Andy's Glasses

The rugby yesterday was awesome. The Lions were amazing in places, outstanding at times, wonderful in general. Very impressive.

Yet not enough. Which is why they lost. Because to compete with the All Blacks you need to be all that, but ALL the time. Any lapse and its punished. As happened yesterday.

As I like to start the weekend with a different type of violence; just as gratuitous but more personal than just watching the rugby, I went to my Tai Chi class and recorded the match for later consumption. And when I decided to consume, I noticed that the ‘match programme’ on Sky had lasted 3.5 hours. An 80 minute game, 210 minutes of programme. Which breaks down as follows:

Pre-match bollocks: 40 minutes
Post-match bollocks: 40 minutes
Adverts: 50 minutes

(Note for purists; I omitted ‘half-time bollocks’ because its actual content is statistically insignificant compared to the adverts).

It was a wonderful match to watch. All Blacks games always are. Hard, fast and simply impressive, all across the pitch. The Lions had two instances where they just lost concentration, for which you cannot criticise them under all that pressure. Both times cost them tries. But the Kiwis just do a little bit more of absolutely everything. As Kieran Reed collapses at a maul under a heap of 18 stone forwards, he amazingly has the presence of mind to flick the ball up as he falls into the arms of his scrum half. Another try. Beauden Barret, the world’s best fly-half has to move to full back due to an injury and becomes the world’s best number 15.

The scary bit is not losing the match. Its that the Lions played so well, and still lost the match. If they’d been shit, improving would be simple.

This afternoon should be interesting. Lila needs to take a bottle. Not of gin, like her grandmother, but of milk. Something she’s been understandably reluctant to do. But needs to because her mummy (or as Lila calls her: ‘McDonalds’) wants to go to a wedding next weekend and that will be difficult without baby taking a bottle. So today me and Auntie Rachie are taking charge. The world’s two most irresponsible people left in charge of a starving (ish) child. But a man’s gotta do… or a wo-man.

God help us all.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Here’s something new. An actual quote, as it was spoked, from Jeremy Corbyn, with no embellishment, enhancement, improvement or abuse: (clear throat, ahem):

From Hillsborough, to the child sex abuse scandal, to Grenfell Tower – the pattern is consistent: working-class people’s voices are ignored.

How is that viewed as anything short of blatant politicising? Of completely hi-jacking three terrible tragedies and abusing them by making them part of his ‘class war’? Why does anyone listen to that tosser? Why has no-one complained? That he does not know all 98 people who died at Hillsboro’, nor the hundreds injured, some may have been doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs and thus exempt from his exclusively ‘working class’ sympathy. Similarly abused children are just plain fucking children. Doesn’t matter if they’re black, white, rich, poor or whatever antiquated adjectives he chooses to describe them by. They may have all been boy scouts. Christians. Arsenal fans. Irrelevant. They were children and the abusers were not all conservative MPs, or upper class anything or lower class something else.

Is he implying therefore that child abuse by ‘working people’ is somehow more acceptable? That if it had been Chelsea at Hillsboro’ instead of Liverpool that would have been better because they’re less ‘working class’? What does ‘working class’ even mean??? Does Bill Gates qualify? For his 98 hour weeks? The CEO of a footsie 100 company; does he/she (as if) not ‘work’?? If so then everyone is a ‘working person’ from a cleaner to banker. So why use the term at all. Might as well call them ‘human people’. Its unnecessary. Unless its intentionally prejudicial, of course. And used to imply that the death of any working ‘class’ person is always the fault of someone rich or the government. Whereas the death of rich people doesn’t matter. 

If I was a Hillsboro’ survivor/family member, (not normally any kind of ‘silent minority’) I’d be fuming that my tragedy has been stolen for out-of-context political gain. It was in fact, after about 16 public inquiries, to be found the fault of the police. And they are public sector working people. So what the fuck is that tosser on about????

Happy ranting

A xxxx

“Last night I dreamt of Manderlay…”

Opening words of Daphne Du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’. Which I know firstly because I’m a totally cultured and literate literary litter-lout who adores true love, romance and the whole chic-lit schtick, and secondly because its Mel’s favourite book/film ever. Otherwise, if I’m honest for once, I wouldn’t have a fucking clue. If it ain’t in a Spurs match program, it ain’t worth readin’.

Daphne Du Maurier also wrote another book. My Cousin Rachel. Not ‘My Cousin Vinny’, that was someone else. Someone who wrote good books. Funny ones. Nothing funny about My Cousin Rachel, so they made it into a movie. And because its Daphne du M, and because… because it was on, ‘we’ just ‘had’ to see it.

So to reason. There’s a reason why everyone’s heard of ‘Rebecca’. And a reason why virtually no-one knows ‘My Cousin Rachel’. Always a good reason. And there’s a reason why a busy cinema is empty. How often do you see that? Ok, it was a gorgeous hot and lovely mid-summer eve, but heh, there was air-con in the movie. That alone should have dragged half of Crouch End off its collective sweaty arse and into the film? But no. The film is shit. Even Mel asked me about 2/3 the way through if we should bother waiting for the end. Unfortunately I was asleep and thus missed my opportunity.

Maybe its the old ‘good books don’t translate into good movies’ thing. Other than Shawshank. The Shining. Godfather and a million others. That’s why there was never a movie of a JT Edson book (so obscure even I’m struggling with it, but those who knew JT will understand; even if they’d never admit it in public).

Never mind; the British (ok, ‘and Irish’) Lions are playing the All Blacks tomorrow morning. And that won’t be nap time. Its a win-win for me. I love a Lions tour and yet I’m a massive All Blacks fan. You don’t have to be a kiwi. You’re allowed. Because when Dan Carter resigned from international rugby after being the best fly-half the world has ever seen, (apologies to Barry John) they just ‘found’ Beauden Barret who may possibly be even better. When Ricky McCaw left the game after captaining over 100 times, in steps Kieran Read. Where do they get them? Where do they make them? In a population of about 47 people and 92 million sheep, how can they keep producing such superstars?

Come on Lions… ish

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So there we were, me and Ivani, the gorgeous Brazillian, off to Disneyland. We had fun. And spent the next 3 days together until she went back to Sao Paulo. Leaving me bereft. Again. The last time I’d been ‘bereft, when I left the stewardess on the plane, only lasted a few minutes. Though Ivani returns to our story in a later, exciting episode.

So I stayed with ‘the uncle’ and his son for a bit and then had a needle-in-a-haystack moment.

You gotta remember, this was 1981. No mobile phones, no email, so contact was by telephones fixed to walls in homes or in little boxes in the street, or posted letters. How did we survive?

About 5 years previously I’d met a guy whilst working a summer on a kibbutz in Israel. An American called Paul. We collected eggs together. We beat up chickens together. Then I came home and Paul was left there, his ‘future life’. And then one day, looking up a phone number in the San Fernando Valley phone book (56 million entries, big as fucking bus), I saw his name, as he has a rather unusual surname. Could it be??? Oddly, it was. He’d returned home and was now living near enough that he was in the same phone book as I would have been if I’d had a phone.

And Paul introduced me to ‘proper’ LA. Tommy’s Burgers. Oki Dog. The Whisky-a-go-go. And, much as everyone generally hates LA, after a few weeks I actually started to get it. The place. The size of it. The fact that its not ‘a city’ but loads of them all stuffed together. Each with its own centre and eateries and bars and stuff. And I liked it and decided that, rather than travel alone, I’d stay for a bit. So I went and got a social security number. Told them I wanted to open a bank account for my travels and they just here you are; 35653445676, or BC87665/76 or whatever it was. And with that number, the world (as Americans understand the world, generally a world that runs from San Francisco to Boston, from Alaska to Miami) becomes your oyster. Because it enables you to work. No-one ever asks for the mythical ‘green card’, but everyone wants your social security number. And I had one.

But I was still, really, a ‘wet-back’. An illegal. I just spoke better English than such types normally do. In fact, with all due modesty, I spoke better English than 98% of the ‘legals’ too. Even with my East End twang I was still more Trevor MacDonald than Barbara Windsor. At least to Americans.

Me (new/old) mate Paul also loved a road trip. And I was the willing Clyde to his Bonnie. And off we’d trek to Las Vegas, San Francisco, Palm Springs, even over to Lake Havasu in Arizona (where they stupidly bought the ‘wrong’ London Bridge) and to ski in Squaw Valley.

So I needed to work. To supplement my meagre savings and allow me to hang around longer. But was nervous about working because of my tourist status. But Paul knew a geezer, who knew a geezer… and I ended up as so many illegal immigrants do, pumping gas at the Chevron station. Or, ‘the best job I ever had’, as its now known.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

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