with a wonderful bicycle kick last night. And I thought… nah, Dele’s better.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Lila was born on April 1st 2017. Later that day Spurs beat Burnley. And subsequently went on a Lila-inspired run that was simply awesome. Lila’s presence not only provided me with a new obsession, the family with a new toy and everyone else with the joy of a new baby, but created a new attitude at Tottenham Hotspur which lead us to finish second in the league last year.

So this year, on her first birthday, we really needed to emphasise not only her continued influence, but how far she has taken her team, with a little help from Mauricio Pochettino and a lot of breast milk.

Such was the setting for her birthday tea yesterday afternoon. At my house. And the tv was on simply because she has two 6 year-old, football-obsessed cousins who needed to see their team in the biggest game of the century. Otherwise we’d never do such a thing with guests around, even if 15 out of the 25 were die-hard Spurs fans. Not proper.

If you haven’t seen the statistics then you may not know that we hadn’t won at Chelsea for 27 years. The longest ‘haven’t won at-‘ run in football. That Chelsea always come back to win, whatever happens before. That the gods of football seem to abandon Spurs in one of the few grounds where gods are too intimidated to… errr… tread? float?? whatever gods do.

So the scene was set. And the one good thing about horrible records like that above is that at some point they simply have to get broken. Law of averages; balance of probabilities, chimps with typewriters, it just has to happen sometime. And what better time.

Chelsea went ahead in the first half. They didn’t deserve to, based on the run of play and the moral necessitude, but life’s not always fair. So just before half time a miracle occurred and Christian Eriksen scored a wondergoal to tie things up at the break.

Then we ate things. Lots of things. Drank more tea, lit the candles on Lila’s first ever birthday cake, stuffed our faces with everything except bread and had 15 minutes of edible insanity.

At about the hour mark Dele Alli scored (in my mind, and those of several others assembled) the goal of the season. A perfect 40 yard pass from Eric Dier which Dele beautifully pulled down with one little touch of his boot. With his next touch he slotted the ball inside the near post with a calm, assured confidence and level of skill that told all his recent detractors to simply fuck off. It was a thing of beauty. Greatly appreciated and admired by the Chelsea fans nearby.

His next goal came just 4 minutes later and was more the result of a team effort that was in excess of that shown by Chelsea, who were given ample opportunities to clear the ball but the Spurs players got there first every time. Which culminated in Dele very coolly slotting home.

At which point those assembled in my lounge let out a collective shout so loud and so strong that any normal baby would have burst out crying. In fact even our supernatural baby did so. Though whether this was due to the shock and noise of just the sheer emotion of Spurs being 3-1 up at Chelsea, we’ll never know. She was taken and comforted, we just went crazy bat-shit mental. Oh and worrying that there were still over 20 minutes left to play.

But we needn’t have feared. Chelsea had lost their sparkle, Spurs defence was monstrously good and it ended 1-3 to MY team.

What a birthday present for Lila. She got loads of presents, lots of fuss and 6 points for her team, effectively.

Ahhhhh, happiest Easter Monday

A xxxx

Lila is one year old today. How’d that even happen? One minute she’s a little pink soft thing and then suddenly… she’s a little pink soft thing. But one that crawls, eats, walks (with a LOT of help), points, grabs, gives you things, chews up the world and has a world of ‘character’, as they do. Its amazing. And she’s funny. Well I think so. Endlessly funny. Once she gets the whole ‘gravity’ thing, once she gets a grip of ’cause & effect’, that’ll change things a bit, but for now, Happy Birthday baby.

Meanwhile, on the day when the Times found a website, with 400,000 Corbyn devotees, that is a cesspit of anti-Semitic, holocaust-denying, anti-Isreal, ‘death-to-the-jews’ type rhetoric, I’d like to wish all the victims a happy Passover. This website, which doubtless Jezza and Johnny will claim they had nothing to do with, it just bears their names in the group title, but they probably ‘didn’t know’ about is the most evil thing yet about our Opposition Party in Government. So in protest, I’m going to share with you a little poem I wrote the other day. I was ‘commissioned’ for our Passover Seder, at which ‘the story’ is told every year, to tell the tale of ‘The Wandering Jew’. A phrase I’d heard but knew nothing about. Fortunately Wikepaedia knew lots.

It was way back when in biblical times, if you will believe,
Harry Kane and Abel, Adam and his lovely Eve.

But it wasn’t all Gardens of Eden, if you know what I mean
Living under the Romans wasn’t even Willesden Green

Like Jesus walking up a hill, on his back a great wooden cross
“Look at ‘im” said a nearby jew, “must’a really upset his boss.”

Jesus looked a’flame with anger, seething, could hardly speak
Not like previous times when he just turned the other cheek.

Then he found his voice and cursed this Jew to forever wander and roam
never to have a roof over his head, never to live in a home

And this for all eternity, at least til the second coming
and as the first was yet to occur the timescale was truly stunning

Hence the jew, a cobbler he was by trade,
set off on his travels, his very long future now completely unmade.

He now had two names though, if that was any consolation,
he was the wandering jew and the eternal jew, both in total damnation.

His tale would endure right down the years, in books and stories told
cropping up in every Christian country both new and indeed old.

But never, it must be said, with sympathy or any understanding
Always reviled, always hated and cursed, his smell notwithstanding.

The legend of the wandering jew thus was to subtly change
to a metaphor for resentment and hate, just like Julian Assange.

“ERE” they’d yell, “I’ve just seen the wandrin’ jew”, but of course, in Russian or Polish or Czech
“Let’s get him now, kick him to shit for wot ‘e done to Jesus; what the heck!!”

“Ok Igor, which way’d he go and what’s he bloody look like?”
“Ya can’t miss him, black hat, long beard, looks really like any old kike.”

Why did Jesus curse this man, lacking his normal genteel, gentile compassion?
Instead merely setting him up for often and royal thrashing?

Maybe Jesus was a Corbynite, filled with that Momentum hate
for the religion he rejected back then, but Christ, its never too late.

Provenance unknown. Circa 57ad

Happy Easter Sunday/Passover day 2

A xxxx

When we arrived in Exeter, Swindon, Loughborough or wherever, the canvassers were dropped off to try and get some leads. So the closers were done for the day. Well, until the evening when their work started in earnest. Or in ‘earning’ as was more appropriate. We were all self-employed and paid totally on commission. No sales, no money. And as the closers received the lion’s share, they had to pay for their canvassers’ accommodation too. So they would book themselves in to the nearest big, posh, 4/5 star hotel in the area, flashier the better, then look for the cheapest boarding house hovel in which to place their lowlife canvassers. Just the way it was. They felt like a million dollars, we felt like Oliver Twist. C’est la vie.

These ‘closers’ (until my ‘promotion’, obvs) were serious characters. None of them over 23, all living with their parents and yet earning a fortune. So they bought cars. Half had Triumph TR6s or Stags, the standard flash-boy toys of the age. A couple had Jags, one had a Lambourghini. I kid you not. The guy was semi-literate, couldn’t add up 2 whole numbers under 10, but could sell stars of David to Momentum.

Then Graham lost his driving licence for a month for speeding. Oh dear. Hard to get where ya need to get and make your appointments in out-of-the-way housing estates without wheels. So he asked me if I would drive for him. But I was Gary’s canvasser and I was quite good, so he didn’t want to let me go. No problem; Gary & Graham would work together every week, I’d still work for Gary but drive Graham around too. In his brand new, magenta Triumph Stag, marked only with his personalised vanity number plate. And I was well paid for this ‘extra service’.

So on the first Monday of the new arrangement I picked up Graham, went to the office where we acquired up Graham’s new canvasser and left for Sheffield. Gary and Graham went together in Gary’s car and I followed with Kim. Who was gorgeous. I certainly wouldn’t slam any doors on Kim. Oh no.

When we arrived, Graham told me to go find a cheap hotel. Which I didn’t. I found a ‘nice’ but reasonable hotel instead for Kim and I to board at his expense. Canvassers always shared rooms. Cheaper that way. Which was sometimes horrible, but on this occasion didn’t seem to pose such a problem. And they had no twin rooms, only doubles. Oh dear.

So I’m 17 years old, driving round in a fantastic super-car (of its day) and from Monday to Friday I’m living with my midweek-wife. I was almost surprised that they gave me a cheque every week. I’d have paid them.

I duly became a ‘closer’ and left after the intended 6 months. And bought myself a brand new Mini (proper, old-type, REAL Mini) with the proceeds of my immoral (so the world later thought) earnings. Ahhhh, but those were the days… no standards of any description. Wonderful.

Happy Saturday/chag sameach

A xxxx

I took a gap yaar in 1973. Ok, I flopped in my A-levels and decided to take a year out rather than stay at school and repeat the year like a rather beautiful retard. 6 months of working then 6 months devoted to study. That was the plan. As we know, man plans, God laughs. So I needed to find a job. Which wasn’t hard as I’d always had Saturday jobs, since I was about 14 (fucking slave labour, children working, Corbyn would never stand for it, even with the ‘union for underage workers’). But that summer, to earn a bit of holiday money I started work for a local double glazing company. On the grounds that everyone who worked there seemed to have so much money. They lived a ‘Premiership lifestyle’ even though the Premiership wouldn’t exist for 18 years. Flashy cars, expensive clothes, nightclubbing, fancy restaurants (Indian AND Chinese!!)

So I started as a ‘canvasser’. This was the lower caste of the Double Glazing world. The scum. The unworthy. But how you start and how you ‘learn’. To eventually become a ‘closer!’ They’re the deal-doers, the salesmen. And it worked like this.

Monday morning we all met in the company office and every closer would take their canvasser, or pick one if they didn’t have. Good looking girls were particularly sought because they are great at knocking on doors and not having them slammed so quickly, and also because all the selling took place in far away places (Swindon, Nottingham, Cheltenham, Ipswich, anywhere they have housing estates with horrible, regular, easy-fit windows) and you might get lucky. And off you’d go. Always in pairs of closers and pairs of canvassers otherwise you get bored. We’d arrive at our destination housing estate and the canvassers would be deposited there. As a lowlife, you work long hours. From about 1.30 to 5, maybe 6. And we’d be knocking on doors saying “we’re conducting a survey about people’s views and opinions on double glazing…” even though that was an absolute lie because we couldn’t give a shit what anyone thought about it we just wanted them to buy it. And if they answered positively, you offered them a ‘once in a lifetime chance’ of having some over-paid, over-sexed, doped-up, long-haired London flash-boy screech up later in his Jag when hubby gets home to force you into signing some documents that would have you paying for something you never knew you needed or wanted, for the next 5 years.

Cynicism aside, it was actually a fantastic product and did all the things we know double glazing can help with. It was just a minor matter of convincing people that they were wrong not to want it. Even though most had never even heard of it. But that really was the closer’s job. The canvasser just got ‘leads’; people who said, ‘yeah, I might consider that’. If the lead was from a housewife, particularly a dim one, it was virtually worthless as the husband, 9 times out of 10 would probably not even open the door for the appointment. If it was a man-lead it might be ok, but the dream was to get a ‘Mr & Mrs lead’. They were… not priceless, they often came at a big price, but to the couple. At least the closer would get into the house to do his stuff. And the canvasser would often accompany him in order to learn the skill-set required to eventually gain promotion to that coveted position. Skills like cockiness, ruthlessness, pushy gobbiness and slimy slickness. I was a natural, I’m sad to admit. Well, in fact its a bit unnatural, but only if you have a conscience of any sort. So no problem there then.

We billed the closers at our company ‘advertising managers’ so people (ok, so really stupid and naïve people) wouldn’t think they were being sold to. And they pitched it as a ‘buy-NOW’ offer, only available tonight, as part of a ‘campaign’ so they’d get it at a reduced cost. Which they did. You priced up all the windows, added in the other stuff required and arrived at a total. Say £400. Then you add half as much again, making £600, known as ‘the moody price’. That all done in secret, obviously once you’d measured up. And you sell them the windows, then, like a fucking miracle, before their very eyes, reduce that down to what it would have been without all the subterfuge. But that was the drama, that was the pitch, that was how you could insist of a decision that night, and no other. And it worked. Often as not. Particularly in Swindon. I make no judgments.

Essentially, we were selling a great product which would reduce heat loss (long before that became fashionable), eliminate noise and increase the value of their home. And we were selling it at a very reasonable price. With the… errrr… discount. But the sales pitch, as later featured extensively on every consumer affairs programme ever made, was rather dodgy. But was that way just to force a decision. To eliminate the ‘I wanna think about it’ get-out which is a human default position.

To be continued…

Happy Easter/Passover/Bank Holiday Friday

A xxxx