Andy's Glasses

When you hear the word ‘Scotland’ what springs to mind? Haggis? Nicola Sturgeon? Kenny Dalgleish? Lochs? Salmon? Goalkeeping errors? Fried Mars Bars? Whisky?

Because being up here in the very very Highlands, the most northerly bit of mainland Scottishland, you get three things coming across very strongly. Bleak, Beautiful and sheep. You can drive here for an hour and see 2 other cars. If you see 3 its a ‘traffic jam’ in the eyes of locals and you start tutting about how the country’s going to shit. If you drive for an hour and only see 200 sheep you worry what you’re gonna have for dinner round here. Every restaurant (generally one situated every 63 miles) serves the much-hyped ‘local produce’ because they just have to. Its 100 miles to the nearest Tesco, Sainsbury or Asda and I’m not sure Waitrose even exists up here at all. But wow it is incredibly beautiful. Miles and miles of it.

We’re on what’s known as the North Coast 500. Not sure what the 500 refers to because its not 500 miles. Maybe 500 sheep. But its an established route around the top of mainland UK. And therefore about 500 miles (maybe that’s why?) from Westminster. Tonight’s stop is in Achiltibuie. So small it doesn’t even have a 2nd division football team. Its on a loch. Everywhere’s on a loch here, that’s how can tell you’re not in London. And the only way in is via 15 miles of single track mountain road which, if I’m honest, is a wonderful drive. Even in a Vauxhall Whatever that they gave me to play with. A Diesel Whatever at that. You use ‘passing spaces’ and they’re fun. Its like 15 miles of playing ‘chicken’ because every turn or hill may bring you new ‘friends’.

There’s no quick way to get here. Though the British Airways courier made good time today. With my bag that they’d forgotten to load onto my plane yesterday. I know, its not much compared to the total computer meltdown the other weekend, but when you’re in Gairloch, as we were this morning, and your hiking boots are in Heathrow and you have, quite literally, a mountain to climb, that ain’t good. Nothing like good. Million miles from good. Or at least 500. But they’re here now. So that’s the main thing

We even had some sunshine today, which was unexpected. A bonus. As was the hotel last night which had 300 different single malts on offer and 100 blends.

I love Scotland. Its like the complete opposite of London. Its totally empty and nothing ever happens that doesn’t involve fish. Or sheep. Its a tonic.

Happy Election Day

A xxxx

One rarely has the time to read ‘the papers’. As in all the papers. Generally I scan the Times in the morning, And then one arrives at the airport and one has simply fuck-all else to do with one’s time.

We were ‘rush-houred’. Where if we’d left at a normal time, we’d have arrived 6 hours after the flight left, whereas leaving 15 minutes before ‘perfect’ had us at Heathrow over 2 hours before. Just maffs, innit. Maffs and 32 million cars. Most of ’em diesel.

So I have ‘read’ both the Sun and the Mail’. And decided… they are the same paper. But like, word-for-word, the same. Massive, red-top, sensational right-wing ‘news’. But its not news. Its quite olds. Same song different day. And as its all about Corbyn and his terrorist tendencies. Which, like everything Corbyn, is a lifelong and consistent kind of deal. He is unchanging man. And thus a massive security risk. He was ‘in bed’ with the IRA. He’s the same with Hamas, Hezbollah and is certainly less than unequivocal when it comes to ISIS. An ‘apologist’ they call him. A ‘tosser’ I call him. Oh, and a danger to the country. And if he’s not, then Diane Abbot (who can sometimes remember her own name, just not very often) and John McDonnell (Voldemort) certainly are.

Yet no-one, other than the airport-curious, would ever pick up a Mail or a Sun unless they were already Farage-loving, demi-Trumpster, ultra-right, uber-fascist-just-short-of-the-full-zeig-heil, super-Conservatives. So in a way both are ‘preaching to the converted’, ‘singing to the choir’, pick your metaphor. Its unlikely someone trying to pick up a copy of ‘socialist worker’ accidentally grabs the Mail, reads the first 6 pages of screaming red-top 175-point type and suddenly thinks: ‘wow, Jeremy Corbyn’s socialist agenda would be catastrophic for our fine and proud nation. What a fool I’ve been…’ and burst into a chorus of ‘Land of Hope and Glory’. Unlikely.

The election’s tomorrow. But not in Scotland, where I’ll be living for the next eight days. So I’ve voted. Postally. Which, if the mail services don’t screw up, those numb-nut twits at Barnet Council (the ones who didn’t know I was on the electoral register, even though they sent me a polling card, the ones who lost my postal vote application, even though they had Mel’s which was in the same envelope, the ones who printed out the wrong electoral list at the last election, depriving good voters of their right) probably will. But I tried.

Happy Birthday Mummy Natty

A xxxx

According to the New York Times we are currently ‘reeling’ from the attack on Saturday night. All of us. In reels. I’m not even completely sure what that means, but I know enough to say ‘that ain’t happening’. London doesn’t ‘reel’. Maybe its that ‘stiff upper lip’ thing, maybe its just burying your head in the sand but in the wake of that horrendous event, but we just carry on. We get on tube trains, we meet in pubs, we have coffee on pavement cafes, we live our lives. Exactly as before. Perhaps a little more warily, but we’re always wary, city living does that.

Which doesn’t mean we’re unmoved. God, no. I see the photos of those who died and I have tears in my eyes for the meaningless loss of wonderful young people, dead for absolutely no good reason. In fact for a very very bad reason.

Americans do things differently. They go into ‘lock-down’. They cancel events, move into bunkers and get the gun collections out and oiled. Whilst their presidential Moron sends tweets.

In what will be henceforth known as ‘Kahn-gate’, Sadiq Kahn, our sweet little mayor, said (and you can watch it, Don, on youtube) that following recent events, there will be a much higher incidence of armed police on the streets, which is no reason to be alarmed. Those were his exact words. Trump tweets: 46 people injured; no reason to be alarmed!!! Errr, that wasn’t what he said, Donny, he was referring to the police presence. To which Trump then (NEVER BACK DOWN! EVERRR!!!) tweeted back that Kahn was just making an excuse, and the press were backing him. And all this from the man who despises ‘fake news’ and press distortions.

Its a boy problem. This whole jihadi-bollox-nonsense. Its about boys (99% of the time) who feel worthless and are offered a chance to make a statement that, for once, everyone will hear. They’re generally dim, often active or recent drug-users, have little or no self-esteem and possess very small penises. If they’re Americans they shoot up a school. If they’re not they join groups of like-minded zeroes and become ‘jihadis’. Its not about religion, the irony of mass murder in the name of any religion is not beyond even these dick-heads. Its about disenfranchised youth who see no future and don’t care. From sociopath to murderer is not a difficult path. And spurred on by men who have a more serious agenda, hate preachers (also with very small penises) who prey on these boys’ insecurities, they basically drive them to suicide. Unfortunately whilst taking others with them, which is the real tragedy.

But reeling? I’m a Londoner. One Love. Go fuck yourself.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We take three steps forward and 19 back. That’s the rule. 9 months after my cortisone injection in the shoulder and endless (seemingly, even though I’m not that good at actually doing it, but having the instructions counts, right?) physiotherapy, it was finally on the mend. Actually just a little ache in the mornings rather than the searing pain and immobility which had been the case before and for a good 6 months afterwards. And yes, I did play tennis, with ‘that’ shoulder, almost every weekend. Simply because a. its what I do, and b. I’m stupid. Ok, and c. I managed to eventually find a physio who approved.

One of the moves we were doing in tai chi on thursday night was a little painful. But what isn’t? Everything aches so much of the time that you can’t let a little discomfort affect what you do. So I ignored the slight after-effects, just forgot about them really and got on with a weekend full of extreme joys (Lila) and horrendous horrors (London Bridge). More tai chi on Saturday, then some tennis with the younger daughter, then Sunday a little more tennis with Spurs Paul until… until… until even I had to take note and stop. It wasn’t agony but it weren’t right. Stop, all will be fine. That’s the rule.

Until I woke up this morning. About 5 o’clock in fucking agony. Slowly eased myself out of bed to protect the shoulder and almost fell on the floor because my hip was so painful. It was like every tennis injury I’d ever had came like presents on Christmas morning. Things that had barely been a problem suddenly reminded me of their former glory. And I blame Nicola Sturgeon.

Because on Wednesday we’re going to Scotland. And that little, whingeing, leaving-UK-remaining-Euro, separationist bitch doesn’t want me there. She wants all that Scotch for herself. So she’s ensured I’m injured so Mel will have to drag the bags off the plane, load them into the horse-drawn carriage (cheaper than the Nissan at Hertz, Inverness) and carry me all around the roaming and gloaming. Through Loch and… and Ness and stuff. Across the land where Mel Gibson once trod, where all things come in batter, where the word ‘goalkeeper’ means something totally different and where the the sun disney set til midnight.

Its the highlands for me. And one of my shoulders at least.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

In case you might be in any possible doubt, let me make my position perfectly clear: I FUCKING HATE TERRORISTS AND WOULD WILLINGLY ROUND THEM ALL UP, PUT THEM IN A BIG HOLE AND FILL IT WITH CONCRETE. All of them. The whole bloody lot.

But you can’t find them. You can’t prevent them, so it would seem, and you can’t kick them out even if you could find them, because many are British. Allegedly. Just not ‘British’ in any way that we understand. As in embracing British values of freedom, democracy and tolerance.

And you can’t change your ways for terrorists, you can’t stop going out, stop having fun, stop meeting in public, stop going to pubs and clubs and football matches and concerts. Because then they win.

That’s the theory.

Then last night, when the shit hit the van, on London Bridge, then mayhem ensued in the normally fab, cool and atmospheric Borough Market, I thought about my daughter. Not the one with the baby, I knew exactly where she was, guarding my granddaughter. But my other daughter. The one who is always out and about in London’s hippest places that sell alcohol. So I messaged her. ‘You out?’ ‘Yep’. ‘Where are you?’ ‘Angel’. Ok, that’s Islington, miles away from the horrors. Then the question from her: ‘should I go home?’

And that simple question was in fact a test of faith. The proper answer is ‘no, if you change your lifestyle, the motherfucking jihadi scumbags win’. But in my heart I just wanted her safe. Home, in her bed, doors locked. I was almost ashamed to have such thoughts, but this was no longer about politics and statements. This was family.

These ‘jihadis’ are just violent, worthless scum. They have no value of life, their own or that of others. And the ‘islamist’ badges they wear are worthless. If they weren’t affiliated to ‘ISIS’ they’d be part of a gang, maybe join some other form of moronic ‘freedom fighters’. They just like violence and death, under any banner. But currently they are ‘Islamists’ and that horrendous ideology must be addressed. And that can only happen within the muslim community. I don’t hold muslims in any way responsible for this shit but they do have the power. To control the values at home, in mosques, meeting places, where all the evil begins.

The police shot the 3 attackers dead. 8 minutes after they received the first phone call. If that’s not unbelievably brilliant, I don’t know what is. 8 minutes. Respect.

Happy tragic Sunday

A xxxx

And there’s just four players left in the mix, really. We have Corbyn, we have May, we have Trump and we have Arsene Wenger. These are the only ones left to lead us, our collective futures are in their hands. Which would be fine, but its their heads in which the problems lie.

I think the main problem with Theresa May is that she’s not very nice. I know this should be irrelevant but it never is. Theresa comes across as slightly arrogant, even for a Conservative, and that’s not great. But what she says does have a realistic honesty. She refuses to make promises that are just crowd-pleasing, vote-winning soundbytes that have and can have no substance in reality.

Jeremy Corbyn (even though he makes MY skin crawl) is popular. Massively so. He has duped an entire generation. With promises that everyone wants to hear. No university tuition fees: hooray, free school meals for all; hooray, nationalise the railways: hooray, 14 grillion quid to the NHS; hooray; 63 drillion to social care; yippee. And best of all; he’ll ensure a continued free trade agreement with Europe.

Where the fuck is all that money coming from? It simply can’t all come from the hike in corporation tax, even though he doesn’t appear to have a plan B. You can only use 15 billion quid once. That’s the rule with money. Gone is gone.

More importantly, his insistence on a tariff-free trade deal after Brexit has not been questioned. But to get such a deal, any country HAS TO embrace all the European rules. Like freedom of movement and adoption of all their laws. So we’d leave Europe and then re-join it again under exactly the same terms but as non-members. For which we’d doubtless have to pay more than we did before.

Donald Trump has removed his nation from the treaty for reduction of carbon emissions. Saved 2 billion quid. Because Europe is not his problem and there’s a massive coal industry in the States that needs all the carbon it can burn. “America First!!!!” And fuck the world.

I’m not the greenest person on the planet, its safe to say. But simple measures at reducing certain ways of life can definitely help to slow down the climatic changes that are occurring, there is no doubt. But for some reason, in a speech that would have appeared childish in a school playground, Trump was concerned that ‘the world is laughing at America’. Plonker.

Arsene Wenger has signed a new contract with Arsenal. Sadly its only 2 years. Wish it had been 10. But by then, under Corbyn, football will be nationalised, players riding bikes to training, tvs will become ‘big’ again to promote the valve industry and there’ll only be electricity for 2 hours a day anyway.

Ahhhh, the future is… something.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

In the 1960s and 70s a young Aussie called Margaret Court was the
undisputed champ of women’s tennis. She was the Martina of her day.
The proto-Williams. Sharapova without steroids. She was a winner. Yet
even back then she had views that were… different. At a time when
everyone was boycotting South Africa because of apartheid, Margaret
praised the regime as being ‘better than the United States’ in racial
matters. Though looking at America in the 60s they had almost the same
thing there in many states.

Then she found God. Always a problem. And she’s a church pastor. Which
is not just finding God but kind’a eating at his table, going to his
parties, chillin’ together, kind’a thing. And because of God she’s now
abandoning Quantas airline because ‘they support same sex marriage’.
And she doesn’t. And He (apparently) doesn’t. Even though this is not
some radical Islamic, throw-gays-off-the-roof kind of God, but the
other one, the Western one, with the beard. She further said that
tennis was full of lesbians. And as a tennis player myself, I’d like
to state here and now that I’m no lesbian. Not through want of trying
but they won’t let me join.

Poor, old deluded Maggie then said the best one: that teaching in
schools about such things as ‘gayness’ was ‘what Hitler did. Got into
the minds of children’. Which, other than being historically wrong,
Hitler never messed about with kids but went straight for the adults,
is just plain and simple fucked up. Its on a par with not teaching
evolution (still a problem in some schools in America, nearly 100
years after the ‘Scopes trial’).

I wanna know why her God is so intolerant of gay people? Particularly
lesbians. Martina Navratilova has had ‘words’. Some in English, some
in Czech, all expletive. Good for her.

Have a super, tolerant, inclusive Friday

A xxxx

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury; I shall present you with evidence over the course of this trial, to show that security measures currently employed in this allegedly fair and democratic nation, are in fact just hi-tech versions of spying. And the Plaintiff, Lila Sophia Bell, has indeed had her human rights abused by this technology on grounds of privacy, intrusion and round-the-clock surveillance.

Babies are an obsession. For all of us, so it would seem. So when our kids were little we had little monitoring devices, that inevitably failed; human error, you had to turn them on and kind’a point them, so this is the logical extrapolation. The Babycam. Not only can you spy on your baby when its in bed but you can speak to him/her. You can play music from your phone. Not, like Nirvana or the Groundhogs, maybe Black Sabbath which you find on my phone, but, more plinky-plonk baby songs about stars in the sky and the wheels on diesel-spewing buses polluting the environment. You can play the baby the endless electoral debates; sends me to sleep soon enough, should work wonders for a babe. Or re-runs of Spurs last 2 matches in full. Wow.

Ahhh technology…

They’re gonna fly a rocket to the Sun. I know, you don’t need to, you can see it from here easy enough, long as its not cloudy. But you know what scientists are like; give them an inch and they take 93 million miles. I hope they’re taking lots of Factor 50. They’re not actually landing on it, obvs, that would be rather tricky as the temperature is higher than Blackpool in August. Its another ‘probe’ (horrible word; brings to mind medical shit and proctologists and…) which will in fact travel in ever nearing loops, ending up just 2 million miles away. Which is pretty far if you were using your over-60s tube travel card, but in terms of our star, can only be termed ‘fucking close’. 1400 degrees close. Way too close for comfort. You could bake your cheesecake in 7 seconds. But close enough to learn what they need to learn. Don’t ask, I have no idea, other than it’ll be ‘ground-breaking’ and ‘really important’. So I’m happy with that. Science for science’ sake; there’s nothing purer. Other than a baby.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx