Andy's Glasses

Everton won on Monday night. They fucking won. Bastards. Now they’re ahead of us and we’re 5th. Still; rather be there than, say, 4th from bottom. Where West Ham live. Currently. Or even 2nd to bottom, where Sunderland lie, under ‘new broom’ David Moyes, showing why he was always such a big hit at Old Trafford.

But its early days. West Ham are enjoying their new stadium immensely. The league’s newest home, and certainly most expensive as it cost (the taxpayers) £850million. Ok, West Ham did ‘pay their way’ by contributing £27.49p per week for 6 weeks, so that’s fair. And its big and its beautiful and its magnificent and now part of the Olympic Legacy forevermore, amen.

So what would you call a really beautiful house, f’rinstance, if it was filled with shit? Even if it was, like, some 17million pound mansion in Holland Park? You’d call it a shit house. Because its filled with horrible stuff. So what do you call West Ham’s new stadium? Because its filled with a bunch of rabble who start riots among their fellow fans. Shameful.

The Arse managed to salvage a point in Paris last night in the Champions League, whereas Celtic didn’t in Barcelona. They did the extreme opposite of salvaging anything, including pride. 7-nil they lost to Messi’s mob. The little man scored a hat-trick, but Suarez netted a couple, Neymar scored, Iniesta, all our heroes. Brendan Rodgers thought Celtic did ok. What fucking world does he live in? How is that ok? Alright, they’re Barcelona, they’re brilliant. But its never ‘ok’ to lose 7-0. What’s more, what does it say about Scottish football? And they’re the ones desperate to stay in Europe.

And so to ‘why I love Israel, part 972’.

This pic was taken in a place called Ramat HaSharon. Translates to ‘Sharon breaks a heel falling down drunk outside a nightclub in Dagenham’. Ramat Hasharon is a small town, near Tel Aviv, just kind’a residential, nice, suburban, normal. And on the side street we parked there were sculptures all down the central area. Lots of them. Benches, trees, bit of grass. And art. They simply love art here. Its everywhere. And understated. And very cool. Unlike the weather. Which if you’re reading this in London; is just like there, and if you’re reading this in Manchester, I hope you’re indoors wearing a life-vest with your boat ready outside the front door.

You generally get what you deserve in life.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

So the day we arrived in Israel we headed straight down to the Ramon Crater, remember? Hot place. Desert. Hole therein. Crater. That’s in the negev, just a bit north of Eilat which is on the Red Sea. Then we came to Hertzliya, just north of Tel Aviv, because its nice here. Still hot but not perhaps sufficient to boil the testicles of a nearby camel. Mainly because there aren’t any here. They’re desert creatures, you don’t generally find them in big cities. Though if you need one…

So today we went the other way. Up norf. Which, trust me, is not like heading up the M1 to Leeds, Bradford, Manchester or anywhere, kind’a ‘northern’ in that fat-bellied, beer-swilling, Liam Gallagher kind’a way. No, this was up north to the Golan Heights. To a kibbutz called Merem Golan. Which, like most kibbutzim (that’s the plural, as ‘kibbutzes’ is an old Polish delicacy involving cow’s feet, chicken’s heads and soured cream. With rice) is massive, spread out and absolutely gorgeous. Up in the mountains, the air’s clean, the car’s are few and they grow apples, grapes, cows, chickens, anything that grows, grows better up there.

Its also 2km from the Syrian border. 50k from Damascus. (The little red pin on the map). In fact the Golan Heights used to be Syria, but Israel borrowed it and hasn’t given it back yet. And apparently we picked ‘the right day to go there’. Because of a Muslim holy week, all the 37 warring factions in that god-forsaken land have actually stopped fighting. Today. Yesterday on the kibbutz they could hear artillery and machine-gun fire all day, today nothing. By tomorrow, someone will have broken the cease-fire and it’ll all kick off again. But today; ahhhhhh, peace.

We didn’t go there for the peace. Nor really for the gunfire. We went because we have a friend there who is a sculptor. A big Dutch guy (originally) who makes amazing things out of scrap metal. But, like, everything from little mantlepiece characters to life-size elephants and one 5 metre long dog. He likes iron and he likes making it into stuff that’s really quirky and funny. And so we bought a little something for the garden. It is relatively little otherwise shipping costs are seriously punitive. Once its installed I’ll show you. Til then, you can fucking wait, like the rest of us.

On the way back we drove round the top end of the Sea of Galilee. Possibly the bit Jesus actually walked on. Possibly not. And that too is a remarkably beautiful place.

And tonight, we shall eat schwarma, as it is written, cos we’re too tired to venture far. And having travelled about 400km already today, I’m not getting back into that poxy car again.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We have a rule here in Israel. In fact we have many and they all involve food. But the golden rule, and its a really biblically inspired, holy land, Deuteronomy XXIV kind’a thing, is: we have iced coffee every sunset at the Bell Bar. Because what Israel does better than everywhere else, other than the high-tec shit, like the entire Apple operating systems, most silicon chips and three quarters of micro-soft, plus the life-saving drugs that they develop here more than anywhere else, but what they really do better is iced coffee. Its to die for. Probably in a cholesterol-ish way but heh, you can’t have it all.

And of all the beach bars here in Hertzliya, Bell Bar wins for reasons I can’t tell you. Mainly cos I have no idea. Its just a vibe there. And a view.

But yesterday I learned why that particular rule of ours exists. What its for. Why it is an imperative. Its so important that the Lord God him(or her-)self MAKES us go there along the beach every evening in the searing heat, getting our feet wet in the Eastern Med.

We left our apartment, the score in the Spurs game was nil nil. I was depressed, but nothing could take us from our holy mission. So I slumped down the beach and we ordered. Then I thought I’d just check the score. And the other good thing about the Bell Bar is wifi. So slick and great that you do nothing. No log-in, no password, no nothing, it finds you and sorts itself out.

But it wasn’t working. Not yesterday. Undaunted we sat watching the setting sun over our drinks-from-heaven. And because I’d adhered to the rules set all those years ago by Moses (the original one, not the Chelsea loser), by the time we had returned, Spurs had beaten Stoke. Not just beaten but almost thrashed. 4-0 away. Harry Kane has woken up. We’re back.

You can’t tell me Spurs aren’t God’s team.

City beat United. But its ok, there’s no shame or disgrace at Old Trafford or on Morinho, the ref was shit. So it barely counts as a proper ‘win’ or ‘loss’.

Now I remember why Jose is a tosser, it escaped me for a while, but its all come flooding back.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Man cannot live on food alone. Ok, maybe he can, actually. But he also needs other things to obsess about. Often he needs many. But one can suffice. If its football.

And for some reason, far away from England and the Premier League, I feel a little ‘something’ for today’s football. Something that’s been missing since the season started. A new beginning. A reincarnation. A resurrection. A little fluttering deep down. Maybe just last night’s sushi coming back to haunt me, but I think not.

Because today is the first day of the rest of our season. And its a big day. With a very big match. Very big indeed.

Spurs are playing at Stoke.

But otherwise, there is one match that truly captures the imagination. A match so vast in its potential that on my downloaded paper today I noticed that it made it into the main paper as well as dominating the sports pages.

The Manchester derby. Oooohhhhhh.

Normally it would slot into the ‘who gives a shit’ category; the battle for some northern supremacy battle that leaves me cold. Will the Gallaghers be victorious in their light blue tosser hats or will the Reds from Esher, Dorset, Balham and Pnom Penh win the bragging rights for the day?

Yet today this battle is of interest to all. In no small part because it represents the end point of the cynical manipulation of our once noble game, as the 22 players starting are, collectively, the most expensive anywhere ever at £700 million between them. Personally I value each of Harry Kane’s testicles at more than that, but I don’t make the market.

So which bunch of over-priced, over-payed mega-stars will work out how to play sufficiently well as a team to overcome the other? Or, way more interestingly, which massively over-priced, over-payed, over-hyped manager will get his unmanageable bunch of super-egos to coalesce into the Barcelona or Real Madrid of their individual pasts?

Because really, this match isn’t about Pogba and Ibrahimavic, De Bruyne or Sterling, its about Pep Guardiola and Jose Morinho. THE two managers of their day. They hated each other’s teams in Spain and will continue that over here. That’s healthy. But its also a clash of styles. Guardiola’s possession football obsession against the very pragmatic, park-a-bus-if-neccessary style of the Portuguezer.

Its intriguing, its tantalising and, despite my personal desire for both teams to get relegated this year, it’ll be fascinating.

Shabbat Shalom, as we say in Israel

A xxxx

The day they invented ‘sharing plates’ in trendy restaurants was the day I started looking for anorexics to go and eat with. I don’t wanna ‘share’, get’cher own fuckin’ dinner, cos if you touch mine I WILL KILL YOU. Which is really not a Nobu kind of sentiment. Its not cool to contemplate murder where Asian fusion meets South American ceviche. But I do get the point; kind’a.

That you order lots of variety and share them all together. Its more interesting. As long as you remember that stabbing hands with forks is not nice. Stabbing them with chop-sticks even more unpleasant. So don’t do it!! Its not how to behave.

The first time I encountered this concept formally was here in Tel Aviv. In what has become my favourite restaurant of all. Abraxis North. And the waitress (think: Bar Rafaella meets Giselle but with undertones of Woody Allen) knelt on the pavement next to our table and spent 10 minutes explaining the concept to the accompaniment of me salivating. Nothing to do with the food at that point.

The food, however, is beyond good. Its different. And amazing. Everything you share you never want to end. Until you try the next thing. And the place is self-consciously unpretentious. They’re into brown paper. Instead of table cloths. And brown paper bags, in which a lot of the food comes to table. Often slammed down, so the bread opens up like petals on a flower, or the (most incredible) roast cauliflower (in the world) separates into florettes. Or the Eton Mess just splatters for all to dip in. Its as brilliant a concept as it is amazing to eat.

Abraxis is not cheap but its not expensive either.

But last night we went somewhere different. Because the geezer (or ‘chef’ if you must) who runs Abraxis, and a few others, has opened a new place up the road. A different concept. Its called Ha Miznon, which means ‘the counter’ and it offers street food. Basically, they take all the fantastic combinations of foods from Abraxis, stuff ’em into wonderful fresh, fluffy, light pitta bread and charge you a quarter the price. You have to find a table, plastic, cheap, help yourself to everything, and all orders are shouted over the near-deafening music when ready. It is nearly-organised chaos. By design.

A fine-dining experience it ain’t. And all the better for it. If, like me, your favourite place to eat is anywhere where food can drip down your forearms, then you should go there. If you’re a pretentious tosser who doesn’t do dirty fingers, give it a miss. Life is about variety, ya know?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The drive back from the Ramon took precisely the expected 2 hours of easy-peasy freeway, straight road experience. And the rental-car-panic was resolved when I realised that the exhaust/sump/axle was not overheating to the point of explosion but that I’d inadvertently pressed the ‘heated seat’ thing. And the last thing you need in 35 degrees is a burning bum. Well, the last thing I need. Can’t speak for you. Who’d’a thought a base model Nissan Micra would have such an option?

So we effectively followed the path of Moses. He didn’t use the freeway, was too mean to pay the toll, so he took the desert path and walked. Exodus. From Egypt. Across the Sanai and then just when he’d probably had enough sand to last 3 fucking lifetimes, he reached the Negev. Ok, Moses, just a few more years of trudging through more endless fucking sand dunes eating dust, schlepping your ten commandments in stone, and you’ll arrive in Jerusalem!!! Which hasn’t been built yet, but when it is? Oy; when it is???? Such a city that will be. (I’m figuring God to be some old Polish Jewish guy from Brooklyn here, just for effect; all heart, no grammatical structure.)

But where Moses went to Jerusalem (I’m guessing) or up to Tiberias, we took a left to Tel Aviv. Because its the most fab city in the world. Ok, it has a few traffic issues, and you can’t park anywhere, but once you’ve dumped the car, or had those nice people tow it away, you can enjoy the wonders.

The saying goes: Jerusalem prays; Tel Aviv plays. But it also eats. And not just eats well but has the most fantastic variety of amazing places and things to eat. From the street food to the seriously upmarket eateries, with loads of Otalenghi in the middle, its all a wonder.

So we went to see my mate’s ‘little boy’ who lives in a suburb of TA, with new wife (his only wife, just not of very long) and very new baby. All was great so we left them and stopped to eat at a cafe we saw along the way. This is a fairly downmarket area, but its still Tel Aviv. So the place was buzzing in that totally relaxed way that only exists here. And the food was amazing. Cheap but amazing. This was so off the tourist zone that they had no English menus. Only hebrew. And although I can read the hebrew for ‘blessed is the lord our God’ and ‘who gave us the fruit of the vine’, you know, the really useful, conversational stuff, I can’t read ‘haloumi salad’ or ‘garlic bread to fucking die for’, so someone had to translate.

The picture is Mel on a lilo that about to fall into the Ramon Crater!!!! Ok, its an infinity-pool illusion. I would never put that saintly woman in jeopardy unless it was really funny do do so.

Happy felafel

A xxxx

You have to be philosophical about things. Especially here in the Holy Land. Even unbelievers like me can’t fail but to feel a holy presence in every shwarma you eat, every iced coffee you drink, every dollop of hummous that falls on your new t-shirt. God is everywhere. and He was a chef. Didn’t you know that? That’s why swearing is not a sin.

So we arrived yesterday, picked up the car and instead of heading north to Tel Aviv and the wonderful, European and culinary miracle that it represents, we instead headed south. Made a right before Jerusalem (too much religion, too little food) and went southwards. Towards the Negev. 180 kms beyond was the Ramon Crater, a geological wonder of the world. A natural erosion crater, as opposed to an ‘impact’ one, 42kms wide. In the middle of the desert. Been there for 15 million years, but they only built an amazing hotel there a few years back so no-one bothered to come before.

Anyway, got the car, on the road, headed to Be’er Sheba. Straight road, freeway, round that little city then straight down south to the Crater. Easy Peasy. What could go wrong? 2 hour drive. What could fucking go sodding, bleeding, awfully, catastrophically fucking wrong?????

Let’s just say everything. I took one wrong road. Just one. But straight into the world’s worst traffic jam. So it was an hour before we could turn round. One whole hour. Never mind, we’re back, we’re on the freeway again, Ramon here we come.

Oh, there’s roadworks. Big ones. Diversion. Which tells you in no uncertain terms how to get off the freeway, but not a mention of how to get back on. So we managed to take the wrong road out of Be’er Sheba and headed south but not in the direction we really needed to be. And as its a desert, there just aren’t roads going across. You either drive across the desert (not recommended) or you reverse your tracks and start again.

5 hours after setting off our 2 hour journey was completed. Easy peasy. Jesus fucking Christ. Though he left here a long time ago.

The crater is magnificent. And interesting. But only in a geological, evolutionary, historical and biblical way. Otherwise iss just a fucking big hole in the desert. What’s all the fuss about?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Its horrible when your heroes let you down. When your favourite actor turns out to be a drug-crazed serial child-molester, when your favourite footballer is arrested for rape, when your favourite mp turns out to be an Arsenal fan. Or when your favourite company turns out to be just like all the others.

For years I’ve been an evangelical Amazonian. Amazon is just a brilliant company, I would say to any who would listen and many who really didn’t want to. But they’re great! I’d say, they are so efficient, so cheap, so reliable, so thorough, and: if you have a problem they will sort it out so easily, no nicely, so considerately. I love(d) them like no other.

This hero-worship came about mainly because of a few incidents. Like when I sat on Mel’s kindle. Her 7 day-old kindle. Ooops. They were lovely, they were caring, they replaced it at a discount, they sent the new one in day, all was great. As it was when Mel dropped the next one in the bath. They were great. And everything was fast and furious and fabulous in Amazon-land.

And they kept growing. And growing. And, fertilised by all that unpaid tax (for which I fucking forgave them totally, just because they were Amazon), they grew bigger and bigger and bigger.

Two weeks ago I left my kindle of a bus. A number 11 if you’re interested. Big red one, if you’re not. The kindle was 3 or 4 years old but its upsetting. But heh; this is Amazon. THEY CARE.

Well, they did. In the old days (2012). This time my request was met by a stony-sounding automaton spurting the company line. No, we don’t discount for that.

It wasn’t the tenner off that bothered me. It was his horrible attitude. Gone was the friendly Irish people I’d previously engaged with. This was someone who sounded a bit like Stephen Hawking reading from a corporate auto-cue.

So I wrote to Jeff Bezos. You can do that. Explained my disappointment. Unfortunately and surprisingly, Jeff was a bit busy, so I got a reply from a clone (they can do that at Amazon, they can do anything) or from some 5th grade minion with absolutely no sense of humour or ability to answer the question asked. Instead he sent me a full-page disclaimer of all Amazon responsibility, a copy of the kindle warranty, the terms and conditions of the sale, countersigned by 3 lawyers and a judge. Like I didn’t realise that ME leaving MY 4 year-old kindle on a bus was in fact down to me.

Tosser.

I’ve also noticed that the ‘free postage’ option has changed at my former fave corporation. You would generally receive goods within a couple of days. But since they invented Amazon Prime (which gives you FREE next day delivery, for a tenner a month… otherwise its free), and charge a hefty premium to buy a next day charge, their normal delivery has become decidedly third-rate. Its almost as if you’re being punished for not being a ‘prime’ customer. Almost?

But again, it ain’t about the money. Its about the general attitude of the company changing from one that really strived to care to one that is more concerned about exonerating itself from any responsibility including being nice to its customers.

I have a new kindle, of course, named ‘Andy’s 7th Kindle’, when we only have 2, but I am so over Amazon. I wish I could stop shopping with them but for some things, like tennis balls, its just impossible to beat them. I just hate them now. And I hate Jeff, and I’m gonna tell all my friend to abandon them for a massive failure. From being a fantastically successful company who are so much better than all the rest, they’re now just a group of stereotypically inaccessible corporate shit-heads. Don’t expect anything else from them. You won’t get it.

Happy Monday from the Ramon Crater. (oh, look it up, then you will know)

A xxxx

There’s confusion and there’s confusion. And then there’s the mysterious case of the gay bishop. Who is ‘celibate’ anyway. So if he’s celibate, what possible difference does it make to anyone which form of sexual activity he chooses to abstain from? Its like a teetotaller saying gin is preferable to whisky.

Its fucking irrelevant.

In this case literally so. I sincerely hope. Because if the Bishop of Grantham is in fact telling porkie pies about his ‘celibacy’ or re-defining it in some Bill Clintonesque way, then he will certainly burn forevermore in the eternal hellfires of damnation! Otherwise known as being transferred to Peckham.

But assuming the Bish is an honest dude, what’s the problem?

The main one, of course, being that the Church, as in the institution, doesn’t like queers of any stripe. Though most gay men would NEVER wear stripes anyway; not with those shoes. The church has a bit of a problem with homosexuality generally in that even though it would appear that probably three quarters of all clergymen are gay, the church opposes gay marriage, gay ministers, gay anything. They live in a constant state of denial. And that’s just the Anglican Church; the Church of England. In the Catholic church the rate of gayness goes up radically, as does the stated opposition to all things homosexual. Go figure.

Odder still is that Nicholas Chamberlain is indeed Anglican. And in that church, forced celibacy was abolished in 1549 (I googled the Bishop of London himself for that little snippet). Probably when some mediaeval cassock-wearer who was horny as hell. Who knows?

Yet Bishops are indeed expected to take on the whole ‘poverty, chastity, obedience’ shtick as proof of their worthiness to wear purple.

More interesting, and certainly more heterosexual, is the new Woody Allen movie, Cafe Society.
Saw it last night. Its my duty to watch everything the great man (who himself is no stranger to sex scandals) produces.

Its a wonderful film. Stylish, beautiful to watch, funny and re-assuringly only 90 minutes long, it was great. Jesse Eisenberg played… well, he played Woody Allen; everyone plays Woody Allen in his films, that’s his rule. Woody himself narrates, then all the actors and actresses impersonate him as they read his words in his style, with his mannerisms. And its about love. In Hollywood in the 1930s. Kristen Stewart smoulders in her first attempt at love without vampires. Steve Carrell is great, Eisenberg pretty good himself. Its not ‘vintage Woody’ because he simply doesn’t do that any longer. But it is a lovely movie.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’m what’s known as ‘good with faces’. Which is different from having a ‘good face’, which I fortunately do, but means I recognise people. And I do. Can’t always put a name immediately to the face, but faces I just know. My dad, bless him, is the same. He bumps into people he hasn’t seen since the last war and still recognises them. Its what we do in our family; recognise faces.

Even ‘old’ faces, that we haven’t seen for 20, 30, 40 years, I immediately know that I know them. I’ve even been known to approach these seeming strangers to work out from whence I know them.

“Yesssss!!!! I’ve got it!!! You were that really great looking babe from the Room at the Top in Ilford High Road; we went out, I got you pregnant, faked the dna test by giving them my mate’s toothbrush, ran away, left the country, never answered the calls from you or your solicitors, punched your mother in the face… How the hell are you??? What happened to your face?”

That kind’a thing.

So when I see a face that I don’t know, even on someone I’ve seen very regularly in movies, on tv, then something is amiss.

I was watching an interview on the news and wondering why this complete stranger was talking about the new, as yet unseen (as it, and all its previous incarnations, will remain unseen by me) Bridget Jones movie. I only realised it was Renee Zellwegger when she started denying to Fiona Bruce that she’d had any ‘work done’. Talking about how angry she is that everyone assumes she’s been under the knife! Just because she looks totally, completely, unrecognisably different from how she did 6 weeks ago. And seems to have a face totally devoid of movement or any other human characteristics. What an awful assumption for people to make!!!

They need to change the law. If you get a new face, YOU MUST GET A NEW NAME TO GO WITH IT. Otherwise its just too confusing. She should call herself The Remake, Lady Frankenstein, Bridget Jones, Vinnie Jones, anything but Renee Zellwegger, who she no longer resembles in any way shape or form.

Ok, I had a little nip and tuck, some botox, new lips; I wanted Brad Pitt, ended up with Mick Jaggers, a few fillers, but nothing that major. I had to have it done for my… errr… blocked sinuses. Honest.

Happy Saturday (even though the season’s three fucking weeks old and has been stopped already for ‘international bollocks’)

K xxxx