Andy's Glasses

So we arrived back this morning. Landed 6am. At (fucking) Gatwick. An airport designed to be as inconvenient and inaccessible as possible for me. There’s no easy way to get there; there’s no quick way to get there. There’s not even a relatively shitty way to get there. But heh? Small (ish) price to pay for such a wonderful holiday.

Which we booked last January. We like to book ‘next Christmas’ as early as possible. So we did.

Then, in July I had an email from my bestest and oldest mate, the one who lives in Montpellier, whose son was engaged a little earlier. ‘Jonathan’s getting married’. Yippee. ‘In January’. Oh. ‘Early January’. Ohhhhhh. ‘In Israel’. Oyyyyyyyy. But fortunately it was well doable. Because the wedding’s not til the 7th and as we were arriving back today, the 5th, that was never going to be a problem. Loads of time. Almost 30 hours between landing at Gatwick and taking off from Luton. Or, 26 washing machine cycles, as we call it. Ok, as Mel calls it. I’m happy to take dirty stuff with. Israel’s dead casual.

And on that long, seemingly never-ending drag round the M25, all the talk on the radio was of the Jihadi-Babi. The four year old kid being used in the latest ISIS video. A new low for the lowest group of people the world has ever known. This poor kid was born, in Britain, unlucky enough to have a jihadi-daddi who married an utter-nutter; a white Christian who converted to Islam, had four kids and took them all to Syria with her in 2012. For… a better life? For a land flowing with golden opportunities? Even though it looks like rubble? No, she took them there so that she could bring them up, in between making recruitment videos herself, in an atmosphere so toxic, so violent and so revolting to any evolved human being that these poor kids have no hope in life. They stay there and get killed. Or they come home and forever resent being taken from mummy and daddy.

They may even resent Rafa Benitez. Though all he did was fail to win anything at Real Madrid in the last 6 months, so he’s gone. Possibly opening the door for Gareth Bale, a big Rafa fan, to leave? Wow. Queue here. All you need is the probable £150mil they’ll want for him. Oh, and another 15 mil in yearly wages.

Be interesting to see how Zizou fares as a manager. His first proper job in that sphere. So why not use the biggest club on the planet for practice. Good luck Zinedine. They love you in Madrid. For the moment.

Happy fucked-if-I-know-what-day-or-time-it-is… day.

A xxxx

We’re in Negril, Jamaica. In a place called ‘7 mile beach’. I really don’t have to explain why its called that. If we walk 5 miles along the beach, we’re in Negril. Big town. 34 people live there. But its not about the town (which is why we haven’t bothered going there), its about the beach. Because in the 5 miles that we have walked numerous times, there is not one stone. Not one seashell. No seaweed, no leaves from the trees. Nuffink. Just soft, golden sand. So perfect that it actually takes a week before you realise that you are on one of nature’s places of perfection. Nothing to step on other than sand. And the wasp that Mel managed the other day, but you can’t blame the beach for that; it was God’s will.

If you go 2 miles in the other direction, the beach ends, it peters out. And the last half mile is not nice, sand-wise. Bit gritty for my spoilt feet. Bit rough. Not as pretty. Its only accessible through a guarded gate. The only way to enter…

Willy Beach.

Its actually a resort called ‘Hedonism’ (it really is, I kid you not). And its a naturist beach. So we entered. Fully clothed. Well, a swimsuit between us. Because we wanted to find if we could get beyond Hedonism to further up the coast. Honest. Which you can’t.

I have no issue with naturism. Just with the type of people who pursue it. Walking round with your dick hanging out in public is, for me, anything but natural. And oddly, a woman in a bikini is a glorious thing (or can be), whereas a naked 60-year old with varicose veins and weight issues, is not. Not ever. Its horrid mummy, make it go away. What was most odd though was that all these fat, old, wrinkled, saggy Germans (surely they were Germans; ALL nudists are German) spoke with American accents. Bizarre.

We fly home today. And arrive back early tomorrow. Which is Tuesday. I hope. Because on Wednesday we fly to Tel Aviv. More later. Much, much later, whatever fucking time-zone I might be in.

Happy Days

A xxxx

The thing with resort type holidays is that the days are all (fabulously, miraculously, divinely) similar. Whether we choose to swim first, then walk a few miles up the beach, or go cycling in the gym before breakfast or before lunch, or which restaurant you eat which meal in, is all subject to whim. And to limited availability, which really, is what you want. And you see the same people pretty much on the same part of the beach, every day. And you try to ignore them as much as you can, obviously, but sometimes that is rendered impossible.

By something so simple and mundane as a Spurs cap.

Noticed by the doctor from Manchester on my first day. His wife is a Manchester United fan. Shame for her.

‘Oh, you’re a Spurs fan’, said little ginger-haired, pink-skin burner from his factor 80’d up patch of shade. ‘Well, Nick’ (guy in the cabana next to mine; bloody cheek) ‘is a massive Everton fan’. Which could be misconstrued as rudeness because Nick carries about 7 stone excess round his waist. Or, another, small Everton fan, perhaps, to keep up numbers. And, of course, Spurs play Everton tomorrow. Big game. They’re all big here. Just big for different people. Or big for different big people.

Little sun-burner is a Liverpool fan. Insanely so. The sanity in question due to his heart-felt belief that the red scousers could win the league this year. Should win it. Almost inconceivable that they won’t. Even after his heart-shattering defeat to West Ham today.

Whereas on the very next sunbed is Siddy Sunderland (not his real name; that’s withheld for legal reasons and because I don’t know it). Who was leaping for joy as his lowly team actually managed to win a game against the only team currently lower, Aston Villa.

I haven’t so far (thank God) found any Arsenal fans. Maybe they hang out on a different part of the beach. A special part reserved for the very top teams’ fans. I haven’t been invited there so I wouldn’t know. And you can generally find an Arsenal fan because some poor northerner who supports Bolton or Port Vale or some such is punching the merry shit out of him shouting “shut the fuck up, you SMUG, ARROGANT BASTARD!!!!!”

Big game tomorrow. Come on you Spurs

A xxxx

I’ve been watching BBC World News service out here. Because I like the news. No, I love the news. I’m a news-whore. Can’t get enough. And you realise, watching BBC World Shit, that there actually isn’t enough. Not for me, and not to fill 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, f’rever and’ever.

So they repeat it. All the fucking time. If you watch it for more than 50 minutes, you’re back where you came in. I actually sent the BBC and email on monday complaining that the world service on tv is not just mind-numbingly dull and repetitive, but also almost completely void of football. I mean; what the f-??? Its British. I pay my license fee but just happen to be in Jamaica. I need a round up. I need the goals. I need English football. And I can’t get any from the British Broadcasting Cretins. I want my money back.

So I turned over to CNN. And Fox News. Both of which are currently engaged in a Cosby-a-thon. Up to 97 hours of solid coverage of the ‘Bill Cosby affair’. Or ‘affairs’. Or ‘rapes’. Allegedly. Lots of allegedlies. One lawyer out of every 4 in America is currently on tv news channels questioning the validity of 24-year-old evidence; its relevance, whether the judge should be censured if he accepts it…zzzzzzzzzzzzz…

This isn’t underage stuff; even the Americans can’t compete with has-been British celebs on that count. And its not mere ‘groping’ or mild-mannered-molestation. This is ‘he fucking drugged me and raped me’. Holy shit.

He gave the girl in question quaaludes. Which, back in the day was the Americans’ drug of choice for a great night out. Drop a ‘lude and its party time. Have a few beers, smoke something pungent and way-hey-hey.

Unless you’re with Bill Cosby, in which case that same combination renders you unconscious and raped.

Bill Cosby was the biggest something or other on American tv. For decades. The Cosby Show. And now he’s old and a bit rickety. Though still must be accountable for his past actions, if they were naughty. Which they might have been. But how are we ever going to know? I wasn’t there. Were you? No, only Bill and the bird. He’s saying it was consensual, she’s saying not. In fact she’s shouting ‘HE DRUGGED ME!!!’ rather loudly.

At least it gives the news channels something to do in the quiet times.

Happy New Years Day 2016

A xxxx

So another fine year draws to its inevitable close. New Year’s Eve. And with it the obvious need and desire to work out whether this year past was a good one, whether improvements need to be made to ensure next year might be made even better. Changes to lifestyle, to diet, to plans and aspirations.

Naaaah; fuck dat, BRING US ANUVVER RUM’N’COKE, JAMAAL, AND PLENTY ICE.

There’s always been an unnecessary importance placed on New Years. As if it, and it alone, of the 365 days each year, has the power to change, influence and somehow affect the gods, the stars, your fortune, in a way the others lack. Just because you get more drunk, stay up later, watch a few fireworks, throw up and almost guarantee that the first day of the new, exiting, pulsating, filled with unknown promise, new year starts with a hangover and the mother of all headaches.

Even as a teen I felt unduly pressurised by the whole ‘new years’ thing. That it had to be the best, most exiting, most wonderful evening, filled with fun and friends and snogging and fun and more fun. Otherwise you might just as well not bother with the next 364 days, they’d be written off.

No longer. If we’re in bed by 11 tonight then so much the better. Who cares? Don’t like to be a killjoy but it is what it is. I may stay up a bit later and listen to the reggae band, or watch the fire-eaters, see a few fireworks. But I may not.

I’ve actually managed to upload a photo today. Is there no limit to my technical brilliance? And its a good one. I paid those two pelicans for their guest appearance in my sunset. Pleased to say they didn’t let me down.

So anyway, Happy New Years to everybody. 2016 is just about to begin.

A xxxx

So morning one we swim. Before breakfast. Because its hot and sunny and because you can. So easily. And even a floundering splasher like me can make a bit of an effort.

Morning two, the pattern continues.

Morning three; pre-morning really, I wake up at about 5am with a blocked and uncomfortable left ear. The inevitable ear infection. This is such an inevitability that we travel with anti-biotic ear drops. But still means that for the following 4/5/6 days I’m prevented from total immersion. Which is precisely what I want to do to combat the heat.

I’m not asking for sympathy. Because I know that I’m unlikely to get any. But just the same…

Had some minor issues with getting photos uploaded onto my blog yesterday. So there wasn’t one. And in my efforts to try and rectify this catastrophic situation, I managed to delete the photos from half a dozen previous blogs. That’s what happens when they let unqualified people have ‘admin’ accounts. We fuck it all up.

But today I think I’ve cracked it. And so can share with you this photo I took of the Jamaican Arsenal Supporters Club. Nice position, right on the beach.

And what a joyful win (is there any other kind??) for Spurs at Watford today. 89th minute winner by Son. Aaaaaaahhhhhhh, just wonderful. Man United play Chelsea soon; the battle of the losers. A competition to see who the biggest fuck-up of the year really is.

And then Arsenal playing at Bournemouth. On the south coast once more, just along from Southampton, where they didn’t do very well on Friday. Could history repeat? Can resurgent Bournemouth really put the Arse to the sword. Is there a God??

Come on you Cherries

A xxxx

You never know about Boxing Day football. Would Harry Kane go for the extra pigs-in-blankets yesterday? Would Deli Alli have seconds of roast potatoes? Mousa Dembele hit the Christmas pud to excess? Leaving them all fat and sickly and floundering round the pitch, all hung over and over-loaded?

Obviously not. As we seem to be doing alright against Norwich. Some teams you can feel sorry for as they sink in the league. Not Norwich. Don’t care about them. No-one does. Outside the somewhat rarified genetic environment that is East Anglia.

I was hung over and overloaded this morning. I’m on holiday; I’m supposed to be and feel like a failure if I’m not. But I swam my lengths before breakfast, to try and rehumanise myself. And to try and fail to keep up with Mrs C, who swims lengths before breakfast even in London. I managed 24 before collapsing into a heap on a sunbed, whilst she eased her way to 100. Little cow. Though I don’t profess to be a swimmer. Naturally, I’m a drowner, but then I can’t justify eating ridiculous amounts, so swimming has its benefits. 3 lengths = two hamburgers and 6 mai tais.

And only after breakfast did I work out that it was sufficiently late back in the country of my birth for the football to have started. By which time Man United were already 2 down at Stoke. Which normally would have been some kind of surprise. But not this year. Plus ca change. Louis Van Gaal’s impassioned plea for an apology from the press the other day didn’t do much for his team’s continual on-pitch failures. Can’t imagine tomorrow’s papers will be filled with comments other than the ‘HOW LONG CAN THIS GO ON????’ variety.

Liverpool won a match. Shame for Leicester. Chelsea’s woes continue too, new manager, old manager, caretaker-manager. Undertaker-manager next. Oooooh, that’s poignant.

Bournemouth drew with Palace. Good for Bournemouth and really good for Spurs as it keeps Palace away and keeps us in 4th place. Where we need to be. Must be. Simply have to be.

Arsenal go top if they win later on.

COME ON SOUTHAMPTON; FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.

Happy Boxing Day

A xxxx

The odd thing is not that Christmas in Jamaica is cloudless and hotter than hell, but that for Jamaicans, this IS just, Christmas. Reindeer would melt, Santa would hyperventilate. The elves would be too stoned to help.

Christmas is so culture specific that whilst New York celebrates it in overcoats and scarves and snow, just a thousand miles down the same coast in Miami Santa is a gay icon in red lycra shorts and a white crop top with a mahogany tan.

But why should Christmas be white? In any sense of the word. Jesus was born in Bethlehem, in the middle east. Hot there. So basically some north European chose to represent his own Christmas experience in the snow and that became the world’s vision of the holiday. They don’t have a white Christmas in Jamaica. In any sense. Nor do they have to. Historians aren’t sure of the exact date of Jesus’ birth; no-one’s ever seen his birth certificate. But its reckoned to be about Easter time. Not in the religious sense, that would be too ironic, but just around April. So how it became a midwinter festival of massive expenditure they don’t know. But such things are generally dictated by the ‘first world’ and in most of that winter is cold and snowy. Job done.

It does work on a beach though. Works really well.

Not without a struggle.

Happy Christmas

A xxxx