Andy's Glasses

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Isn’t that what they say? Well how about ‘even if you’re not paranoid, they’re still gonna fucking get you’.

I’m the least paranoid person around. The original ‘things’ll work out just fiiiiiine’. Like Scarlett O’hara with ‘there’s always tomorrow’, I have ultimate faith that the natural way of things is to improve. Maybe I’m just an ostrich, burying my head in the sand to avoid unpleasantness. Maybe just hoping things will improve can cause it to happen. Or maybe I’m a lazy bastard who’d rather wait than take action.

But even I can feel this really horrible escalation of horribleness picking up momentum round the world. But especially my world. Because London does seem to be ‘shit central’ at the moment, doesn’t it? And it continues to hit the proverbial fan.

First we had the jihadi attack on Westminster Bridge. Then we had the terrible bombing in Manchester at the pop concert. Next was London Bridge, more Islamists, followed by last week’s horrendous fire in Kensington, not an act of terrorism, unless you count ignorance, neglect and irresponsibility as a form of ‘terrorism by local council’. And then Monday’s mosque attack. By a radicalised Welshman. Which is odd indeed but an act of terrorism by any definition.

And its the definition that has caused the trouble. Because it was immediately labelled as ‘right-wing terrorism’. As if any act of horror or murder has to have a political agenda with it. Otherwise our esteemed press can’t handle it. Don’t know which group to attack, can’t put it in a pigeon hole. Have to allocate it to the right department. Right wing? Left wing? Jihadi? IRA? There is currently no terrorist department for Unbalanced Welsh People. Well, there will be by now, but on Monday there wasn’t. So they called him ‘right wing’ on the basis that most attacks on immigrant populations are carried out by right wing extremists. But not this time.

Darren Osborne went to the pub, got drunk because he’d just split up from his partner, was thrown out of the pub for saying he hated Muslims and fell asleep in his white van. All perfectly normal behaviour in Wales so far. But he’d had mental issues before (big surprise there) and when he awoke, he drove his van 150 miles to Finsbury Park and drove it at the people leaving the mosque. His original target may have been me. I don’t know. I’m not paranoid. But the satnav could have been off and he ends up 4 miles away in Finsbury Park. Maybe he’s an Arsenal fan, they love Finsbury Park, even have their own shop there, and more terrorists and murderers support Arsenal than any other premiership club. Fact. Don’t they have mosques in Wales? Because it cost 30 quid’s worth of petrol to come to London and what about the resulting pollution?

This man indeed committed a terrorist act. But because he was a seriously unbalanced dude. Had a ‘bad day at the office’. Really bad day. Which brought out his inner racist. But ‘right wing’? I don’t think so. Just a very confused man with mental health problems.

Note to all terrorists: GO AWAY!!!!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Sexist stereotypes are pretty much forbidden now. Which is why, like with Eve’s apple in the Garden of Eden, they’re just soooooo good. Do you remember a year or so ago Virgin airlines had an ad on tv and cinema that showed a group of about 6 stewardesses in the newly released uniform, all long-legged, high-heeled, curvily sashaying down the airport hallway with big hair and bigger smiles? It was wonderful. And I’m sure that anyone younger than 30 would have no idea that stewardesses once had such a mystique and gorgeousness about them. But they did.

The last time I saw a stewardess who looked like that was on Laker Skytrain in 1981 on my way to LA, and her name was Nicola. And she was all of the above, and more. And she’d come by and bring me a drink, have a chat, move along, as stewardesses do. Then she came back. She was ‘on a break’, so sat down in the spare seat next to me. “Yeah, off to ‘merica, inn’I, naah, don’ know no-one, do I, naah, not been there before. How long… dunno, do I?” Though it wasn’t quite that one-sided. Or moronic. Later in the flight she had another break, as you do on long-haul, and invited me to the little stewardess area. Behind the curtains. Oooohhhh. We talked, we snogged a bit, it was nice. No mile-high club but I reckon 10 feet off the ground is better than nothing. “Look me up when you’re back” and that was it. Out of my life forever. But a life which was immeasurably better for having that unique event happen. I was still swooning when we landed and I set off to find the bus stop.

Because my mate’s cousin worked ‘downtown’ (a concept as opaque to me then as ‘nirvana’ or ‘cubism’) he told me to take ‘the’ bus. Of which, at LAX, there must be 700 different options. And as I stood there looking hopeless and trying to work things out, a voice behind me said: ‘excuse me, is this where I get the downtown bus?’ in perfect but accented English. I turned around, primed with a version of ‘HOW DA FUCK WOULD I KNOW?? I JUST GOTTOF THE FARKIN PLANE!!!!’ and had a ‘Jim Carrey in The Mask’ moment. My mouth opened. My tongue dropped to the floor. My heart (or somewhere down there) leapt out on a stalk. She was so beautiful that poor Nicola was instantly forgotten. I spoke: ‘blhgghh frwhhgh thshwrrr splghw’. Words couldn’t be formed, vocal chords malfunctioning, I was prepared to die there, a happy man.

She was from Brazil. she was a lawyer and she was on her way home from a conference and just wanted to see Disneyland. Oh, I’ve never been there. Come with me, she begged (you can imagine). So we agreed to meet the next morning at her hotel, again with the ‘downtown’. No problem, I said, I’m staying… errrr… somewhere. How far can it be??

Turns out, LA was bigger than Romford. Who’d’a thought? Turned out I was staying in ‘The Valley’ in Sherman Oaks and ‘downtown’ was over in LA, about 6 ‘cities’ across. Or down. Or town. One bus, all the way. Not even 2 hours. I’d never seen Disney-anything other than movies. And thus was really excited and keen. Oh, yeah, Brazilienne of heart-stopping beauty… whateverrrrr.

I’m lovin’ this whole gig already. Fifteen hours out of London and I’ve been in love twice already. Well, love, lust, what difference when you’re 25?

I have photos of some of the people involved in my American Adventure. And they’re in the loft. In a box. I looked briefly yesterday. We have about 50 boxes, all cleverly unmarked with contents. When I find, I’ll share.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Fuck me its hot today. 30 degrees. I’ve just come off the tennis court and my body has no intention of stopping sweating for hours. Possibly days. Much as ‘its gorgeous to be out there’, it almost makes you wish for a cloudy, damp, cold February day to play your tennis in. Then just walk off the court back to glorious sunshine. I don’t want much. Or could play indoors. But that’s for sexually ambivalent poseurs with no spine and other hermaphrodites.

The main problem for Theresa May is that she is Theresa May. And can, currently, do absolutely no good whatsoever in anyone’s eyes. She didn’t ‘engage’ with survivors at the fire site on Thursday. She spoke to Fire-people but not residents. She was advised to leave by her security bods. So the Labour party, obviously, slagged her off as ‘unfeeling’. The press attacked her similarly. Her own party then joined in and accused her of being cold and callous.

Had she done the consolation handshake thing, she would unquestionably been accused of ‘politicising’ a tragedy, or using it for personal gains. She simply couldn’t win. Bit like the election. But almost worse. Because that was in the main part her own fault and this really isn’t.

I don’t even like Theresa May and I think having acted so stupidly and arrogantly in calling the election, she continued to portray herself as some kind of saviour and Churchillian character in her horribly detached way during the campaign. But this is simply grossly unfair.

However, what is needed now is not discussion about public enquiries (lasting 2 years, starting October 2019, cost: £274million), nor even the blame game. Firstly you have to house the people whose homes burned down on Wednesday.

Jeremy Corbyn, almost inevitably, wants to ‘put them in the homes of the rich’, specifically the many houses and flats in London’s most expensive borough owned by those who live there about 4 days a year. The Russians, the Chinese, the investors, just ‘requisition’ their homes and fill them with the former tower residents. A plan so stupid, so dangerous, so ridiculous as to only even get a hearing during this overly-reactionary time.

What my mate Margolis suggested, quite brilliantly I reckon, is to put up temporary housing in Holland Park. Get some plumbing and electricity there and ship in temporary homes, caravans, pre-fabs, whatever. They’re cheap and available. A very elegant solution, I feel. And the words ‘elegant’ and ‘Margolis’ are seldom used in the same sentence.

Address the immediate problem now. The rest can wait.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Part 1.

In November, 1981 I went to Los Angeles and didn’t come home for a year. Ok, that was the intention. I’d been working for a few years, was bored, involved in a relationship that really wasn’t right (nothing to do with sheep, honest) and I’d always wanted to travel a bit. Unfortunately, the ‘gap yaar’ thing wasn’t invented until 2005 so I was just running away. From reality? From drudgery? From every one of my friends getting married within about a 9 month period? At its most manic I attended 4 weddings in 8 days. No funeral, fortunately. And at each one there were the inevitable, thoughtless, moronic people winking knowingly and saying to me and then girlfriend “oooh, you’ll be next then”. Actually no, ain’t gonna happen.

So instead of a wedding, I planned an escape. My best mate was coming with me, so that’s great, and all he had to do to raise his money was sell his car. A TR7 if that means anything to you. Cross between a sports car and a tragic mistake of design and function. But people liked them so they had value as well as pop-up headlamps. Though less value after its been wrapped round a lamppost. Which is what me mate did. Two weeks before departure date. He couldn’t come. I didn’t care, I was going anyway. There’s 300 million people in America, I only needed one friend. How hard can that be?? My other best mate (I was best man at his wedding, the 3rd of the ‘week of 4’) had an uncle living in LA. He’ll put me up for a bit. Fine, I had a starting point. No plan, no direction, just a one-way ticket on Freddie Laker’s SkyTrain and somewhere to stay for a wee while.

Spurs won the FA Cup in 1981, beating Manchester City in the replay. I was at both matches. They also won it in 1982 but that time without me. Because I was away. Punk Rock was waining and New Romance was just getting its hair gelled into ridiculous shape. Elvis Costello was big. The Clash brought out their Combat Rock album (yes, we bought music on large, circular bits of plastic in those days, otherwise, without their covers, we’d have no-where to roll a joint on), which is still one of my all-time fave albums. Tainted Love came out, Stevie Nicks was solo and simply adorable, musically and everything else-ly. By 1982 we’d gone to war with Argentina over the Falklands but I missed most of it because the newspapers over there were more concerned with buying cheap coke at Ralph’s Supermarket to allow space for non-paying words.

For years I’ve thought about writing the story of that fabulously, outrageously wonderful year. And instead, I’m going to serialise it here. Just because I can. And there’s no football, politics is suddenly boring, apartment buildings keep catching fire and so when nothing lights my fire, I’ll tell a little of the tale of what happened when mild-mannered, timid, quiet man from London went to meet America. And who won.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

My birthday today. Another fucking birthday. Jesus, seems like only a
year since my last one. I mean; getting to 60 was an achievement of
courage and endeavour pretty much unmatched by anyone else ever. But
61? Sixty-one?? How does that happen? One minute I’m a young turk
(well I thought so) and the next I’m over every hill that there is.
And rolling steadily towards…

Ok, enough maudlin sentimentality, enough birthday-bollocks, its just
another day. I only mentioned it to make you feel guilty. For the
distinct lack of presents and cards flooding through our doorway, for
the extra postal van required, blocking the road as the sacks are
unloaded.

But if you can’t have presents then the next best thing is
freeloaders. So tonight we have hundreds coming for dinner. Well,
quite a few. Because the Aussies are coming. Flying all that way just
for my 61st. Then going home again cos they’re not fucking staying in
my house. Not after last time. And although I call them ‘the Aussies’
they’re really not. Ok, they’ve lived there for 25 years but does that
make you an Aus? Does it entitle you to become loud, brash and
obnoxious? To support their rugby and cricket teams? To throw prawns
on barbies?? (Kashrut notwithstanding).

Yesterday in fact was my wedding anniversary. OMG, that’s
amaaaazin’!!! Yes, amazing indeed. 31 years I’ve been putting on some
vague act of ‘being an adult’ which, if I’m honest, is as failed as it
is transparent. My kids saw through the act when they were about 3 and
even Lila’s having difficulties with it too. And my poor,
long-suffering wife, bless her saintly everything, has indeed been
blessed by being joined in holy matri-whatsit to an icon, to the most
perfect specimen of maleness, hunkiness and gorgeous virility,
actually does have some (very minor) failings. Particularly where
dirty washing is concerned. Mainly that Mel sees it something to
attend to immediately, I see it as a lovely adornment to each and
every room in the house, but for the full aesthetic, needs to be
dropped randomly.

I am a lucky man. But SHE’S MUCH LUCKIER.

Happy Birthday

A xxxx

The leader of the Liberal Democrat Party resigned yesterday in a ‘shock announcement’ that at least 27 people worldwide may possibly have heard. And at least 9 of those said ‘who?’.

Tim Farron has found it increasingly difficult to reconcile being a political party leader, even of that little lot, with his ‘Christian beliefs’. Which, considering we are, nominally, a ‘Christian country’ is a bit odd. So you’d think. But Tim’s version of ‘Christianity’ is that of the re-born variety. In which the victim of the re-birth has to adopt values that were cool and hip just when ‘BC’ became ‘AD’. Hugging trees was big, even though they’d never heard of Gwyneth Paltrow. Turning other cheeks was all the rage. While us Jews were busy slaying other people’s first-born and sending over plagues of locusts, the Christians were all about sacrifice and giving. Values that, although commendable, are never going to win you much in the post-Corbyn landscape.

Gay men had not been invented in the year 0001 (although rumours of Jesus himself and the word ‘closet’ were often used together.) No-one had abortions back then. Because there were no back streets. Just mud. And no-one needs to legalise mud. So Timbo, when faced with such concepts found great difficulties. Because of the now morally liberal (should have been a clue there, Tim) values and the rights of women that certainly didn’t exist in biblical times (would Mary have voted for a ‘virgin birth’? I think not) he has had grave doubts. He simply couldn’t bring himself to say that homosexuality was a ‘sin’ even though he believed it with every Christian fibre in his hair shirt.

In brief, re-born Christians have difficulty existing in the real world. Let alone being a (minorly) significant part of it. So Tim is retiring from politics to become a nun. He’s being re-virginised (you can do anything with money), buying some new sandals and will spend his days at Oxford Circus with a sandwich board shouting how ‘JESUS IS OUR SAVIOUR!!!’ ‘ALL SIN IS… ERRRR.. SINFUL!!!’ ‘HARRY KANE IS NOT A REAL GOD!!!!’ Though arguably, more people will take note of his words than they ever did when he was leader of the Lib-Dems,

Just by the way, 2 unbelievably horrendous things yesterday, NEITHER of which were anything to do with terrorism. The simply awful and (you just KNOW) probably very preventable fire in North Kensington yesterday and the nutter-with-a-rifle shooting up Trump supporters in America. Almost makes you feel that the terrorists are just not pulling their weight any more. We can hope.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Ok, so you arrive in Inverness, or near Inverness, and you have, basically, one afternoon to play. And Inverness, the ‘capital of the Highlands’ that it unquestionably is, with no competition whatsoever as its a city, its big, has lots of traffic and people and buildings, and everywhere else up here is a tiny village with 3 houses, 4 churches (they love a church) and a cafe (closed). So the firs thing that strikes you is that you are suddenly, for the first time in a week, on a dual carriageway. Holy Shittttt! Two lanes each side! Wow!!

But the question is: do you spend your time in that City, fine and cathedralled up and auld castled and everything, or…

Do you go to Loch Ness? Just down the road. 20 miles away. Oooooooohhhh…

Where the monster lives!!!

There was simply no competition. I’ve seen cities; hundreds of them and I love them, they’re great places. But Loch Ness is that wonderful, mythical place of eternal darkness and, of course, monsters. Or, rather, monster. Singular. Which really is the main issue here. The first ‘sighting’ recorded of a ‘hump-backed thing’ in the Loch was in AD560. So, unless THE monster is now 1500 years old, subsequent and recent ‘sightings’ make no sense. But then we spoke to George. In fact he was the geezer wot drove our boat on the Loch and told us of its tale. And he’s worked on it, and in it, for 50 years. Yes, ‘in it’, because he dives there. Although apparently you see nothing because of all the peat deposits in there, blocking out all light. Which is why it looks black. Adding to its mystique. George Edwards in fact discovered the deepest part of the 23 mile long Loch, which is now bears his name. That’s impressive. And George, as I call him, reckons that there could be animals of some type down there that exist no-where else. And why not? Evolution works with or without human observation. There’s loads of sea-life in the Pacific that has never been seen. Loch Ness is 250 metres deep. 800 feet. Deep. So some branch of evolution could well have created, like a giant eel? Or a cross between a fish and King Kong? Or between a barnacle and the Post Office Tower? Doesn’t matter, we haven’t seen it, but it/they could be there. Obviously in sufficient numbers to reproduce, albeit on a slightly ‘inbred’ manner, like a lot of Scotland. And that would account for the numerous ‘multiple sightings’ that have occurred over the years. Because Nessies strut around in gangs.

I’ve been intrigued by the Loch Ness Monster my whole life. Visiting the Loch did nothing to dispel the awe. Because its dark, and beautiful, and massive, I still hold out hope that monsters could be in there. Somewhere. (Un?)fortunately, not while I was there.

Happy Wednesday, coming home tomorrow. Shame.

A xxxx

On Saturday night we came back from dinner and turned on the tv. For the last 6 minutes of the England vs Scotland world cup qualifier. Mel insisted. England 1-0 up, all comfortable, what could possibly go wrong?

Scotland scored from a free-kick. Major bummer. Gordon Strachan leaping round like a mad thing. Two minutes later they get another free-kick. Same guy, same thing, another sodding goal. Strachan needing treatment from a physiotherapist and two psychotherapists. Game in injury time and the Scots, who are pretty much incapable of beating anyone, are 2-1 up against the most hated foe. Hamden positively electric with glee and the sound of drunken Scottish merriment.

Third minute of injury time, ball comes across the Scottish box, running to the far post is a modern-day God. Harry Kane, rushing forward, eye over his shoulder on the ball, volleys neatly, calmly, precisely into the goal. 2-2. Game over. Strachan carried off by men in white coats.

And all this to add joy to my Scottish trip.

Then we stayed at Ackergill Tower. A 15th Century castle now a ‘luxury’ hotel, standing on the coast in 400 acres, usual stuff. They didn’t say ‘restored to its original state’ because we like windows and lights. But I think the plumbing was original. Call us odd but in our wordly travels we’ve come to admit that we greatly prefer the somewhat austere and stark minimalist efficiency in the Marriott/Four Seasons/Premier Inn(?) mode to ‘country house tweed’, suits of armour, 16 flights of liftless stone staircases lit by candles. But heh, you’re in northern Scotland, ya get wot yer given.

Which wasn’t our dinner. Because they forgot to bring it. We sat, we drank, we drank more, we’d had our starter, which were totally fab, and we waited. Eventually, after we questioned, they had an ‘oh shit!!!’ moment. The order was lost? Misplaced?? Who knows. Have a free drink on us. Hic. Shit happens, meal was eventually totally superb.

Next morning, as you do, you sit in the same place where you dined just a few hours before, and await breakfast. “Sorry” said the waitress, never a good start to any conversation, particularly when food’s involved. “Sorry but the chef hasn’t turned up so you can only have serials, fruit, cold shit. We’re trying to get another chef shipped in and he may come soon…”

Fawlty Towers. You know the one. It all made sense. My first thought was ‘no-one here is capable of cooking an egg??’ then realised that I really didn’t need it, could live without and would take the credit on the bill.

And I’m still laughing about it now.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

The great thing about Scotland is that there are toilets everywhere. Nice ones. Toilet paper. Soap. Paper towels. Driers that work. Clean places where one can… toil, in all kinds of out-the-way places. And if you basically start at ‘middle-of-fucking-nowhere’, then ‘out-of-the-way’ is pretty much a given. Oh, and it is beautiful. Eye-wateringly beautiful.

Yesterday we left the north-west corner and drove 120 miles to the very north-eastern tip of the mainland; John O’Groats. Who, as you can see, looks a lot like Mel. The drive follows the ragged coast, up and down the mountains on single-track roads for the most part, coming down onto stunning beaches. Yes, beaches, in Scotland. Beaches to rival the Australian ones. But a little cooler. In a pleasant way. Less pleasant when it starts raining. As it often does.

I’ve been to Lands End, in Cornwall, the southernmost tip of the British Isles, and was tragically disappointed that its just an arrow on a rocky beach. ‘Lands End’!!!! It looks remarkably similar to many other bits of rocky beach. No fanfare, no town, no nuffink. Just ‘Lands End’. So I expected more from the ‘other end’. From John O’Groats. I thought it was a town, a settlement, a place of deep maritime significance. But in fact its just that sign. ‘Here ya are’. Cross it off your list. Then go to the ice cream bar, and go buy some shortbread and tartan teddy bears.

John O’Groats was a 16th century pirate.
John O’Groats was a warrior of unparalleled ferocity. With Mel Gibson he fought the British and it took 37 arrows to finally down the fucker.
John O’Groats was the 3rd string goalkeeper for Inverness Caledonian Thistle. Blind from birth, he chose a career…
John O’Groats invented whisky. In 1253 he took just one single malt and accidentally distilled it whilst trying to make a washing line for his wife. Mrs O’Groats. 10 years later he found it, stuck it in a bottle and the rest is history.
(Note to self: when you have wifi, google John O’Groats.) Wifi is pretty rare up here.

The east coast is nothing like the west or the north. Its more ‘normal’. No massive inlets and lochs and mountains. But we shall spend the next few days exploring. As we do.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The thing you notice about Scotland is water. Ok, we’re on a coast road so ya kind’a expect. But Scotland’s water is not just about the sea. You come inland and there are lochs, lakes, meres, ponds, more lochs, simply everywhere. And its generally raining quite a bit too. Safe to say, water is rarely in shortage up here.

So how surprised were we when we got up yesterday morning in the wee town of Scourie (blink and you’ll miss it, though it has a wonderful Loch, obvs) to find the taps were empty. Hot tap, nothing, cold tap, nisht. Water, water everywhere but ne’er a drop to brush you teeth with. Outside the hotel window is the Bay, or is it the Loch? with possibly 79.6 billion bathtubs worth of the stuff, but here, not a drop. There’s more whisky in the hotel than water. Major pipe burstage at Scourie Head. Fortunately they had sufficient bottled stuff to make my tea with. No water in the whole town (population 73). Holy shit!!!

Ok, so you call the water board. That’s the organisation not the enhanced interrogation technique, and they jump into their little water board van. But its so remote here. It takes anyone 3 hours to get here from anywhere. If they could come on horseback it might be quicker over the mountains.

So, undeterred by a little rain, we waterproofed up (not everyone can carry that look; but we nailed it) and set off in search of Handa Island. Ok, we went to the little boat station and in 10 minutes (of pouring rain) you get over the sea to the place. And its fantastic. They have puffins there. They have… errrr… Razorbills, they have… well, shit-loads of birds, thousands of them. All in the most gorgeous, unspoilt, eco-friendly, uninhabited Island. Scotland’s own Galapagos. Galapagorbles. Its quite cliffy. Which is like ‘mountainous’ but without actual mountains. And you walk an Island circuit which is 6 kilometres of ups and downs, avoiding the cliff edges where possible because they’re 1000 feet high and a bit unforgiving. But the sheer rockfaces are filled with the birds so you have to get a bit close.

By which time, praise be, it had stopped raining and was bright and very warm reaching almost 15 degrees at times. Which, trust me, up here, is fucking tropical. Though the upside of being ‘pre-Arctic’ is that at 11.30 at night its not really dark, which is rather lovely. And if you find all that constant daylight a bit depressing, there’s always the Scotch.

John O’Groats today. Och aye.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx