Andy's Glasses

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

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