Andy's Glasses

I wish to complain to the corporation of Newfoundland, possibly the kingdom of Newfoundland, principality, whatever, whoever runs this place. We took the ferry over from the big bit of NL to Fogo Island. 2 of us, obvs, and the guy never even asked if we might possibly be ‘seniors’; he just fucking assumed it. And I want to check that over here, ‘seniors’ start at, like 45, maybe 50. Otherwise, I want to go back and punch the guy. Also, that crossing cost us $22.25. Which is a lot of money. Though it did include the car, but still. So I said we wanted a round trip, to which we were told that it was for the return journey too. Twelve quid. Four journeys. That is a lot of money for old people to find. Why, it’s just over £3 per journey!!! Oh, then there’s the car, I s’pose. A tube journey costs (I think), £3.40. I’ve never asked if I can take my car to Kennington on the Northern Line, but I’m going to.

We did a hike on Fogo. It’s called ‘the Auk trail’. The ‘auk’ in question was a flightless bird which, like all big, fat, slow-moving, slow-cookable, flightless birds in world history, become history. Extinct. Eaten by Victorian age travellers to complete annihilation of the species. There’s only two left in the entire world. Both made of metal. One over here (just above Mel’s shoulder) the other facing it in Iceland.

This was a really wonderfully laid out ‘trail’. All you have to do is find the ‘trail head’. Which, making no excuses, is not easy to find. None of them are. They’re all in places too insignificant to come up on either Google or Waze. But we found it!!! All by ourselves!!! And hiked for about an hour over rocks and cliffs and paths, to find the (fucking) auk. Which was blue and possibly a bit cuddly. But metal ones aren’t cookable. However, the place where the statue was put is a true wonder of geography and geology. Possibly gynaecology and genealogy too. A little cove of beautiful rock formations. The sun was shining, the sea crashing in (it only ‘crashes’ in Newfoundland, there is no plan B) and we sat there for about an hour. It was outstandingly beautiful. And then the birds (you know, those big, white ones) were diving for fish from about 100 feet up. It was simply awe-inspiring. You start to ask ‘the big questions’, about life, your place in it, your meaning, purpose, God, and whether Spurs will sign an attacking midfielder before the window closes next week.

Now we’re off to catch the very expensive ferry.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

We’re on Fogo Island. Off the north coast of Newfoundland. Look on a map. Newfoundland is a tiny ‘bit’ on the east of Canada. It’s bigger than England. Fogo won’t be on any map until you zoom in. So I thought we’d be on one of those little cartoon islands with a palm tree stuck in the middle (I know, palm trees are pretty rare up here) and maybe an old man with a really long beard who was marooned here 25 years ago. But in fact, this ‘tiny’ island is ‘massive’, as tiny islands go. It’s ‘tiny’ Canada-style.

And there’s the problem. Everything here is massive. Including most of the people. Newfoundland is just full of overweight people. And we’re not talking ‘carrying a few extra pounds’, even a few extra kilos, cos it’s very ‘metric’ up here, obviously. No, we’re talking about Florida levels of waddling. Ok, it gets cold (serious understatement) so maybe their laying on a bit for the winter to come. Or maybe it’s a lifestyle thing where eating becomes the sole activity. Or the cod activity really cos the seas round here are full of it and it’s fab. But when you go into a supermarket (and yes, they do have them, even on tiny little Fogo, population 2,500), everything they sell is BIG! They had chocolate almonds, a particular favourite of mine. But they only come in 900gm bags. That’s 2lbs to you and me. Who the fuck needs to eat 2 lbs of chocolate almonds?

The people of Newfoundland, that’s who. Along with supersized bags of crisps, fucking buckets of peanut butter and moose meat. Seen the size of a moose??? Ok, they don’t eat that, but it’s the principle. Of bigness. Though they are a very friendly people. They just talk to you. They love Mel’s hair. Obviously they’ve never seen Harpo Marx. They love the accent. “Oh, you’re Scotlandish/South African/Australian…”, and they talk funny. Canadians all talk funny. Even our mates from Toronto talk pretty funny, but up here it’s a different level of ‘funny’. And when you’re on Fogo you encounter levels of ‘funny’ fast approaching ‘downright wierd’. They sound more Irish than Canadian but drop all their ‘h’s and use odd words. Basically, they needs subtitles. But are very charming. And they all drive massive ‘fuck-off’ trucks. They couldn’t fit in anything smaller.

This morning the sun has actually come out. Turning the merely beautiful into the downright spectacular. Windy as hell, but sunny!!! I’ll take it. We shall hike and trek. And inevitably get lost. As we did yesterday after our easy hike, finding the car. There ya go. Sometimes you have to ‘go the extra mile’ to prove your incompetence.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So what do we know about Newfoundland? It was built in 1863 by Billy Newfoundland who came here for the fishes…

We know nothing. Let’s face it. It’s just here. And is quite magnificent. Ok, a little sunshine wouldn’t hurt but for whatever reason, that ain’t happenin’ this week.

We’re currently in a place called Twillingate. Known as ‘iceberg alley’ because virtually all the year you can see icebergs a’floatin’ by. Virtually all the year, just not this bit. But Twillingate is wonderful. Population (I’m guessing) of about 74 (now that poor ole Kenny finally gave up in the spring…) and it’s a tiny peninsula on the north coast, poking out in to the ocean. And on about three sides are fabulous views of rocks being bashed up by the sea. The fourth side is the forest which covers all of Newfoundland. And into which, this morning, Mel & I ventured forth. In heroic manner.

Why heroic? Because we can get lost walking to our local corner shop at home. Stick us in a forest and we have, quite literally, no chance of getting out on our own. We’ve been lost on more ‘well marked hiking trails’ than there are moose in Canada. There’s barely a country in the world we haven’t got lost in.

This morning was no different really. We followed the trail until we weren’t. That’s fine. Coastal trails are sort of ‘self defining’ as long as you avoid the water. So we eventually found the lighthouse, which is gorgeous. And as you stand there, at the edge of this part of the world, that fucking wind hits you. It’s actually like someone took out the ‘north pole’ and slapped you round the face with it. And yet in sort of masochistic way, it’s pleasurable. As all forms of exercise are essentially masochistic anyway. To anyone, like me, who’d rather be in front of Netflix with a bag of crisps and a dip. Maybe a beer.

We came back along the road. There’s only one here. Route 340. No heroics required.

Then we popped back to our B&B (in which the central heating is on) and I learned that once again Spurs had beaten Manchester City at the Etihad. My morning is complete. My life is complete. So I’m going ‘back out there’. Which is the easy bit. It returning which causes the difficulty.

Happy trekking,

A xxxx

So we’ve gone to Canada. Those Canadians have really gone out their way to stop us going. First they set fire to Newfoundland, well, one end of it, so we had to rearrange. Then having done that mammoth task, Air Canada went on strike. And to get to Canada is easy, because British Airways aren’t on strike and they’re British so therefore perfect. But to get up to Newfoundland you can’t exactly use Ryanair. Its Air Canada or Air Canada. No-one else goes there. They ended the strike yesterday. The flight attendants were chronically underpaid. According to one protester’s placard: ‘delivering pretzels for peanuts’. I like that. Was immediately sympathetic to their cause. But only once it was sorted, obviously. Then we had ‘passport—gate’ last night when I couldn’t check in. Won’t bore you but the BA site can’t handle Canadians, like my wife. I could have left her at home, or taken a different woman. A BRITISH ONE!!! And they’re all much younger. But instead, I called BA and spent a super half hour on the phone to Delhi getting it sorted. But there ya go. First world problems.

But I need to go somewhere bleak and distant and vast. I need the distraction of the open seas. The quiet and solitude (ok, as mentioned, I am taking Mel, but other than that…). I need to escape. From…

Eberechi Eze.

Because, quite frankly, I’m devastated. A word I never use lightly, but often just to exaggerate or attract attention.

I wanted Eze at Spurs. I saw him last year when he came to White Hart Lane and beat us single-handedly, just literally ‘running the game’. And I wanted him. Needed him. Desired him deeply. He was ‘our kind’a player’, but much more effective than any of ours. Efficient. Productive. Then, when Madison went lame before the season even started, out for a ‘long spell’, Eze became the target. Because everyone knew he would be the perfect fit in a position we were deficient. So Thomas Frank said ‘get Eze’ and Daniel Levy spent the next month doing his usual ‘transfer combat games’ of seemingly arguing, to the point of exiting the deal, over who gets the coffees in? And then, after all the agonies and bluffs and tactics, we’re right on the verge of agreeing terms with everyone… and Arsenal nick him. We dilly dally for 30 days; they get an injury to Havertz and 6 hours later Eze’s on the tv pointing sickeningly, maddeningly, at his new Arsenal shirt. On the back of which reads: FUCKING JUDAS!!!!

There is an alternative version of this tale, sort of the other ‘closing doors’ moment, in which Eze was always going to play for Arsenal. Presumably he has a passion for runners up medals. So he and Palace strung Spurs along, with false hopes, either to up the ante, money-wise, or because he was waiting for Havertz to be injured. (??) He played for Palace on Saturday. You don’t do that when you’re 70% sold to another club. But he knew he was never going to that club.

Whichever reality was real, he’s not ended up at Spurs. But that’s no problem. We just need someone else. Who looks like Eze, plays like Eze, scores goals like Eze, but is a decent person with a moral integrity which would preclude him from joining ‘them’.

But I’m not bitter…

Welcome to Canada

A xxxx

My name is Andy and I haven’t taken the tube for 3 weeks!!!
Hello Andy!

And that’s a good thing for Tube Trains Anonymous, but as a former addict, it can only be seen as a bit bizarre. This is England, FFS, it’s supposed to rain. Often. Annoyingly. Disruptively. Frustratingly. (We have so many descriptions for rain here; it’s like the Eskimos with their snow. Or whatever you’re supposed to call an Eskimo now). I’ll only abandon the tube for my e-bike when there is a day full of ‘zeros’ in the rainfall column of the BBC weather app. And the first day rain is forecast is next Tuesday.

But the fact remains that our verdant isle is not quite as verdant as it once was. Its more our ‘greeny-brown isle’ as the grass dries up, the crops suffer, the (fucking) flowers in the (fucking) garden need (fucking) watering every (fucking) night. A task I enjoy.

We should import some water from Pakistan. Have you seen the pics? Entire villages under water. Death, destruction and landslides. All the work of everyone’s favourite drink; water. So whilst Spain is suffering drought and wild fires, and Newfoundland made me change my holiday plans(!!!) due to their fires, our crops are dying and yet poor Pakistan seem to be the beneficiary of all the water we all need. Though that nation, as they’re so quick to tell us at every mention of the disaster, produces less than 1% of the world’s carbon emissions. I haven’t checked that figure, I tried counting using a big telescope from my garden but gave up at ‘6’ when the football came on. And those 6 might have been coming from their neighbours, India, who are quite massive producers of carbon. Obviously nothing even close to China’s emissions.

Unless you’re an American Republican, you simply can’t fail to attribute all this shit to ‘global warming’ produced by China. Sorry, produced by carbon emissions. Even the biggest ‘climate change sceptics’, like me, should ‘wake up and smell the coffee’, except the coffee bean crops in Brazil and Colombia are desiccated by drought.

The glaciers are melting, the storms increasing, the summers hotter than hell, the rains humungous and its so fucked up you almost need Donald Trump to ‘do a deal’ between the dried out deserts and the floods to sort out some sort of compromise. As, quite frankly, the old ‘God’ seems quite incapable of keeping things in control. Sadly, Trump is a non-believer, so we won’t get much change out of him.

I’m doing my bit. We have an electric car (don’t ask where our electricity comes from; it’ll only upset you) and my ‘racing car’ only does a few miles a week and then only to upset Greta Thunberg. I travel by e-bike, I (sometimes) eat lettuce and hardly use any coal. I can do no more.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Remember ‘the A-team’? I loved that show. The wonderful George Peppard. who was also Banacek, who drove one of these fabulous cars. Just so you know.

A-team. A metaphor for bringing in your best game, your top people, the do-ers, the movers and shakers, the big thinkers and the uber-strategists. That’s an A-team. And that what ‘we’ are sending to Washington today to sort out Donald Trump. The heavy hitters. The ones who won’t be intimidated by The Great Orange one (blessed be he) and his team of loud-mouthed, aggressive attack dogs. ‘We’ are going to the White House to protect little Zelensky from the brutal attack he received last time he went there.

Not this time. This time he has the unwavering strength of… errrr… well, Kier Starmer!!! And you can’t get more scary than him. Unless you go to a movie which isn’t ‘PG’ rated. Macron’s going, to provide his usual spineless arrogance, and Georgia Meloni, for a bit of right wing glam. The German chancellor will be there, just because he’s actually taller than Trump and if they decide to ‘shoot hoops’ for parts of Ukraine, he’ll come in handy. Ursula Von Der Leyen will be there too. No-one knows why, nor cares one way or the other. And the head of NATO, to make up the numbers. Because NATO remains totally taboo for Putin. Who has, according to Trump, agreed to a ‘Nato-equivalent’ security force in Ukraine, run by America. And as America pays for most of NATO, this could be a problem for the Russians.

Trump, the ‘deal maker’ is a loud, brash imbecile. Whilst Putin is a clever little fucker who you wouldn’t leave in charge of your children for 10 minutes. So whatever ‘the deal’ which never got done but will be done and was good to talk and we need to stop the killing and all the other Trumpesque say-nothing-of-substance speak, might be, to even make the attempt without Ukranian representation was a move of total conceit on the part of both ‘world leaders’.

Today will be better. There’ll be an elephant in the room, but that’s better than having Putin in the room, its safer. But it will be so interesting to see how ‘Europe’s finest’ can manage all that ‘sycophantic disagreement’ with the ‘great’ (big) Man. How do you argue and suck-up at the same time? Particularly when Starmer calls walking whilst breathing ‘multi-tasking’.

The A-Team? He’ll slaughter them. And all their ‘left-wing’ centrism.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So I had every intention of giving my tenner’s worth of daily rant about two megalomaniacal egotists bromancing round Anchorage working out just how big a bus they need to throw Ukraine under so they can divvy up the land and resources between them. But then the football season started and… and…

I got distracted. I can possibly concentrate on world peace and the avoidance of nuclear conflict when Richarlison scores one goal. My concerns for the poor people of Kyiv and the Dombas could possibly extend after a second goal. Just not that second goal.

It was a thing of such outstanding beauty and magnificence that quite frankly, my life instantly took on new meaning. I was humbled by its extraordinary perfection. So humbled that I immediately messaged 15 Arsenal fans to gloat about it. That’s ‘humility’, Spurs fan style.

Yet really, best of all was the smile on the Brazilian’s face. For 2 years he’s been the face of misery. The man with troubles, distractions, the inevitable ‘mental health issues’ and a horrible string of injuries. I just thought he was someone who never smiled. Wasn’t in his make-up, his image, whatever. Then his face simply lit up and I fell back in love with the guy who starred for Brazil in the 2022 World Cup. And has done approximately ‘fuck all’ for his club team ever since. We always knew he ‘had it in him’. We just weren’t sure where he hid it. So maybe it’s the Thomas Frank effect, or maybe he’s just ‘recovered’ or become ‘better medicated’. I don’t know and quite frankly (no pun) I don’t care.

But one man can’t win a football match. And the rest of the team were outstanding. New signing Kudus was brilliant. A true ‘Spurs player’. An entertainer. Ok, that’ll cost a few giveaways over the season but it’s what we love to see. What everyone loves to see. And if he can create 2 assists every game (as if) we’ll ‘indulge’ his extravagances. Lovingly.

Bergvall and Gray, both still ‘kids’ really, starting to show their true potential.

It wasn’t a happy return for Scotty Parker. I can only wish him well. Not against us, obviously, but particularly against Chelsea, Arsenal and all the other horrible teams who inhabit our league.

This league table was published during the match, at an ‘as it stands’ moment of pure beauty. The season was about 70 minutes old. But I still love it.

Very happy Sunday

A xxxx

So me mate Dave… well, I have 17 of them, so best clarify; it’s not the one who lives up the road, nor the one who went to court for beating his wife. Not the one who for 6 years became ‘me mate, Doris’, neither. This is the one who lives in Canada. Oooohhhh, Canada. As their national anthem calls it. And his son’s getting married, in like 2 weeks time. But he did warn us. We had a ‘heads up’, about a year ago. So, dutifully, last October, we booked our flights to Toronto. British Airways were very helpful and said we could splash a few thousand Air Miles for a pair of tickets. Very nice of them. And we thought… that it’s too far to go for a weekend, so let’s make a holiday of it and go somewhere I’ve (for some totally unaccountable reason) always wanted to go. Newfoundland!!! Up there in the sub-arctic wilderness of Canada’s most easterliness, sits this island that is remote, bleak and apparently geographically stunning. So last October we booked it. All of it. Flights from Toronto (its over 3 hours), to St John’s, the ‘capital’ (population just over 100,000), get a car, work our way slowly across about 400 miles to Deer Lake, on the other end, and fly back to Toronto for the wedding. Easy peasy. Booked some lovely hotels… ok, Newfoundland doesn’t do ‘lovely hotels’ like other places, so we booked places where hopefully Mel won’t need her full-body rubber gloves to get to the shower. One week, leisurely drives, lots of hikes. Ahhhhhh. What could possibly go wrong?

I’ll tell you what could go wrong. Last week Newfoundland caught fire. That wrong enough for ya!!!

Wildfires erupted all over mainly the Eastern end of the island. Where we’re flying to. Oh. Never mind, I can just accelerate through the flames… but in fact it’s the smoke. Ruins the air, pollutes and affects the views. In that you can’t see them.

So I called Air Canada, see if I could change our flights to fly to Deer Lake instead, and just tour round the western half of the island. But Air Canada (just like every other fucking airline in the world), have replaced customer service with plink-plink music, which plays for all eternity. So I was forced to ‘do it online’ and actually got a full refund for that flight!!! When does that happen??? Booked the new one (eventually), sorted out the car and then had to cancel our first 2 hotels. Hmmmm. Who both have a ‘cancellations within two weeks cost the price of 1 night’ policy. So I emailed them. Told them (lies!), tales of woe (more lies!), Mel’s respiratory issues (MORE FUCKING LIES!!!!), and before I even had to invent the burial of an aunt, they were cancelled, no charges. I felt bad. For… just a minute. I love Canadians. The whole process couldn’t have taken more than 17 hours.

Obviously, the cost of everything new we booked was 6 times that of those we’d cancelled; I hate Canadians.

But the holiday will be had!! Leaving Thursday. Stay tuned or you might miss something important! Like breakfast. Croissants. Moose.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The City of Venice is beautiful. So Italians always tell you. And I get it; all that water, all those fab bridges, gorgeous canals and spectacular old buildings dating back to 810 since it was the ‘Republic of Venice’ and it ruled the Adriatic as well as lots of other places too. I don’t know if it consciously chose to become the Disneyland caricature of Venetian concept, almost the Las Vegas of southern Europe, without so much gambling, but with levels of ‘taste’ which have been heading towards the Nevada dream for decades. Pretty much since the first cruise ship pulled up next Mark’s Square and spewed 10,000 Americans onto the land which they filled with their dollars. There’s still fabulous art and antiquities there. Amazing glass. But you have to search under the gondolas and the kitsch souvenirs to find it.

And now they’ve let Joey in!!! Cos that’s where he’s gone. On his own, obviously, with a few friends from school. Half a dozen 6 year olds travelling unaccompanied to Venice, so they can watch Spurs play tonight in Udinese, up the road. They’re going to hitch-hike. Should be fine. They’re all armed.

Ok, he’s gone with his dad. I lied. So call off Social Services. Although, taking a 6 year-old Spurs fanatic to watch them get slaughtered by PSG may be considered ‘abuse’.

Though it seems to be that you can actually do whatever you want; abuse people, attack them, rob from them, whatever you like. Its only words that can hurt so much that the police get involved.

The shopkeeper in Wrexham who posted a sign on his door saying “due to Scumbags shoplifting, please ask for cabinets to be opened”. He was visited by a man in blue who suggested he re-write the sign ‘so as not to be offensive’. So you have to ask: who would be offended? Only a scumbag. Self-confessed or it wouldn’t bother him/her. You’d have to know you’re a scumbag to be offended, and then its accurate so how can you be? Or shoplifters; they might be offended at being described with a pejorative term. And do shoplifters have the right to be protected from abusive terms? When abuse is our only weapon because you’re not allowed to give them the kicking they deserve.

To be fair to the Wrexham police, it was just one copper who had been stopped by someone who made the complaint, so felt duty-bound to ‘follow up’. Instead of telling the complainant: are you so fucking stupid that you want to waste police time in case the indefensible should feel offended by the truth?

Come on Spurs!!

No, really, Come on Spurs!!!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

What a fab weekend. How can it not be when the sun shines for 26 hours a day? But it’s what you do with those days which make them special.

On Saturday we had an event. It’s called an ‘aufruf’ and involves synagogue, prayers, slaying of the third born, ritual sacrifice and drinking blood. Usual religious shit for Jews. It’s for the groom to be. A pre-celebration of his wedding to come. So he gets to say lots of prayers, then we all go eat lunch. ‘Aufruf’ translates from the Yiddish as ‘WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING????’ It’s the groom’s last chance to run away before ‘the big day’.

Me and my synagogue are pretty much total strangers. Like distant cousins; we love each other from afar as long as we never meet up. But we had to meet. And I couldn’t stand outside with a stab-vest and walkie-talkie; my usual ‘synagogue attire’, I had to actually… enter!!!l The whole service!!! Well, I did my morning tai chi class first, obviously, then we strolled to shul (as it’s known).

Instead of the usual sabbath greeting of ‘Shabbat shalom’, all I got was ‘what are YOU doing here????’ All manner of witticisms along the lines of ‘your tennis club shut down then?’ As if to question my spirituality and commitment to prayer!!!

At the end of the service, you have the blessings on wine and bread then you ‘snack’. I tried to be restrained. I stopped myself mid-fish-ball, on several occasions. Only to fail. Mini-bagels. They’re only tiny. Better eat 5. Its just ‘THERE’, how can you not eat it? Even though we walked to the groom’s parents’ home for a sit down lunch, just minutes away. I can see why religious people are fat.

Sunday was also incredibly ‘civilised’. This time a 60th birthday party for our mate. In the garden, more food, this time ‘brunchy’ type foods. Which, as we all know, have zero calorific value. So might as well have ‘another’. The waiters sang songs from musicals, the birthday girls family grabbed their guitars and made their own musical offerings. And we just stood around eating. And drinking. And eating.

And here’s the best bit about lunch parties; you then have the rest of the day to do stuff.

Next time you have a party, make it lunchtime. Oh, and sunny.

Happy Monday

A xxxx