Andy's Glasses

This picture is not actually Mel photobombing a picture with a bunch of Indian schoolgirls. She would normally have done exactly that. Anything for attention. Never afraid of being a bully. But here in India the attention comes to her. And this was the result of a sweet little girl pleading to let her take a photo with Mel. Who is used to dealing with papperazzi, fighting off autograph seekers, selfie fiends and money lenders. But agreed to let the girl take her pic. Which ended up ‘the class of 2016/1965’.

We were at Gandhi’s house. He wasn’t in. Well, not as we knew him. He’s there in spirit. Its a cool house but there again, he was a cool guy. And so ahead of his time. He died in 1948. Killed by a Hindu who was annoyed that the great man had given too much of India away to become Pakistan the previous year.

Anyway, he’s dead now. Only his glasses and walking sticks survive. And a lot of his philosophy and the advances he implemented. He never got involved in ‘money’. Otherwise things today might be different.

You can’t buy Indian Rupees outside of India. And now you can’t really buy them here. There aren’t enough. Because this year the Indian government, sick of the number of forged notes in circulation, withdrew the 500 Rupee (about 6 quid) note, and the 1000 note (about… carry 4… divide by 7…) 12 quid. Suddenly they were no longer legal tender. Obviously you could change them at the bank. Until next week, 30th December, then they die too. So everyone went to the bank with their hard-earned biscuit tins full of cash from under their beds, and had to change them to the largest note then available. The 100 Rupee note. Worth fuck-all. Ok, worth about 80p. So after a few weeks of “I have 35,000 Rupees to change please”, they ran out of 100 Rupee notes. Einstein would have foreseen this problem. Gandhi would have foreseen this problem. Sadly both deceased. And no-one in the rest of the population of 1 billion souls did foresee the problem. No-one suggested; oh hang on, why don’t we print up some new, forgery-proof notes, big ones, BEFORE we get rid of the old? No? Ok, I thought it was a good idea, but obviously not. Instead they’ve introduced the 2000 note!! That’s a good idea. Except you give the chai-walla one of them for your morning cuppa (they don’t do the Starbucks grande cup thing here at all), and he has to find 19 of the 100 Rupee notes in your change.

As a consequence of this, tourists who are always not just encouraged, but encouraged to SPEND, SPEND, SPEND, are allowed to change just $75 into Rupees each. And the best bit: that’s per week. Its logged against your passport number and circulated. And the ‘black market’ simply has no cash left either. So that’s just one pair of shoes and we’re done. Or 32,000 cups of chai.

I’m living the fucking dream.

Happy Christmas Eve

A xxxx

So the phone rings in the room. I pick it up (like what else??) and a voice says, in a very strong, Indian accent: “is that Andrew Convay?”

Which, other than the regional mispronunciation (I struggle with Murgh Meganhi), is my given name. But the only people who ever use it are my mother, and as she was never an Indian, and she passed away 3 years ago, it was unlikely to be her, and telesales people. Because the lists they buy are from banks, official places and others in which I would be included in my full and proper form.

Fortunately, before I managed to lash out with the normal string of expletives about not having ever been (mis-)sold PPI, not wanting to sue my bank for holding my money, not interested in making a claim for a motor accident 3 years ago that I never had, I remembered I was in Delhi. And it was our guide calling to tell us of his arrival for our Delhi tour, part 1: ‘Old Delhi’. And he is, unsurprisingly Indian. I asked if he has a brother, maybe, who is involved in any of the above, but he doesn’t. Must be more than 2 Indians then.

And when you go to Old Delhi, you find that indeed to be true. There are 2 million cars, bikes, tuk-tuks, rickshaws and motorcycles, and that’s just on the side roads. Though its all pretty much side roads in the old bit. New Delhi is… errr… well, newer, bigger, more grand, full of forts and palatial embassies and governmental buildings of grandeur and splendidness, and wide roads. So the traffic jams are much bigger. There’s still 2 million on each of those roads, few horses thrown into the mix, cattle, dogs, goats, but mainly jams. Endless fucking traffic jams. Makes London look like the Nurbergring.

Fortunately there are very strict rules, otherwise it would be madness, pandemonium and sheer insanity out there. Here are the rules:

Never look for other cars/bikes/dogs/whatever; THEY WILL GET OUT OF THE WAY, you just go where you want, even if its the wrong way down the carriageway (as our driver did, into 3 lanes of the wrong carriageway).

Honk your horn to let other people know you’re there. Or if you’re no longer there. Or if you intend at some stage to be there. Honk to let people in (like they’d stop even if you weren’t), honk to stop people coming in (they won’t hear it) and honk all pedestrians.

Give way to no-one, ever.

If there are three lanes marked on the road; make a 4th. Then a 5th. They’ll squeeze up, really, they will. Oh, and never drive at more than 3mph. Could be dangerous.

We were on a cycle rickshaw. We survived. Just. OMG.

Happy whatever fucking day it is; I really have no idea.

A xxxx

We’re going to India today. I spend so much time speaking to call centres in Mumbai and Delhi that I thought it almost rude not to go and thank ‘Kenny’ and ‘Mike’ and ‘Ronnie’ personally for disturbing so much of our meal-time peace during the course of the year. I’m taking a baseball bat with me.

32 years ago we went to Sri Lanka. Our first ever ‘exotic’ trip (ie: beyond Benidorm, other than America which doesn’t count because its civilised, or was back then, not sure any more). The first of many expeditions to faraway lands. Dragging our screaming daughters to the corners of the world in an effort to ‘expand their minds’, to ‘open up their hearts’ to other cultures, other customs and really cheap food. But all they wanted, in Thailand, South Africa, Australia, Mauritius, wherever, was ‘pasta’. Dried. From Waitrose. Don’t want that foreign muck.

But I do. I love foreign muck. Can’t really get enough of it.

India is famous for its foreign muck. And I intend to bathe in it. Live the dream. Curry for breakfast. Samosas for lunch. Kebabs for dinner. Virtually no calories at all. Or, virtually no calories that I give a shit about.

And giving a shit is the problem with India. Delhi Belly. India is reputedly the best country with the worst stomach upsets in the world. And thus the advice is always: don’t drink the water, and DON’T EAT SALAD because its washed in water. How will I survive 2 weeks without salad? Just watch me. And pass another lamb-chop.

Tomorrow morning in fact we shall be in Delhi. An aeroplane is taking us. And after a few days there we’re doing a bit of a tour round the whole of India, except the parts we won’t see. Because its big. Very, very big. And populous.

Yours very excitedly, even though we just lost the cricket over there 4 tests to nil.

Happy holidays

A xxxx

Well, Ankara hasn’t been nuked. Yet. You can never rule out the possibility altogether, but strange things are happening. Calculated but strange in the aftermath of the assassination of the Russian ambassador to Turkey. Putin and Erdogan are singing from the same song sheet. Allied against ‘terror’ and ‘terrorists’ like never before. Ok, you can’t trust either on their definitions of ‘terrorism’ as its generally used as a term to describe anyone opposed to their own best interests. But united they are. Besties. Nice.

In early Stephen King books (which I lurve) there was often a division of groups. A collection of, if not completely similars, at least of moral equivalents. Kids would divide into the bullies and the bullied. The ‘jocks’ and the ‘nebachs’. And in the ‘nebachs’ was always a really short-sighted, bespectacled one (as Stephen King is), a really poor kid (as King was again), a black one (errrrrr…) and others that never made anyone’s A-list out in rural Maine. But these were the good people. They had inner strength and an instinctive grasp of right and wrong. They became friends by default. The ones no-one else befriended. And unsurprisingly, they always won in the end. The stories were often about the coming together of these people. The Stand. It. Stand by Me. Carrie. Even the Shawshank Redemption, to a degree, all studies of ‘the outsider’ by the master of character building in late 20th century America.

And now the world is dividing once more. Like we really need more divisions. But Putin and Erdogan are the dudes on no-one’s invite list. But they need each other. Everyone hates the Turks and won’t let them into ‘Europe’ so they’re forced to make alliances elsewhere. Poot’n is pretty much hated by everyone and attributes all its unpopularity to America’s ‘distortions’ of events. Like the hacking. Like the doping. Bombing. Assassinations. None of it actually happened, its just a figment of the Washington Post’s imagination. Turkey and Russia actually, eventually, ended up on the same side in Syria. Amazing as they started off with different aims and intentions and certainly backed different teams. But there ya go. They were also joined there by Iran, another American hating nation, if not the most America hating nation currently available.

These 3 ‘fine’ nations are now teaming up with Kazakhstan and China, creating an anti-West powerhouse. Or ‘The Bad Guys’ in my little Stephen King world. Russia now has a massive influence in the Middle East, which it has wanted from that very first invasion of Afghanistan, Turkey has an ally that won’t keep banging on about fucking ‘human rights’ all the bloody time, like Europe does. And the Chinese aren’t exactly popular either. I know nothing about Kazakhstan that Barat didn’t tell me. None of which was good.

Shaping up for a very happy Christmas

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

On a scale of 1 to 7.5, rate each of these things for stupidity, with ‘1’ being ‘actually quite sensible really’ and 7.5 being ‘ARE YOU FUCKING MENTAL????’ Goddit?

Playing tennis with a dodgy shoulder when everyone’s told you not to.

Losing 2-1 to Manchester City after being a goal to the good.

Having a referendum to leave Europe.

Being Boris Johnson.

Voting for Donald Trump.

Shooting the Russian ambassador to Turkey.

Please keep your answers so secret that not even you know them. Mainly because I don’t care what you think. Barely care what I think.

But shooting the Russian ambassador. HOLY SHIT!!!!!! The word ‘repercussions’ was virtually invented for just that awful scenario. Maybe the off-duty cop wot done it had a case of mistaken identity and thought he was shooting the Swedish ambassador. In which case there’d be a diplomatic outcry, closing of embassies, strong words of condemnation.

This was a Russian. Putin’s mate. Not in a Trumpy way, a real mate. From the hood. Shot by some Turkish nutter. Sorry, I mean by some poor, misguided soul. But, like, really REALLY misguided. Because Putin is all about cojones. He not only has to appear tough, he has to act tough. To never flinch, never back down. And really, when you have the biggest and most dangerous army in the world watching your back, you can act as tough as you want.

It was about Syria. Revenge (???) for Aleppo. So the killer stated. Just before they shot him. So 50,000 Syrians killed by Russian bombs equals one fat Russian. Doesn’t add up. But it was just a ‘statement’. A short, loud statement. A phrase often used to describe my dear wife.

The Turks hate Assad. He’s the ‘neighbour from Hell’. So they supported the rebels. Especially as the Kurds were with the rebels and Turks hate Kurds. To actually simplify feelings in that part of the world, its probably more explanatory to just say ‘everyone hates everyone else’. And they all hate the Russians. Rightly so. Or wrongly so, depending which side of the insanity you view it from.

Then a lorry ploughs into a happy, Christmassy street market in Berlin. Terrorism is suspected. No shit. Who else but a deeply religious person would murder 12 innocent people?

Ich bein ein Londoner.

Tragic Tuesday

A xxxx

Read a very interesting yet odd article the other day by the Vatican’s Chief Astronomer. Can’t remember his name but it sounded a bit like a pasta dish. Who knew that the Vatican had astronomers? Yet they do. They’re into science. Apparently.

And this dude was trying to find an explanation for the Star of Bethlehem, the Christmas Star. In science. As if the action of a supernova, a collision of meteorites, the interaction between Jupiter and Venus, would actually prove, not just the nativity narrative, but that Jesus Christ was absolutely the ‘son of God’.

But the opposite happened. They’ve scoured records, they’ve re-wound the entire universe for 2000 years and at the time of Jesus’ birth, there was NO astronomical oddities of a bright, flashy nature. The planetary positions were wrong. We know when supernovas occurred and they didn’t back then. So rather than accept the somewhat inevitable conclusion that ‘its the Bible; the gospel, IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE FUCKING LITERAL!!!!’ Bishop Star-Gazer instead took this doubtful event as proof of a miracle. If it didn’t occur according to the laws of physics, nature and astronomy then it is DEFINITELY AND WITHOUT DOUBT a miracle. God shone the light to guide the kings to Jesus. Otherwise, without streetlights or satnav, they’d have struggled to find that barn in Bethlehem.

Which is why we should never, ever, let religion into the science lab. Otherwise the answer to every single question, from the splitting of atoms to the forces of gravity, from quantum mechanics to evolution has but one simple answer: God done it. Makes exam papers easier but doesn’t really advance the cause much.

Sajid Javid, the Communities Secretary for the Government, wants to implement an ‘oath’ to British Values, to be sworn by all those in public office, as a model for newly arriving immigrants who should do the same. To avoid extremism and extremist views. “Oh, no, I can’t join in that jihadi plot that I’ve been groomed for since I was 4 because I’ve sworn allegiance to British Values and it didn’t mention suicide vests so I can’t do it. Sorry.” No-one’s ever lied under oath to achieve a further cause, get a job, sleep with the woman…

And Arsenal lost.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So Mezud Ozil and Alexis Sanchez are in deep talks with Arsenal about their new contracts. Which they don’t give a shit about. And the money on offer, which they really, really do. They earn 140k a week (a fucking WEEK!!!!) but want 250k. Like Pogba. Fine.

Then Oscar, Brazilian not-quite-superstar-enough to play regularly for Chelsea, moves to Shanghai (iss in China, innit, setting up a ‘big-time’ football league, ain’t they) for an eye-watering, testicle-shriveling, nausea-inducing 400 thousand pounds a week.

Now them Chinese, those last bastions of world Communism: from each according to his ability (Oscar is very able) to each according to his needs (must be some ‘needs’) have offered Zlatan Ibrahimovic 1.2 million pounds a week. £1,200,000 every fucking week. He’s 36 years old and wears a pony tail. You’d think he’d know better with all that maturity, but for 1.2 mil a week, he can look as stupid as he wants. Though he’s turned it down. For now.

That’s totally fucked up. Absolutely outrageous. Obviously, in a free-market economy, you can pay what you want. The Chinese reckon they can sell 1.6 billion ‘Ibrahmovic’ shirts, one for every person there, probably just by passing a law making it compulsory. If you’re caught not wearing one you get locked up without a trial. Fair enough. But what message does it send to our already ridiculously rich footballing ‘stars’? It gives the message to be greedy. Be very greedy. Make outrageous demands and use the ‘Chinese model’ as the ultimate threat. Pay me ‘what I’m worth’ or I’ll play in Shanghai, Beijing, wherever.

Swansea City won’t be making an offer for Ibrahimovic. Nor Ozil or Sanchez. They’re in trouble. Big trouble. Conceded 18 goals in their last six away games. Or ‘road games’ as their manager, Bob Bradley, calls them. And there’s the problem.

Managers, no matter how great they may be, have to sound right. They can use the ‘northern scumbag’ model, like Sam Allardyce, they can use the Welsh paradigm, like Clive Coleman, Mark Hughes. They can be crafty cockneys, Geordie morons (Shearer) or they can be ‘foreign’. But only within clearly defined limits. French, German, Spanish, Italian, all fine. Mastery of English not essential (Pochettino), at first at least. South American is fine and dandy.

But to hear a full-blown Yank… its just plain wrong. We don’t have ‘road games’ cos our roads are shitty. We don’t have ‘winningest’ teams, nor all those other phrases which simply don’t translate. Its like calling a goal a ‘touchdown’. Which he hasn’t. Yet.

American accents are fine. I like them. Wouldn’t want a cowboy to sound any different. Nor televangelists, baseball pundits or Hollywood moguls. But a manager of a British football team, (even a Welsh one)… naaaaaaaah. No wonder they’re losing.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Thursday. We’re off. India. Land a million curries. A billion people. 42,000 known forms of stomach upset. 1200 Hindu Gods. With 92000 limbs between them. And lots of curries. Did I mention those already? Good. I love curry.

But that always supposes we take off from Heathrow. The weather’s nothing special, no ice, no snow, no hurricanes forecast, just dull and grey, neither of which bothers jumbo jets in the least. The problem this winter is what has rapidly become our national malaise: strikes.

Everyone’s doing it. First (and pretty much always) it was the tube. Then the other railways. And now, just in time for the busy, busy holiday season, its the airlines. Virtually all of them. Initially at BA it was the flight crews, but now the baggage handlers have joined in too. So far the pilots have been pretty quiet.

So here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll make the sandwiches (I’m a great sandwich maker, as long as you’re not on any kind of diet or allergic to any kind of food, because everything’s gonna be in there), and I’ll shlep my own cases onto the plane. Mel will load them up and then I’ll do the pre-flight announcement. I’ve always wanted to. “BRACE! BRACE!”

“In case of sudden de-pressurisation GET OFF THE FUCKING PLANE!!! or, use the oxygen masks that will drop down automatically”. Attend to your own mask first and then, if they haven’t already suffocated to death, sort out any children or old people. You life jacket is under your seat unless some obnoxious little bastard hasn’t nicked it to inflate in the swimming pool in Torremolinos to impress the babes. As we used to do.

If necessary, Mel will do the flying, because she’s much more safe and considerate with vehicles than I am, and you never have to parallel park a 747. I’ll sell the duty-free. Cash only.

>> So I must warn you. If, for any reason we don’t take off as scheduled (we booked these flights last January) you will, on Friday morning, read a rant the likes of which has never graced these ‘pages’. Please don’t partake if you have a weak heart, a mild disposition or a problem with fucking swear words.
>

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

They’ve finally ‘liberated’ Aleppo. Hooray. The good guys marched in and outed the bad guys and they’ll all live happily ever after. That can only be good news. But for whom?

Well its good news for Assad, because he gets his country back. What’s left of it. And its good news for Russia, because they’ve backed him all the way and formed a wonderful alliance in which they’ve both proved world masters at ‘acting one way and speaking another’. Which is pretty easy really. Here’s what you do:

You send in 47 top grade fighter jets, the most sophisticated in the world. You pin-point your target, maybe something military, possibly a ‘rebel stronghold’ or arms depot, and then you use the amazing precision of the air-power to bomb the shit out of every building in 9 square miles. That way you can say ‘ve vere bombing rebel targets’ whereas in fact you’ve destroyed 3 hospitals, 14 schools and 22,000 homes of just kind’a regular Syrian civilians. Women, children, priests, doctors, nurses, policemen, just so much collateral damage. Because as we all know, the only way to really single out the rebels is with the chemical weapons that Assad swore he didn’t use. And use them liberally. Because those chemicals are so special that they only actually affect rebel fighters. They just, kind’a, sort of, ‘bounce off’ normal people who aren’t rebels. You could see it on the news, hosing down children, hundreds of them in the hope that you might save their sight, their lungs, their lives.

Assad is unquestionably a horrible and bad person. He is the motherfucker’s motherfucker.

Which is why America and the UK and others were supporting the rebels 6 years ago when all this shit started. ‘Our side’ in the hope that the rebels would see off ISIS in the East, and defeat all round bad buy Assad in the West. Then Russia joined the ‘war on terrorism’ and hooked up with Assad’s government against ‘our’ rebels.

Yet somewhere down the line the rebels changed. From being merely anti-government, in which ‘we’ supported them, they morphed into an all round rogues gallery of non-ISIS extremist hit squads. Al Quada, the Nusra Front and their ilk, who are radical Sunnis. They were joined by Shia militia. And that was never going to work. So they spent their days (and nights) killing each other. There were also a few Kurds knocking around, just to spice up the already explosive mix.

Blah, blah, blah, and Assad won. Assad and Putin won. ‘Liberated’ Aleppo from the rebels.

I wish I knew whose side I was on and whether to be happy with relief or devastated with sorrow.

One way or the other Friday

A xxxx

Its a funny ole game, is football.

Jimmy Greaves words, set in stone, the foundation block of the apparently random and capricious nature of football. Any team can beat any team; on the day. Anything can happen. As they often do. Shitty teams beat high flyers, top teams fail to finish things off, last minute, last-gasp equalisers, Barcelona have 98% possession and Celta Vigo, in the 93rd minute, score with their measly 2% and its a draw. Basically; shit happens. And it happens to everybody. That’s why bookies always win. Nothing is ever 100% certain.

Until this week. When we had that rarest of treats; a midweek full fixture list. The Christmas warm-up. And over those 2 evenings and 10 matches, you could have predicted every result with fair confidence and you’d have been right in virtually every one. In fact, every match was won by the team higher in league position. Other than West Ham beating Burnley. The only draw was the 0-0 between Stoke and Southampton, middle table teams separated by just one point.

Ok, there was one notable exception. Everton beat Arsenal. And due to the fact that every other match went according to rankings, according to expectations, I think it fair to deduce that Arsenal’s league position is in fact an aberration. Its wrong. They shouldn’t be there. Thus will now make moves to take up their ‘proper’ league position just under West Brom. This isn’t me; the footballing Gods have spoken and what they’ve said, in their godlike way, is “move out the fuckin’ way, Arsenal!!”

And all this because Spurs won a match. In some style, according to pundits. And we now, apparently, have sights on Ross Barkley, the Everton midfielder. 35 million they want for him. Even though he’s been pretty useless this season and is the latest in a very long line of England superstars seemingly failing to live up to early promise. But maybe, just maybe, he’s not used to his best advantage at Everton, perhaps their style of play stifles his unquestionable talent? Who knows. Does seem odd though that a team collectively just 2 years out of a care home, should sell one of their youngest and best. Though history (very recent history at that) shows that Spurs and ‘record signings’ (which it would be) often don’t work out as well as we hope. Very often.

Happy Thursday; its all to play for.

A xxxx