Andy's Glasses

So the younger daughter, in a fit of niceness (one of 7 in her 25 years) decided to have a ‘coffee morning’ in aid of McMillan Cancer. An amazing organisation who, as we sadly know from the last years of my mum’s life, give the most incredible support to people who need it, and do virtually anything to make things easier.

Anyway, Rachie, ‘coffee morning’, McMillan. Come along, drink coffee, eat a cake, give us 20 quid for charity and piss off. That’s the deal. We’ve all been there.

But a coffee ‘morning’ is an unlikely event for that daughter because she doesn’t normally get in from Saturday night until about lunchtime Sunday. So factor in a little sleep… quick shower… and the coffee morning has to become an afternoon tea. Fine.

We’d been signed up to bake a cake. No problemo. I love making cakes. Ok, I love eating cake mixture, same difference. Because I’ll always be in with an ‘I’ll help!!!’ when cake is involved. Help being somewhat ambiguous in this context.

Then we get a call last week: “there’s about 25 coming to the morning-in-the-afternoon, don’t have sufficient seating in my flat; can I have it at your house?” Not a question. Just a politely worded statement. I’M HAVING IT THERE. Oh… ok then…

In my particularly male-orientated world, if you’re having 25 people round hurling cake around, there’s no point clearing up the place first, you’ll only have to do it again afterwards. No? But Mel’s different; she doesn’t think like a proper man, I worry sometimes. And we got the tea pots and the spare extra kettles and got some fruit and…

They’re coming at 3. “What time are you coming over”, Mel asked the daughter. To help ‘prepare’, get all ready and all the et ceteras that women understand. “Quarter to 3” was the reply. Which turned out to be 4 minutes to 3. About 45 seconds before the first bus-load of mates arrived, cakes in hand.

They all came, a truly fab bunch of girls, (no men invited; only me, not so much invited as part of the furniture), who all brought loads of cakes, brownies, cookies, flap-jacks, biscuits… and ate fruit. Only fruit.

When they departed a few wonderful (but sooooo fucking noisy) hours later, all the fruit was gone. All the cakes untouched. As if a flock of gluten intolerant bats had descended. Or just calorie conscious babes, perhaps.

I’m going to work, I need a rest.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

A salient tale of two ‘yesterday men’ but with rather different outcomes for each.

That sounds almost intelligent? Almost interesting?? Either of which would be unusual for these pages so don’t get hopes too high.

Jeremy Corbyn is a yesterday man. On the grounds that:

1. he’s a nob
2. he’s a tosser
3. he’s a wanker
4. I hate him
5. Can’t think of a fifth without resorting to language that would make me blush. Which would have to be some serious fucking language indeed.

Corbyn’s a throwback. Which I can forgive. I’ve always had a soft spot for socialism. Michael Foot did it and all worked well until a general election when it became apparent that most of this fair nation lack sufficient soft spots for socialism to want it in their lives.

Where Corbyn leaves me totally, other than the rabid anti-semitism that his presence has somehow engendered, is the subtle shift from a benign Marxism (possession is theft; power to the workers; tax the rich; then tax them more) to a more aggressive Stalinism (kill the rich; behead the monarchy; my way or NO WAY) with his own KGB (Momentum) and an acceptance of a brutal, bullying, nasty way of treating his own colleagues and party members.

And yesterday, given the wonderful opportunity to get rid of this horrible little man, the Labour Party, or what’s left of it, chose to give the imbecile a new mandate to lead them.

The other yesterday man is Wayne Rooney. The Roonster. The tubby little England captain who was dropped by new manager, Jose Morinho and sat on the bench for all but 10 minutes of Manchester United’s win over Hull yesterday afternoon. The game was over before he came on. 4-1. Easy peasy.

But where does that leave Wayne? And Colleen? What will they do?

Leaving out Rooney gave the United team a balance they’ve been lacking in recent weeks (and recent losses) when the little Scouser plays. United were more threatening, more fluid, they were quicker, dangerous and clinically effective. Whether this was due to Morinho’s brilliance (as he would doubtless have it) or due to Morinho’s men reading every sports journalist saying ‘leave Rooney out and United will be great’, we’ll never know. But Jose’s put his money on Ibrahimavich and without Rooney has found the best way to make the big Swede most advantageous.

Arsenal beat Chelsea with breezy ease. Which is both funny and horrid at the same time.

And Spurs go second in the league.

I’ll repeat that: Spurs go second in the league.

Very happy Sunday, which will be yesterday by tomorrow.

A xxxx

A cake, one could argue, is greater than the sum of its parts. Flour. Eggs. Sugar. Mix into a sludge. Then bake. And out comes a miracle! Or, if you’re like me, just eat it before baking. Why waste the energy when the batter is so wonderful. Yet if you eat that you’re just a pig, but eating cake is the height of civility. Go figure.

So how about the Bake Off? The Great British Bake Off? Four people and a fucking great tent. You could do it in your own garden. Buy a few ovens. Pots and pans. Sorted. The Great Conway Family Bake Off. Mel could be the judge and me and the girls could squabble, argue and make stupid comments about soggy bottoms and stupid innuendos about limp dough. Its easy. Ok, a few contestants would be an idea but really they’re not that necessary.

Its a formula. And a fantastically successful one. I won’t watch talent shows, I don’t do dance-offs, sewing circles or people eating shit on desert islands. But I love Bake Off. And I love cake.

And now its over. The BBC have lost the programme to Channel 4. For a mere 75 million quid. That’s a lot of eggs.

Yet 3 out of the 4 stars of the show have refused to sign contracts with the new Channel. They won’t leave the BBC. Therefore the Great British Bake Off becomes The Paul Hollywood Show. And without the charm of Mary Berry and the wit and love from Mel & Sue, it becomes a grumpy, miserable old fat git with blue eyes moaning in a horrible brummy accent about baking incompetence. I’m sure there are lots of Brummies would do that for less than 500,000 pounds a series. I’d put on the accent and do it for a tenner a show. Long as I could swear.

And what’s to stop the BBC coming up with a new show? The Gross Brutish Buke Orf. And have 5 people starring, instead of 4, put them in a field instead of a tent, and bake things in a different order? I’m no intellectual property lawyer (I’d rather be a serial child-molester) but seems to be you can’t stop the BBC from baking stuff.

Never mind, Mark Zuckerberg is going to eliminate all disease and illness for $3billion. What a relief. I’ll cancel my shoulder jab next Friday and get cured on Facebook for nothing. What a great man he is. Throw a few bob at any problem and it can be solved. Its that easy.

Saint Mark.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

About 35 years ago I was walking out of my then local park with my then little (now someone older, unlike me and Dorian Grey) cousin after playing tennis on a lovely summer evening. When we were attacked by 2 boxer dogs. Protecting my little cuz (I should have just fed him to them and run away whilst they were eating) I, at some point in the melee, managed to dislocate my right shoulder. History. Still hate boxer dogs as a consequence. Still hate my cousin.

In the following few years I did a medical study on dislocated shoulders. And this is what I found:

That if, once healed, you play tennis, right-handed, swinging the shoulder round like a mad thing, nothing happens, its fine. Arguably it strengthens the muscles and provides good exercise.

But if you play football, that shoulder will come out again. And go back in, all by itself. Then come out the next time you play football, go back in… you get the picture.

You may have wondered if I was not playing shoulder-ball or something. Shoulders aren’t employed massively in football, the odd barge aside. Even in Jewish league football where there’s perhaps more shrugging (it wasn’t my fault, ref) than is normal. Yet dislocate it would. About 10 more times. Because as I worked out, there may have been a correlation between playing football and dislocating my shoulder but that didn’t prove causation. So I wouldn’t accept that my soccer career was over and I’d never score the winning goal for Spurs in the World Cup. Or some such.

Eventually even I got the message and I stopped playing footy and the shoulder stayed where it should. Oh, that’s all fine then. Other than playing football, which I loved.

Fast forward 15 years and I start getting bother from the shoulder. Pain, to you. Because you’re a woos and I’m a fucking super-hero (read: ‘fool’). I went to see ‘a man about a shoulder’. Top man. Jews can only go and see top men, its in the charter, just under the ‘chopped liver clause’. Top Man performed surgery. Performed miracles. The shoulder was fine again, yippee.

Until 4 years ago. Shoulder man amazingly (cos he wasn’t ‘young’ when I first saw him) still working. Still the top man, obviously. Did some scans, gave me a ‘guided’ cortisone injection. I never, ever want to see the needle they use for that; never. But a bit of physio and all was fine once more in shoulder-land.

Until a few months ago. When the pains returned. But only during the night? Weird but true. Every morning its just pure fucking agony (and that’s real, man’s agony, none of that child-birthy, time-a-the-monthy type girly stuff; this was the pain of Rambo, of Terminator!!, this was Tarantino pain) yet loosens up during the day. And hasn’t in fact made me miss one game of tennis. Which is odd. But I’m prepared to accept that may be me being odd.

Amazingly Top Shoulder Man (or what’s left of him) is still around, still working, even though he must be 163 years old. That’s how fucking good he is; must have rebuilt himself.

And next week, another cortisone jab. Meanwhile (and this is why he is the top man) he said its fine to play tennis, do martial arts, whatever. Exercise is good! Even though it’ll be 2 hours the next morning before I can move it. Bless him.

Happy pain-free Friday

A xxxx

I love Americans. Not all of them, obviously, certainly not much to love in Donald Trump, nor Hilary Clinton, but as a group, run-a-the-mill Americans; they’re special. And never more special than in the separation of an iconic partnership. When questioned by tv about the break up of the most fabulous couple/marriage/grouping in the entire American history, these members of the American public cried out in their sorrow that golden couple Brad and Angelina were to split. They couldn’t understand it. Why it should happen. “But they had it all!!!” they cried, almost in one voice; a kind of mid-Kentucky waitress voice. “They had the fame, they had money, they were beautiful… how could this happen???” As if the very conscious uncoupling of this pairing was a direct insult to their very own mid-Kentucky lives. As if giving the appearance of ‘having it all’ should in itself be sufficient. How can you be our aspirational couple if you ain’t a couple?

Its also a tragic reflection of the premium we place on superficiality. They look gorgeous, we know they’re stinking rich, ergo: they are perfect in every way.

Except underneath all that gorgeousness, all that money, all that perfection, they’re just people. And like all people, they fuck up. In fact probably more than ordinary people do just because they’re in a position to afford any consequences of their fuck-ups, and we ain’t.

Brad and Ange met filming ‘Mr & Mrs Smith’, which, even though its probably the most stupid and flawed movie ever made, I really like. And if you play ‘in love’ and you’re a ‘method actor’, then YOU ARE IN LOVE. That’s the only way to do it. So they married, after a couple of sloppy divorces to enable it to happen, and all’s well, until you have to play ‘in love’ in another movie. And that’s always gonna pose problems. Brad played ‘in love’ with Marion Cottillard, ‘allegedly’ and put on a performance a touch too realistic. Then there’s the inevitable Hollywood allegations of drink/drugs/abuse/insanity, just to lay foundations for the settlement. The Depp Clause, they call it. Ok, I call it.

What a shame! (get a fucking life!!!)

Or, get a step-counting fitness aiding tosser-watch-thingy. Because once you start counting steps, your life will change! But not necessarily in the desired direction. A study, yes, ok, once more in America, showed that people wearing step-counters lost about 40% less weight than those who didn’t, all other things (diet, excercise, blah, blah) being equal. Which is beyond ‘odd’. It fucking odd. Are they eating the step-counters? But apparently step counters are obsessive (you only need to know one and you’ll be ‘uh-huh’-ing away) and may use the vast step count to justify ‘treats’ for ‘being so good’.

Not important, just a bit funny, that’s all. Throw away your step-counter right now.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

If you watched the amazing Brownlee brothers finishing their triathlon in Cozumel, Mexico, and didn’t shed a tear then you have no soul. Nor heart, possibly liver, lungs or even head.

Brother Jonny was winning the race. And would have become World champion if he had. But he’d upped the pace a little too much in his keenness and about 200 yards from the end of the run (having already swam for 150 miles and cycled for 3 days… ish) he just buckled. Started veering round like a drunk. He’d lost it. Staggering. With the winning line just ‘THERE’ in front of him.

Along comes brother Alistair, throws an arm round Jonny and quite literally carries him to the finish line. Where he threw him across that line in front of himself.

But the best bit of all is that Alistair was not speaking words of encouragement into his brother’s ear, nor words of support. He was taking the piss. And calling him abusive names for getting the race wrong. Alistair laughed his way to the finish line. Which made the whole thing much much better than if it had been some gritty-toothed, stiff-upper-lipped epic struggle.

And after the most amazing ending any race could have, the crowd screaming and crying, Jonny goes off to hospital.

This was a defining moment. Because it defined every value that any sport ever tries to encapsulate. Except boxing, obviously. It is the ultimate sacrifice (Alistair would have won if he hadn’t stopped to help) and an almost biblical act of brotherliness. Except brothers in the bible was more about murder, wife-swapping, stealing birthrights…

And that’s why Alistair Brownlee is my new hero. Because on the interview they showed, long after the race, he was basically still laughing, still calling his brother a tosser for planning the race wrongly.

And its also why I hate the Spaniards. Who put in an appeal to have Jonny disqualified for ‘accepting assistance’ during the race. A magnificent moment in sporting history and those fucking paella-suckers couldn’t even work out that helping an injured athlete is within the rules of the game (which it is) before disgracing themselves so that their man, Juan… (guessing here)… whoever, would come 7th instead of 8th. This moment is so much more important that who came 3rd, won a medal, claimed the championship, and yet that’s what they did. Don’t know if I can ever forgive them.

Don’t know that they’ll ever care.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

ISIS have done some pretty horrible things. In fact virtually everything they do is horrible, that’s why they’re ISIS and not the Red Cross, or the Labour Party. Who also do horrible things, but on a different scale. At the moment, at least.

So apart from the beheadings, the mass exterminations in Syria and Iraq, the destruction of historic sites, the spreading of their death cult into as many other countries as they can. They’ve now, I feel, gone too far.

They’ve stolen the word ‘terrorist’ from our vocabulary. It used to be a general word to describe wanton acts of savagery and death in innocent populations, now its only terrorism if they do it. According to the mayor of New York.

Who, yesterday after the bombing attacks in Chelsea (the Manhattan one, not the John Terry one), said in an early interview that ‘these were terrible attacks but not done by terrorists’. Actually, Bill, they were done by ‘terrorists’ by any definition of terrorism. What de Blassio actually meant was that ISIS, nor any other fundamentalist jihadi group of murderers, had claimed the bombs. Still terrorism, even if the Klan did it. Even if some nutty schoolkid couldn’t get into his dad’s overstocked gun cabinet so took to www.make-a-bomb-easy-peasy.com instead.

I know, its only a word, but words are important.

Particularly the word ‘Loser’. And especially when applied to Jose Morinho. Because really you don’t often get the opportunity to use those words in one sentence. But the Jose ‘new broom’ effect is not currently doing its stuff for the red Mancs. And this is not a cheap, Robert Dyas type broom. This is the Bugatti Veyron of brooms. Gold-plated, diamond encrusted and hand-finished by Croydon virgins. (Virgins are rarer in Croydon than anywhere else… probably). This is the most expensive new broom anyone has ever bought, other than perhaps their neighbours Man City who purchased their version from Bayern Munich but who is at least proving its worth.

Man United went to Watford. A team I’m fond of because I know lots of Watford fans, one of whom is quite nice. And because they’re a lovely, little, humble football club with no delusions or pretences and I like that. And they beat United 3-1. Which, considering the differences in financial clout and history between these 2 clubs, is fucking awesome.

Spurs beat Sunderland. Didn’t see it; went to a wedding. In deepest, darkest Essex. But apparently we were pretty good, even though it only ended 1-0. And cost us Harry Kane, which is tragic. And Eric Dier AND Mousa Dembele. So possibly a very expensive match. Which is fine, it was a pretty expensive wedding.

We’re third in the league; we’re third in the lea–eague, happy monday, we’re third in the league (sing and sing and sing til… til… til something horrid happens)

A xxxx

Went to the theatre last night. We rarely go. Too much rubbish on, for which you have to pay rather large amounts of money. I’d rather go to Spurs for the money. So would… errrr… Mel…

So we’ll only see stuff that’s been really well reviewed, recommended by the Queen herself and are guaranteed to be worth all the fuss and expense. Like Yerma that we saw last month. Totally brilliant experience. As per everyone who saw it.

So everyone who has seen Deep Blue Sea has also raved. About the play (not a new one; if you want a NEW play, costs you more, that’s why Shakespeare’s so cheap?), and particularly raved about Helen McCrory, the undoubted star of the play. Where could you go wrong with all that?

The play starts with Mcrory on the floor (supposedly; cos she’s acting) unconscious in front of a gas fire. And its set when gas fires used real gas, poisonous, toxic, lethal fucking suicide-friendly gas. Not like the rubbish we get now. So we can assume that she’s attempted to top herself. And yes, she does ‘unconscious’ totally brilliantly. As only a true thesp-luvvie can do.

About 7 hours later she’s eating a fried egg, crying and the curtain comes down.

Wow; brilliant!!!!

The bit in the middle I’m not so sure about. Ok, I am sure. It was dull. Fantastically acted, undoubtedly, but dull nonetheless. It kind’a went round and round in circles with a bunch of stereotyped post-war caricatures, spoke of unrequited love quite a bit, then I dozed off for a while, but didn’t appear to miss much cos they were still loving unrequitedly when I woke up.

Save your money. Helen McCrory is brilliant but its just not enough.

Bit like Bournemouth. Not enough to even compete with Manchester City Nouveau, who look scarily awesome. Bit like they did a the start of last season but under Pep you kind’a think (or kind’a fear) that this is the real thing.

The Arse had a lucky win at Hull. Ok, 4-1 doesn’t sound lucky but trust me, it was.

Chelsea had already lost at home to Liverpool on Friday night, which would be funny but I’m not happy with Liverpool looking really really good at the moment.

Whereas the nightmare continues for West Ham. Another big loss to another not-too-brilliant football team. Can you imagine if the Hammers move to their new stadium and get rele-

No, surely, not worth considering. Too sad. Too tragic. Too… impossible?

Happy Sunday, Come on You Spurs

A xxxx

Ok, I went to Israel, I loved it, I always do, its fab, its sunny, the beaches, the restaurants, the sea, blah, blah, blah… wonderful! Fabulous! Divine! Perfect!!!

But its not.

Its the most contentious country in the world, and the most divisive and it has been virtually from the word ‘go’. Which was in 1948 when the British Mandate in Palestine simply upped sticks and went home, leaving the inhabitants to fight it out for themselves. Although the “Jewish State” had always been promised, since the Balfour Declaration in 1917. And the newly formed UN had approved it in principle.

And its not like ‘there was Syria, and there was Lebanon and there was Jordan and there was Palestine’, like they’d been there for millennia and since the first dinosaur spoke in Arabic. These were new countries. Ill-defined. Recent borders showing basically nomadic populations who wandered around.

Everyone wanted a piece of that tiny strip of land that lies between the Med and the Red Sea. Because they’d ‘always’ been there. The nomadic Arabs and Beduins, the Christians, the Druze and the Jews. Who had in fact been there for thousands of years before any other religion came about. Then they left, went into slavery, came back, left, got killed, came back, built the Temple, got thrown out…

Would the UN have approved the Jewish State, right there, where it was always going to be problematic, if the holocaust hadn’t happened? Who knows. Tragically the holocaust did happen and the secondary result was millions of Europe’s surviving Jews riding round in boats homeless and stateless and impoverished. The lucky ones.

So they went to Palestine, mainly because no-where else was prepared to accept them, and the Zionists invited them. Even though in 1945 the Brits, who were still there, thought it better to lock these people up in camps. The people who’d just been liberated from camps. Sensitive.

Thus was born the State of Israel. The Jewish State. Home to Jews, Arabs and Christians. Who, after some initial and inevitable warring, settled down.

And the place was turned from a barren desert into a thriving, viable, amazing place where suddenly things grew where before there was just sand. And cities sprang up, and schools and hospitals and communities. Ahhhhh, nice.

But all was not well in the Land of Milk and Honey. So in 1967 the Arab nations decided to get together and get rid of Israel. And the 7-day war took place, after which Israel had become bigger, better, stronger. Exactly how a tiny and underpopulated nation could do such a thing against the full might of massive countries and their populations, like Egypt, Syria, Lebanon and many others, is another question. But survive Israel did.

In Israel, 20% of the population are Arabs. Who work there, live there, many join the army there, they vote there, they are citizens. You see them all over, in the shops and restaurants, on the beaches, many in burkinis which are allowed there (as in all civilized countries).

And its a proper democracy, the only one in the entire Middle East, with gay rights, and human rights, sexual equality, total religious freedom and all those wooly European constructs that we so love… except when Israel claims them. Instead they’re ‘boycotted’ and accused of apartheitism and all manner of atrocities.

Because the bit that is a problem is Gaza. The West Bank is fine. But Gaza, under Hamas is a problem. And because its treated as a problem, Israel is lambasted and pilloried by the international press.

Gaza was once fine. Its residents would work in Israel, would play there, whatever they so pleased without any issues from anyone. Then Hamas swore its destruction of Israel in its charter and laid claims to land that at best was ‘disputed’ and all went to shit.

The suicide vest was invented. A game changer. No longer did you need to ‘leave a bomb’ somewhere; you became the bomb. Its also instructive in the relative values of ‘a life’. Ok, you’ll be martyred, blah, blah, blah, 65 unwashed virgins with facial hair, blah, blah, blah. But its not the western, wooly way. We value life. The suicide vest showed us that extremists don’t value life. And they were deployed across Israel, always from Gaza/Hamas, and always in civilian areas. Never in military bases. Even walking suicides aren’t totally stupid.

So Israel built a wall. The shouts of ‘Apartheit’ went up but Israel didn’t give a shit because that wall stopped 90% of bombing attacks. 90 percent. Would you build a wall? I would.

And during the last Gaza ‘war’ the ceaseless bombing, again into strictly civilian areas of Israel, hundreds every day, were deemed sufficient a problem for Israel to try to destroy the missile sites.

And again, this was something of a game-changer for the west. Who once again fail to understand the passionate insanity of the jihadi mindset.

As happened just weeks ago, two 9-year-olds were caught in Turkey wearing suicide vests. Who would send their children, the most precious thing any westerner can imagine, to die in a political statement? Who could do such a thing??? ISIS for one, Hamas for another. But what Hamas did was a little more subtle and much more clever from a PR perspective. They moved their missile launchers into schools and hospitals and densely populated civilian areas. Knowing that the Israelis would try to destroy them. Because there is no value given to a life over and above ‘the cause’.

The world has kind of woken up to the extent of what extremists will do. ISIS has shown us that. There are no limits at all. The western mind has limits, the jihadi has none whatsoever.

Hamas are ISIS. They are the same. And Israel has lived with them for decades. Yet the world condemns them for acting in the only way it can.

I love Israel. And not just the food.

Happy Saturday; that was a long one.

A xxxx

Oh the misery, the sorrow, the sadness. Ignore the blue sky and the gorgeous, clear, warm sea in the background, they’re just a fucking illusion. Any fleeting feeling of residual well-being (ie before last night’s game) from Hertzliya will certainly be gone by the time we leave Luton Airport tonight. Air travel does that; it grinds you down.

But Spurs… last night… Monaco… Wembley!!!!

I saw none of it. Got a photo of Spurs Paul and Baroness Lib-Dem outside the stadium, then one of Dom and his blurry mate. It wasn’t the photo, the guy has an incredibly blurry face. Poor bastard.

And as far as the rest of the evening was concerned, those proved to be indeed the best bits. And quite frankly the photos were anything but pretty.

I was oblivious. Wonderfully, Abraxasy, baked cauliflowery, chicken-liver-tehina-ey, oblivious in Tel Aviv.

Then I found out. Leicester won. Man City won. Spurs didn’t. Our first Wembley match. 85,000 Spurs fans there. No Monaco fans came because the trip over would have affected their tax status in the UK. Gotta be careful. So many records broken. None of which I could give a toss about. Of course, if we’d won the game, that would have been different.

Anyway, I’m done here. Fed up. Enough brilliant food, fabulous people, endless sunshine all day every day, soft beaches, warm seas and happiness. Enough! I’m coming home.

Happy Thursday (though due to wifi issues at Ben Gurion airport, its now Friday. Phah!)

A xxxx