Andy's Glasses

Peter Wyngarde died this week. Jason King. Words like ‘louche’, ‘cad’, ‘suave’ and ‘rakish’ can now be consigned to the historical section of the Oxford English Dictionary. To be honest, its where they belong anyway. But back in the early 70s…

We already had ‘The Saint’ with Roger Moore, camp to the point of positive effeminacy, exemplifying all those adjectives (ok, ‘cad’ is a noun, but who fucking cares?), sweeping women off their feet with the raise of 1 solitary eyebrow and yet with one really limp and pathetic punch could floor 17 stone of shaven-headed Commando, as long as he was a bad guy. And then into our lives came Jason King. Who took ‘smooth’ and elevated it (or ‘plunged’ it, not sure really) into another stratosphere. He didn’t need to even raise an eyebrow to have women swoon, just a stare, through the inevitable plume of cigarette smoke would take her from the office to the bed in 22 minutes. Jason King was the proto-medallion man, as he loved jewellery and, when not wearing ridiculously massive ties, would generally opt for the open-to-the-navel look. Whilst smoking. Always smoking. Not just any cigarettes but ‘special’ ones.

I loved Jason King. Even with the moustache he was an aspirational figure, driving round in a Bentley Continental, wearing ridiculous suits and with all the women he could eat.

This was shattered a bit when a few years later the real life Peter Wyngarde was arrested for unseemly acts in a public toilet with a crane-driver. But we won’t go there. In fact we’ll never go there, geographically or anatomically, but we’ll remember the man who, however much ‘of his own time’ he was, and they certainly wouldn’t make such tv now, he enriched our lives in some small, 4 o’clock on Sunday afternoons, way.

There’s a picture in the paper today of an over-heated Novak Djokovich in Melbourne. After playing in the Aussie Open in 39 degrees. Where many players are suffering from heatstroke, dehydration, all the usual stuff you get when doing something where, basically, you shouldn’t be. And my first thought was: ‘Qatar, 2022’. The world cup. Where players will be dreaming of cooling down in 39 degrees over there. How can they do that????

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Thursday has been renamed. Its now ‘Liladay’. Because that is the day designated for Mel & I to be left in sole charge of our granddaughter. All day. With no ‘help’. Holy shshsh-

So on every other day when I post a photo of ‘my’ baby, its just because I want to. It has no relevance to Donald Trump’s nuclear aspirations, Chelsea’s laughable form or the trans-gender vegan movement’s plans to ban animals altogether, other than hermaphrodites. But on Thursdays that photo becomes highly symbolic and representative of life, as we know it.

Last night I was suffering from a particularly ‘first world’ form of sleep deprivation. Its called Avios Insomnia and is the result of trying to perform the almost impossible task of booking a flight home from Australia next year. And I mean, 2019, as in, errr, next year. Because BA opens flights up 354 days before they take off. At midnight, GMT. But the London office is closed at that time. You can’t just grab seats online because they need to be hooked up with the outward ones, booked weeks ago, and for that you need to phone. So you phone ‘New York’. Which, once you get through, you realise, is actually in New Delhi. But they call it ‘New York’ to avoid confusion. And to avoid paying New York rents and wages. In fact the staff there are lovely and very helpful. As they need to be, cos one thing the process isn’t, is easy. But that feeling of elation when you actually manage to get almost exactly what you want (always ‘almost’, never perfection but heh, life’s a compromise) is like scoring the winning goal in a cup final. The level of achievement makes you feel like Uma Thurman at the end of Kill Bill 2. Its like you wake up and realise that Donald Trump was just a (very) bad dream.

Then you can’t sleep. Because you’re so excited. Even though its now 1.30 in the morning and Lila duty starts, according to Natalie’s no-nonsense, no haggling, no prisoners time-table, at precisely 7.30. That’s a.m. In the morning. Early in the morning.

Lila is now asleep. Her scheduled ‘nap’ in the afternoon. Honest, Nat, at precisely 2.22 she went down. Because she is the perfect baby. She eats everything you give her. In that ‘1 for me, 1 for the floor’ way of babies. She doesn’t moan, she rarely cries, she’s just happy and placid, wonderfully responsive and, quite honestly, even if she wasn’t my granddaughter, I would have to say she’s the best baby in the world. Ever. Ok, mealtimes get a bit ‘post-apocalyptic’ in the kitchen, so I’ve been lecturing her on ’cause’, ‘effect’ and ‘gravity’. Never too young to learn basic physics.

And its 3 in the afternoon and I’m exhausted. Time for my nap.

Happy Liladay

A xxxx

Ok, I’ll say it up front: its not normal to have 13 kids. Perhaps they kept trying to have one that didn’t have a blurry face, I don’t know. That in itself is a shame. But whatever the reason for having a multitude (a full football team AND two reserves; an entire basketball match and three umpires) its gonna end badly. And for the now famous (as of yesterday) Turpin family of Perris, California, their fifteen minutes has started. But not in a particularly good way. Others who’ve had too many children have also been a bit odd. Remember the Old Woman Who lived in a Shoe? Fucking child abuser, she was. ‘Smacked them all soundly and sent them to bed’.

Which I suppose is better than ‘smack them all soundly and chain them to bed’ which is what happened here. Well, ‘there’ really.

So the Turpins were just a ‘normal’ family. With 13 children. Who they dressed all alike (gender considerations notwithstanding). That’s normal. And Mr & Mrs Turpin used to go regularly to Las Vegas, with the entire family, to renew their wedding vows. In a ceremony officiated by an Elvis Presley impersonator. That’s ‘normal’ too. So far so normal. Even all having the same haircut is pretty ‘normal’. Just a little ‘eccentric’ on the scale of ‘normal to barking’.

There’s only ever two reasons why terrible things like this happen. 1. They’re mad as hatters, or 2. God told them to do it. (Obviously these two are not mutually exclusive). And those can apply to having 13 children as well as choosing to ‘torture’ them. Starve them. Chain them indoors, never letting them in the fresh air. Other than to take photos to post on Facebook of the ‘happy family’ in Vegas, Disneyland or any other cliché they chose.

Maybe the children were really really naughty. Yeah, maybe. But even so… Maybe the couple just ‘flipped’, or maybe an angel of the Lord came to them one night…

David Turpin’s mother has defended her son and described the family as ‘a good Christian family’. The kids were home schooled and apparently had to memorise large parts of the bible. There again they had time as they were never allowed out of the house.

I’m pleased that the children, now all in hospital and range in age up to 29 (children???), are ‘friendly and happy’. I really hope that with years of counselling they can get over the tragic misfortune of having such ‘normal’ parents.

I blame Trump.

Happy Wednesdsay

A xxxx

Yesterday’s picture was two of me gels outside the Jewish Museum in Berlin. Today’s picture is one of the installations there. A really good one. Which had two oriental selfie-stickers walking on it, which you’re apparently allowed and encouraged to do. Even though you want to punch them and tell them to fuck off stop being so disrespectful. I liked this ‘thing’. It was rather impressive and quite moving. Like the Chinese walkers…

But its the building that is the real work of art. Designed by Daniel Libeskind it is so grotesquely ugly that it becomes a thing of beauty. As was the intention. But I couldn’t help but being disappointed with the content inside. There are countless memorials, museums and ‘things’ specifically about the holocaust. All credit to modern Germany for having such a genuinely remorseful and open attitude to ‘their worst moment in history’. So I thought that the ‘Jewish Museum of Berlin’ would use a different remit. Would perhaps go back to happier times when Berlin was a friendly place for Jews. When it was just about the only country in Europe that allowed them to own property, have normal jobs, to integrate. Unlike Spain and Italy and, yes, England, in which everything was restricted and money-lending was the only option work-wise. That was ‘pre-Germany’, as that nation didn’t exist until the end of the 19th century. Before that it had been Prussia and before that all manner of warring things.

But the museum focussed once again on the holocaust. And in fact the entire building, which is kind of ‘odd shaped’ is a model of the ‘voids’ to represent the void in Berlin society created by the Jews murdered in the war. So there are ‘voids’ everywhere in the building. Big ones. Massive empty spaces, great high ones that you can’t see to the top of, and they’re impressive. But ‘voids’ can only get you so far. You want a story. Well I did. And I didn’t get one that I hadn’t heard countless times before.

So if you find yourself in Berlin and think about going to the Judisches Museum, save the fiver and just look from the outside. Its worth the tube fare.

Better get to work then.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

5 hours, door to door. Fredrichshain, Berlin to London, NW. And I reckon that’s good. Its a long way. The Germans have always been efficient. And when the train timetable says ‘8.17’ and the board says ‘8.17’, ya just know that the train’s door will be closing at precisely 8.17. And its all smooth and efficient and… yes, just a hint of ‘officious’ at times, but in a good way. A German way.

Flights have got cheaper. Ok, they charge for every sheet of toilet paper, every breath you take, every dump you make, everything, but the basic, ‘headline’ price is cheap. And then you get to the airport. Where ‘cheap’ gives way to ‘fleece’.

Because you leave security, at virtually any and every airport, and find yourself in the duty free shop. You can’t get a cup of coffee or to a departure gate any other way. If there was a way, I’d have found it. So you walk through. And see bags of M&Ms, for 14 quid. And you see whisky that Waitrose sell for £24 a bottle at the ‘duty free price’ of £38.75. Where there’s allegedly about a tenner of various taxes on each bottle. So where do the prices come from? Take off the duty then add in your waist size, in pounds. Or dollars. In Colombia, unlike many other South American countries, they use only their own currency. The Peso. 4000 of which buys you a pound. Yet at Bogota airport everything is priced in US$. Why? Cos it looks cheaper. And everywhere in Columbia you can buy a bottle of water for under a quid. But at Bogota airport its $3. About £1.80. Berlin is very cheap for food and drink. Yet a bottle of water at the airport is three-and-a-half Euros. A latte, 4 Euros 50.

Its not (just) about being a bastard Colombian or a stinkin’ German, its about airport pricing. Because once you’re through security there is no turning back without it costing you a flight. You simply can’t go anywhere else. Nor can you take pre-bought water through. So they’ve got you. And therefore, can charge what the fuck they like. Why do Boots sell their water for 40% more at Heathrow or Luton airports, than they do in Hounslow or Luton high streets? Because if they tried charging £2.70 for water on the high street you’d just laugh and but it next door. There is no ‘next door’ at an airport. And if there is, they’re in on it too. The fleecing game.

And people going on their ‘olidays are notoriously spend-free. They love wasting their money at airports on overpriced rubbish. And are consequently exploited maximally by the chains. Which is hateful and deceptive. Because ‘duty-free’ used to mean much cheaper. Now it means, just make it in sizes and shapes that we don’t sell on the high street and double the price. ‘They’ will never realise.

Shameful.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its still cold in Berlin. Bright, sunny at times, but colder than… cold places. Berlin’s in the east. So east it could almost be in Poland. A notoriously cold place. But at this time in the great scheme of history, Berlin is not in Prussia, its not part of the Hapsburg Empire, nothing to do with the Austro-Hungarian alliance, but Germany. Tomorrow? Who knows.

Yet due to a fantastic modern invention, even though we’re millions of miles (so it would seem) from either Wembley or even Bournemouth, I am able, at the flick of a finger across my phone, find out the latest of football scores that are happening all the way over there. Its a miracle. Due to the vast mileage involved, the BBC site is on a few minute delay from reality, but as I’m permanently about 2 hours, 36 miles and at least 2 dimensions from any sort of reality, it suits me fine.

So yesterday, as we relaxed at ‘Rachie’s Place’ warming up (the biggest pastime in Berlin), I could follow my boys as they breezed past poor Everton with aplomb. And a Son. Harry Kane has now scored more goals in any month ending in a ‘Z’ than any other striker with a surname eligible for the D-J phone book. He’s scored more in a lunar calendar year than anyone in Africa. So he scored a couple more yesterday. And I was watching on the news at Zidane during Real’s 1-0 loss to Villareal that he was putting Harry’s number into his phone. Because they need a proper goalscorer at the Bernabau more than ever.

Chelsea drew 0-0 at home against 10-man Leicester. Which firstly made me very happy and secondly made me wonder how Conte can be so smug and arrogant about Morinho when his own team are positively shit? At the moment.

And then Arsenal went to Bournemouth. Who are, to no surprise really, floundering near the bottom of the table. Bournemouth, whose whole team, if sold, could buy one half of Alexi Sanchez’ left foot. But my joy of Arsenal’s loss today is not just due to deep hatred and terrible resentment of our north London rivals. Like it usually is. Today its because the fight for the top 4 places is closer than its ever been. And we need to be well ahead of the Goons. And now we are. How long this will last I have no idea, but I’m lovin’ it right now.

Happy Sunday evening. Coming home tomorrow.

A xxxx

Never mind Rachie living here, I almost feel like its ‘home’ here. ‘Specially in ‘our’ new apartment, which is gorgeous. So this is not your regular tourist Berlin, checkpoint-charlie, hitler’s bunker, all the schnitzengruben you can eat, type trip. This is about living here. About supermarkets. They have Lidl AND Aldi. Both within a 5 minute walk. In fact there’s a Lidl 3 minutes in either direction. Different ones. Not just me getting lost and going round in circles. I think.

The first thing about Berlin in January is: ITS FUCKING COLDDDDDD!!! But like, really, really cold. Its ‘only’ zero degrees out there but in the wind (there’s always wind) it feels like -62. At least its not raining like our last trip in November, when it didn’t stop.

The other thing you notice, especially when you’re in a supermarket, is that everything here is generally written in German. With no subtitles for the linguistically challenged. Like… Rachie. So shopping takes an age. An era. The sell-by dates expire as you stand there trying to work out what the fuck it all means. I was happily buying some cling-film until a lovely old German lady informed me it was baking parchment stuff. The words here are so long. Which is quite helpful as quite often they explain what things are. So a sink plunger would be called something like ‘ein thingumyoufsuckingsheissefromdasink’. Easy peasy. Other words are more difficult. Much more difficult. But we’ll get there. I have to become fluent by Monday when we come home.

And home is London, in case you didn’t know. And London is positively reeling under a massive insult from the President of the whole world, Donald J Trump. Who is no longer coming to visit us!!! Holy shit! And all because ‘Obama’s’ plan (actually it was George W Bush but no-one told the Trumpster) for moving their embassy from posh Grosvenor Square over to downmarket but very very up’n’coming Vauxhall is, in his words ‘a bad deal’. Luckily its only costing a billion quid so its not like its important or anything. But its irrelevant. Its not about real estate. Its about cowardice. And ‘fake news’. Trump once again is using his allegedly most despised media tool, fake news, to fakely change the news. Which is that he’s scared to come because we all fucking hate him and he won’t get to sleep with the Queen. Or whatever she does with really important people who aren’t orange. There’ll be protests everywhere and his ‘hero’s welcome’ will in reality be about egg-throwing and lots of screaming abuse.

Insult London, ya tosser, you insult MEEEE.

Lucky I’m not there.

Happy Saturday night

A xxxx

“I’m going to Berlin on Saturday”, I informed my mate at tai chi last night, explaining my up-coming absence tomorrow. “Are you going in a Lancaster?” he inquired. Which is a bit ‘don’t mention the war’ but I thought rather funny at the time.

In fact I’m going EasyJet. Pretty sure its not a bomber, but ya never know. You can never have too much orange in your life. And you get the opportunity to get up ridiculously early, leaving home in the pitch black of night to arrive at Lovely Luton for a 6-hour delay. I hope not. We have places to go, things to do, all of paramount importance.

Because tomorrow the younger daughter is emigrating. Well, she’s going to work in Berlin for a bit anyway. So Mel & I need to accompany her and ensure she stays. And to carry bags. And such bags. Of such magnitude. Such weight. You know how a ‘black hole’ is an infinitely small point with an infinitely large mass? Well that’s how Rachie packs. I’m only worried that the big case may exert a gravitational pull on cars on the M1.

Oddly, this photo, so wonderfully appropriate, was taken last week in Melbourne. As in ‘Australia’. Why they have a ‘Berlin Bar’ there I don’t know.

I’m gonna miss her.

Ok, I’m over it already. Did you hear about the Windmill Club? Or Windmill Theatre?? Whatever its now called. The first place ever to have naked women on its stage. In the 1920s, opened by a woman (the famous/infamous Mrs Henderson) and the condition was that the women weren’t allowed to move. Ok, breathing was acceptable but like statues didst they stand. Because then it was ‘art’. Twitch a toe and it becomes ‘pornography’. And the Windmill has run as some form of, basically, strip club, ever since. Most recently as a ‘table dancing’ or ‘lap dancing’ establishment of the highest standards and culcha. But now its lost its license. Because what a ‘sex club license’ allows you to do is lots of things, except actually selling sex. You can imply, you can tease, you can pretend, you can do all sorts of things but to be legal, like with mobile phones in cars, it has to be ‘hands free’. You can simulate but not stimulate. Once any fondlage occurs there’s trouble. And they found not merely fondlage, but virtually fornication occurring on or nearby the premises (upstairs). So their license is now revoked.

The Windmill famously never closed during the war-time blanket bombing by the Nazis of London. ‘Even during the Blitz; come see the Titz’ could have been their slogan. But now it will close because a bunch of feminists are objectionably objecting to the objectification of women. And have therefore forced closure by illuminating naughtiness. Even though everything that happens there is mutually consensual, mutually beneficial and a way for their ‘sisters’ to enjoy a job that probably pays quite well. Which they’ll now take to the streets. There’s always that argument that women flaunting their bodies (and whatever else they choose to do with them) is not objectification but ’empowerment’. Obviously not in this case.

Oh well. I feel this act will do little to ‘end’ sleazy sex trade in London. I hope not.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We seem to spend a lot of time arguing gender politics. Not me, specifically, because I’m a radical post-feminist, egalitarian right down to my nob and yet would always give up my seat on the tube for a lady. If she was good looking enough. But its not about me.

Theresa May has filled her ‘cabinet’ with women ‘and minorities’ to give a ‘true reflection of British society’. I don’t know the ladies concerned, they’ve all arrived straight out of ‘left field’, but it almost seems like some kind of reverse discrimination in which its not ‘the best person for the job’ but the ‘the best woman for the job’. She also managed to lose Justine Greening and instead of sacking health secretary Jeremy Hunt, managed to promote him and increase his remit. Now that is good management. (Theresa May is a woman).

Carrie Gracie was the BBC’s China editor, for many years, but has now resigned because of pay differentials at the Beeb betwixt men and women. And she has a point. She earns £125k a year and has to live in China and speak Chinese. I couldn’t speak it for a Bitcoin. For 10 million. But I’m a man so I probably wouldn’t have to; they’d get an interpreter. And pay me more. Jeremy Bowen, the middle-east editor earns about 50k a year more than Carrie. And Jon Sopel, the American editor, earns double what she does. And gets to live his life in English. If you call that ‘English’.

Meanwhile, Catherine Deneuve, (one-time) stunning French actress, has spoken out against the ‘me too’, or ‘moi aussi’ brigade stating that a ‘bumbled pick up attempt’ is not a crime, nor abuse. I’m not fully familiar with French seduction techniques (though I’m guessing that ‘anything will do’) but getting an 18 year old girl into a hotel room and parading around with your dick out demanding massages on the threat of never working in this town again, can’t really be misconstrued as a ‘failed chat-up line’. Its not specifically the actions that are wrong but the implied threat from someone in obvious power. Other than for the French, for whom its just ‘plus ca change’. (Note to self: should visit France more often).

And Virgin Trains have banned the sale of the Daily Mail on their vehicles. On the grounds that ‘its shit, innit’. And it is shit. Reactionary, right-wing, pro-Brexit, anti-virtually everybody who isn’t royalty or can trace their lineage back at least 9 generations, and rubbish. But people like it. They feel comforted that newspapers agree with their racist, homophobic, misogynistic views. But they won’t be able to buy it on Virgin. Which is the worst form of censorship ever. Its not the train company’s business to decide what folk should read. Getting on a train is not joining a specific political class. Or getting a better education. Shame on you, Branson.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

In Las Vegas this week is the CES, the biggest (obviously; its Las Vegas) techno-gadgetry exhibition in the world. All kinds of useless things of a hi-tech nature are featured there. And of course, lots of robots and robot-things. I differentiate because a robot is only a robot if it is humanish in design. Like C3PO. If its a flat box or barrel or something other than, its a robotic thing. Like R2D2. Easy. A sexbot is really, alarmingly, scarily humanoid. Not sure if they’re featured in Vegas but really that would be the best place to feature them. Sleazy, sordid and expensive. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, as the saying goes. Which is true other than for STDs, excessive winnings (much rarer) and brides.

And last night, for the first time everrrrrr in Europe, a football match used VAR technology. Video Assistant Referee. Playbacks of contentious things. Goals. Offsides. Dives. Done in London, in last night’s case for the Brighton match, 75 miles away from the action, but that’s irrelevant. Not like they need to send a messenger. Or a pigeon. Even a robot-pigeon. Everyone’s wired up and bluetooth-ed together and, hopefully, on the same page. The ref says into his mike ‘that goal ok?’ and 75 miles away they’re already examining the output of 15 cameras checking for signs of naughtyness and 4 seconds later they say ‘yeah, its fine’ and the goal stands. Easy peasy.

But its not. Roy Hodgson, the Palace manager, continued to argue with the ref even after the VAR had spoken. I mean, that should carry a prison sentence. Arsene Wenger will choose to believe the VAR only if it finds in Arsenal’s favour. If it doesn’t he’ll discount the evidence and continue to abuse the refs. I’m not sure if managers or captains can ‘demand’ the ref turn to the VAR but if they can that would be the end of football, as we know it.

So what we need is robo-refs. They look like referees, they wear black shorts an’ everything, but they’re robots. Fitted with… 16 cameras, or in fact, analysing the input from 25 cameras around the ground simultaneously, whilst running and blowing a whistle. Robots can do that. Robots can do everything. And if players try to abuse a robo-ref (and they will because they’re all fucking stupid) he’ll turn his phasers to stun and floor the bastard. They can do that too. No-one’s going to argue an offside decision with a linesman who uses laser beams and times in micro-seconds. Other than perhaps Wayne Rooney (see ‘stupid’ above). But linesmen are now called ‘assistant referees’ and if they’re using video technology they’ll have to be Video Assistant Referees and that will cause confusion. But we’ll get over it.

You just need to get a battery sufficient to run 12 kilometres over 90 minutes whilst handling all that information. Be a bit embarrassing to have to stop a game to charge the ref. Where would you plug him in?

Its the way forward.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx