Andy's Glasses

The joys of electric cars.

We took Mel’s to Gatwick because it’s big enough. Mine is functionally useless. That’s not what it’s for. But heh, even with the manufacturers blocking the charge capacity to 80% about a year ago (don’t worry, I’m on it. Mis-selling, innit) we left home with ‘280 miles’ on the car. But having travelled just 60 of them to Gatwick, we had just 145 left. Ok, I know, maffs is not normal in EV-world. By the time the meet’n’greeters had taken it away and brought it back, we had 90. And that ain’t enough for a 60 mile journey. Nothing like enough. Unless you want to ride at 45mph with the heaters and radio off.

So after retrieving the vehicle after our delayed flight, we went to the local charging station. The good news being, it was fantastic. They’re called ‘gridserve’ and it is brilliant. About 25 fast-charging stations, 10 for Teslas, the rest for proper cars not driven by tossers. And you just wave your card, plug’n’play. They do have a (fucking) app, but you don’t need it. So I didn’t.

What do you do at Gatwick when it’s midnight and you need to kill 20 minutes? Clue: there’s a McDonalds next door. We hadn’t eaten since a very light lunch and BA don’t feed the cheap-seat rabble. Therefore, all the boxes were ticked which are essential to justify dicing with death in my favourite store in the world. And they sell coffee. Hence today’s pic; my excitement after ordering!!! We eventually made it home by 2 o’clock.

And as we were then coming home, America invaded Venezuela. The bombed bits of it, not the bits with the oil, obviously, just other bits. And then, incredibly, they kidnapped Nicolas Maduro and his wife. Flew him… somewhere. No idea where. Only Trump knows that.

There’s no question that Maduro is a total motherfucker. He’s disgustingly corrupt, has no control over his country’s drug lords, nor the safety of innocent Venezuelans. The country has the largest oil reserves in the world. More than Saudi Arabia. And yet, under this ultra-socialist (phah!) leader, most of the population live near to starvation. Which is why he’s a mate of Corbyn. To show us how such people run an economy.

And yet…

Is it right for a nation to invade another and rip the president out of his life? Even if he’s only still president because of rigged elections and elimination of opposition. Is it ‘right’ for one man (basically) to decide and orchestrate ‘regime change’ in a foreign country? If so; why aren’t we in Iran? There’s never been a better time to shaft the Ayatollahs. It would be like a ‘buy one, get one free’ kind of deal. And how about China? I know, they’re a bit nuclear which makes it more difficult. As with Russia.

If you start with ‘bad leaders’ and removing them, where does it end?

Happy welcome home Saturday

A xxxx

“British Airways would like to apologise to travellers on flight BA666 (all BA flights now carry the devil’s number) for the 2 hour, possibly 3 hour, maybe more, delay. This is due to a shitstorm over Gatwick/Heathrow/City. We hope this will not inconvenience you too much. Don’t think of complaining, you’ll be wasting your breath. British Airways would like to wish you all the Happiest of New Years.”

So we arrived at Tenerife airport. And we arrived early. Because we’re clever. And read about how passport control at this airport is horrendous. So even with the traffic jam on what they loosely call ‘the motorway’ over here, we still arrived 3 hours before our flight. In part because it was pissing down, again, so what we gonna hang round for? The pool?

But being Tenerife airport, BA don’t have their own check-in desks. No-one does. They kind’a ’hot desk’ across the arrivals area. So you can’t drop your bags until they’ve assigned a desk number to the flight. And we’re so clever, we sat there for 45 minutes before that happened. Huh! How’s that for clever?

Then we learned that our flight is delayed. An hour. And 3 minutes, to be precise. At this precise moment.

The good news was; passport control was a doddle. No queue. No hassle. Unfortunately, the rest was all bad news. And when we finally make it back to Gatwick, we’re gonna need to charge Mel’s car before the ride home. At Midnight. In Gatwick.

Fuuuuuuccckkkkkk

A xxxx

I’d just like to reaffirm that I make no judgments. As sentence with similar usage as MPs saying ‘let me make this perfectly clear’ telling you they’re going to avoid answering in as many ways as possible. And in this particular instance, I’m making no judgments about accents. Regional accents. The reason for which I can assume a position of impartiality is that I growed up in East Luundun, dinn’I? And some say I still have the lingering vestiges of that horrendous sub-Estuary Mockney. To which I reply: FAARK ORFFF YA NOB-END OR I’LL CHIN YA!!!!

So if I even notice accents, it’s from a completely neutral standpoint. It’s not about implied superiority for those with BBC, ‘received pronunciation’ type speech. You really don’t have to sound like a cross between a 1937 radio broadcaster and a Wing Commander from RAF Dambusters to get along in the world.

But here, in Tenerife, we have a whole range of accents to pick on. Sorry, to choose from. Obviously there’s a Spanish one. Don’t mind that. At least they’re making an effort. Unlike the Northern Irish. Who sound like they’re not making any kind of effort to be understood by anyone from outside the Province. And we do have a rather large contingent of those from Belfast here. No idea why, maybe there’s some kind of pact going on, maybe Spain’s the only country which will admit those from NI? I could understand a blanket ban.

But the ‘cream of the crop’, accent-wise. Or perhaps the ‘bottom-of-the-barrel’ more appropriately, is the Liverpudlians. With accents so thick that they can’t even be understood by other Liverpudlians. It’s not English. as we know it. It’s not anything, as anyone knows it. I don’t extrapolate this complete lack of communication ability with some kind of delayed evolution. (Communication being a virtual apex of evolutionary progress). But the scientific evidence does lean strongly to such a conclusion. If these people weren’t wearing Liverpool football shirts you’d think they came from some pre-lingual outpost of a lesser known planet on the edges of the Milky Way. Also, having a Liver-bird tattooed on their faces is a bit of a giveaway.

It’s raining here today. Not in an English, grey, drizzly kind’a way, but in a more sub-Saharan African kind’a way, where you know its raining because it hasn’t stopped since they dragged me and Lila out of the pool (because we were getting wet???) and there’s six inches of water across everything. Proper rain. Though unfortunately it’s not really much less wet that the type we get at home.

I expect no sympathy.

Happy New Year everybody; let’s hope it’s a good one. Ok, a better one.

A xxxx

I just can’t understand how, for the 57th consecutive year, I’ve missed out in the New Year’s honours list. It just makes no sense whatsoever. I mean, just look at me, ffs, I’m worth a CBE just for being gorgeous. But when you take into consideration all my wonderful benevolence and my vital assistance to ‘the community’ (that vague and meaningless conglomeration of worthless freeloaders and tax avoiders), it is an actual crime against humanity, against morality, against… against me! I should be a Lord, no question about it. I’d take a knighthood. Shit, I’d take ‘Dame’ in front of my name if there was one begging. But no. Iris Elba gets one for earning 225 million quid a year making Luther and rubbing up against Ruth Wilson. I’d do that for nothing. Daniel Levy gets a CBE or OBE or some other useless set of letters which come AFTER your name, so are of no value whatsoever, and as some joker pointed out; another who has to get his rewards by leaving Spurs. They awarded some useless woman an OBE for getting sacked by the BBC for showing the Gaza documentary which was produced by Hamas, FFS.

So getting sacked by the Beeb is worthy of an ‘honour’, whereas being a perfect human being gets you fuck all. Again.

I give to charity. Ok, I bunged a pound coin at a homeless man, but only to distract him so I could nick his can of Tenants Extra. Which would cost 2.47 in Tescos, so that shows great ingenuity as well. Yet I remain honour-free. I’ve done more to sustain the black economy than all the market traders in Bethnal Green. But get no recognition.

When I was at ‘number 10’, many years ago, for a Chanukah party, I shook hands with David Cameron. I palmed him a £50 note, with a big wink, assured that I’d be Lord Conway before the week was out. All I got was note thanking me for my donation to the Conservative Party and price list for honours, starting at 22,000 for a CBE.

So I’ve decided to adopt a more egalitarian approach. I’ve become ‘anti-honours’ as they exist to sustain the horrible class system in our nation. To exemplify all that is wrong with Britain. That ‘entitlement’ comes from the word ‘title’ and we can all live without them. Happily. Or, in my case, miserably. We can live without aspirations to Little Lord Fortleroy, we no longer have to ‘doff our caps’ at some poncey tosser because his grandfather’s uncle was given a back garden by Henry VII’s third cousin. We are a nation free from the malevolent class system which has ruled here since King Canute pulled the sword out of the lake. Or someone did something like that, anyway.

I’m free from worry. Free from title. Free from destructive and anachronistic class system in our land.

Happy Tuesday

(Sir) A xxxx

Before I get started on the football, in which I intend to focus on every single second of Spurs remarkable and outstanding victory at Crystal Palace, I just want to offer my words of support and…. in fact, adoration, for Alaa Abdel Fattah, and welcome him back to HIS home nation. Where he belongs. Among his brethren. Both conceptual brethren and by virtue of his British mother, brethren. He became a British citizen in 2021, arriving symbolically at the same time as the second wave of covid, and then was in prison in his other favourite nation, Egypt. Where he’s languished for a decade. But ‘we’ got him released and freed and managed to return him to… the nation he… well, there’s the question.

Kier Starmer, the bandwagon-jumper’s, bandwagon jumper, jumped in before even one of his 724 advisors, researchers, helpers, image consultants, hair-dressers, rabbis (for when he’s ‘Jewish’) or lawyers, had the chance to stop him, to consider his words, to edit him, and basically declared that if he (Starmer) was gay, then Alaa would be chosen to father his children. The was simply no level of praise too strong, to passionate and too uninformed for our PM to gush with over our returning ‘hero’. And he is a hero. Fighting for gay rights in Egypt is never going to endear you to the authorities, but he did that. And fought for democracy. Great guy. Right.

So the posts Alaa made in 2010, 11 and 12, stating that he’d like all zionists murdered, that all ‘colonialists’ should die (interpret his definition of ‘colonialist’ how you wish) and that he’s a racist who ‘hates white people’, they got somehow missed by Starmer’s dedicated team designated: ‘we must try absolutely ANYTHING to try and make this pathetic man appear good or desirable in any possible way’.

But it’s ok! Starmer’s saved!! Because Alaa has said that his posts were ‘taken out of context’ and he apologises unequivocally for them. Oh. So that’s ok then. Phew. The PM dodged one there.

Whereas Crystal Palace dodged 2. Spurs won the game 3 nil. But the actual score was: Palace 0, Spurs 1, VAR 2. As once again those total bastard scumbags in VAR central conspired to rob us of 2 perfectly good goals. Other than the offsidey bits. Yet my team came through anyway. Worthy victors of a rather odd game. Very open, very flowing, but both sides faltering in the final third. Where VAR comes into its own.

It was a brilliant victory. Because it was a victory. And we are soooooo short on those this season that we can only see this as ‘the turning point’. We’ve so far had 17 ‘turning points’ this season, all of which proved to either not ‘turn’ enough, or to carry on turning until they come back full circle. Thus not turning at all. But we remain confident. Positive. Forward-thinking. And probably deluded. It’s how we cope.

Happy, post-victorious, Monday

A xxxx

And this photo: could they be related???

So what’s Tenerife like? Well… it was formed in 2600 BC when a volcano erupted under the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Morocco. The volcano’s name was ‘Nigel’ and it was quite big. Because the eruption also caused a few other Canary Islands to form, possibly a bit of the west coast of Morocco and I’m guessing, a small part of Marbella. Where the Marriott now stands. The natural vegetation here is… predominantly quite green, and there are little mountains all around. Brown ones. They’re quite pretty. The indigenous people are… not really indigenous at all but came from Spain when the then King… Philippe, or Carlos IX, or Rodney III, came over on a boat (probably) and declared it their very own and built the shopping centre.

Basically, I have no fucking idea what it’s like. I got off a plane. They told me I was in Tenerife and I believed them. A very nice man in a white Toyota taxi then brought me to our resort, where they lock us in for 12 hours a day and then allow us out ONLY to go find dinner. Then we have to return in time for curfew otherwise our ankle bracelet trackers send 10,000 volts up our legs. That gets you back in a hurry.

Ok, we should go ‘exploring’. We should hike up the other volcanoes here and get bitten by the doubtlessly exotic insects they have, possibly even snakes!!! We should take a boat ride round the southern tip of the island, diving off the side to catch wild oysters. In our teeth. Or we could take a motor-bike out, fall off it, as all tourists do, and spend three days checking out both the hospitals round here and also our health insurance limits.

But we’re not really here for that. We’re here to rest. And play with Lila and Joey. And, trust me, you don’t want to sit in a car/coach for 2 hours with Joey to go to a volcano that he doesn’t really want to see. Yet, oddly, he’ll happily sit for 2 hours this afternoon to watch his beloved Spurs lose at Crystal Palace. But that’s a different kind of ‘concentration’, it’s a ‘commitment’.

So, due to being actual inmates in a Tenerifian prison, albeit a very upmarket prison, we lie in the sun, we read our books, we swim, we take walks along the fabulous promenade, we play, we rest and we lie down some more, once the resting gets a bit tiring.

And it’s actually quite liberating, all this ‘doing nothing’. Feeling no pressure to do anything at all. How wonderful.

Happy hols,

A xxxx

Why do we take holidays? Well, it’s a complex question. We take holidays to rest. To relax. To adhere to the ‘change is good as a rest’ maxim, maybe to get some sunshine at a time when we don’t got none at home, and maybe because we’re just fucking exhausted, overworked, and knackered out. So we take that break. Come to the sun. And rest. And that lasts until Joey launches himself at me as I walk through the hotel entrance, a self-propelled projectile aimed for my solar plexus.

If I actually viewed such an event, however physically painful, however bone-breakingly intense, as anything other than ‘the best thing in the world’, I’d have grounds for complaint. When his older and oh-so-much-cooler sister approaches in her much more measured, pre-teenly-nonchalant way because she too wants to share the lurve, then the world is back on its axis again.

So here we are. Oh, my daughter’s here too. Whassername. In case we need an adult in the group. With my son-in-law. With whom I’ll watch any Spurs games on view here, so Joey can comfort us during and after. His 6 year-old view on such things is much healthier than mine and his dad’s, not having suffered quite so long. I had Joey practising the phrase ‘cooom-on Cit-eh’ the other day, for when we have to convert. Well, Mel grew up in Leeds and that’s up north. So how far can it be from Manchester? Giving us ‘legacy rights’ to jump on that bandwagon so lavishly fuelled by Arab oil money.

Tonight the daughter and Tory Boy are going out for a ‘date night’. Whilst we’re ‘lumbered’ with the kids. Oh noooooooo… A ‘sleepover’, even though the room is precisely the same as theirs, to the millimetre.

We have strict rules to follow. Reading, bedtime, cuddles, sleep. No admission til 7am and no iPads til then.

I’ve never been great at rules. Always a bit of an issue for me. Though I’m generally ok with Lila & Joey’s rules. They align more with my world view. Which is, roughly, anything for a decent night’s sleep and there’s no such thing as ‘too much sugar’.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Like the King, I’m sending a Christmas message this year to all my loyal subjects. Otherwise known as ‘the plebs’. Because those of us in high office should always realise and appreciate that there are commoners, ‘working people’ and other versions of ‘scum’, all over the country, at this very moment fighting each other over who gets the Turkey wing this year, or who gets to drink the last can of Tenants Extra because mother-in-law has drunk the other 5 in the 45 minutes since she arrived.

So what you should all be doing in fact is finding the most freezing, arctic, frigid body of water you can and immersing yourself in it. Preferably whilst wearing a red bikini fringed with white fur, stick-on antlers, or a long white beard. And essentially, drunk. Or how and why would you ever enter such a place.

But it seems almost to be de rigeur to jump into the North Sea, or the English Channel or some version of ice-laden coastal waters on Christmas Day. It started (as with soooo many bad ideas) in Scotland. Where the Firth of Forth would be awash with plungers into the ice-water. Now it’s everywhere. Devon, Belfast, even Worcestershire. Which, I’ll admit, is a bit landlocked, but they’ve got cars, haven’t they? Or lakes, reservoirs and some really horrible, polluted canals. So no excuses.

Let me tell you, as your ‘other king’, what Jesus wasn’t doing on Christmas Day. He wasn’t jumping into cold water in a bikini. He may have has some issues, but he wasn’t a total fucking idiot. In fact, he had many problems. I mean, where did all that ‘poverty’ shit come from? Turning other cheeks? Rather than the more customary ‘aw’right, come on den, ya want some????’ reaction. And wearing sandals? Not sure if he did so whilst in a suit, but ya kind’a think he would. I don’t mind the feeding of the 5,000, but why didn’t he monetise it? 5,000 covers in one night; any restaurant would kill for that.

Though I must admit, I’m wearing sandals too!! Well, why not? It’s Christmas Day, FFS! It’s in honour of Jesus, just another nice Jewish boy. Or possibly the first ‘nice Jewish goy’, but I need to check. So I’m wearing sandals in HIS honour.

And because I’m in Tenerife and it’s fucking hot. And yes, I have immersed myself in water today. Not, possibly, of the frozen variety, but… slightly cool(ing).

Happy Christmas

A xxxx

There’s 3 things I would never do.

Vote for Nigel Farage. Ok, or Kier Starmer.
Sing any song with ‘Ar-sen-allll’ in the lyrics.
Go on hunger strike. Unless they held it in Dishoom and let me cheat.

Some of the Hunger Strikers are up to their 50th days. Its getting horrible. They’re in wheelchairs. Their bodies are starting to eat themselves for the nourishment they’re otherwise starved of. And they’re at risk of incurring brain damage.

How would you know? If there was brain damage. When you’re dealing with people obviously a touch deranged in the first place, or they wouldn’t feel the need to align themselves with a terrorist organisation. And then when, surprise surprise, you get put in jail, you decide to go on hunger strike. Oh no.

If anything in this world is an act of (literally) self-destructive, nihilistic futility and stupidity, it is a hunger strike. I actually tried it this morning, before breakfast, to see what it felt like, develop a little ’empathy’ for the moronic self-murderers. But I couldn’t make it. Had to have just a little snack, because…

Because to impose starvation on yourself is stupid. No-one cares. They’re not going to change the law. Lots of people are demanding ‘medical action’ but really, that’s an assault on these people. They don’t need ‘medical help’, they need food. Which they’ve chosen not to take. In order to make a really important political point, which is… errrr…

Let ’em starve. It’s what they want. Freedom of expression. To ‘force feed’ them or medicate them to hell and back is an abuse. Unless the people demanding that ‘action is taken’, that ‘they must meet with the Home Secretary’, those other fuckwits, which now include Greta Thunberg, the fuckwit’s fuckwit, unless they go on hunger strike in support of the hunger strikers.

It could be brilliant. A self-inflicted cull of the imbeciles.

Anyway, I’m off to Tenerife. This message comes to you ‘live’ from Gatwick. I’m on my way to meet… the monsters. Who are already there. One thing’s for sure. There’ll be no hunger striking where I’m going. It’ll have to wait til I get back.

Happy Christmas Eve

A xxxx

Ever been to Shinjuku station in Tokyo? Its a city. Allegedly ‘the busiest railway station in the world’, it is without question the most confusing. Its on 3 floors, all with shops and restaurants, covers about 197 square miles and you can’t get out. Its impossible to find ‘the street’. Let alone the actual street you want. And most of the streets in that area are ‘red lighted’ ones, it doesn’t really matter where you emerge.

I think King Cross is heading that way. But without the red lights. We had those around there for years. The ‘sleaze years’ when every politician looking for instant, cheap, nasty satisfaction would drive round old Kings Cross and pick the crack-head of his (or her, must be fair now) choice. But not now. Now its the most fab area in London. And getting fabber every day. But the station is ‘growing’.

It was just ‘Kings X’. Next door was St Pancras. So they joined ’em up. ‘Next door’ being a block or two away. Then they moved Eurostar from Waterloo to there too. Next came the shops, cafes and market stalls, just so you know it had ‘arrived’. Not your train, that’s still outside Lancaster after a signal failure and won’t arrive til 3 hours after its due time.

I spent about half an hour walking round it this morning. I went to the Northern Line platform, my default, only to realise that I wanted the circle line. Shit. That little error cost me 20 minutes, 24,000 steps and abject humiliation.

And why was I in Kings Cross early in the morning? There is only one possible reason to be there, ever. The Egg-and-bacon naan breakfast roll at Dishoom. Or just the egg one if you’re not a meat-eater. Or an eater of that meat. It is possibly the best thing ever invented. Or so you think until you taste the beans.

The younger daughter’s office is just around the corner in the most achingly trendy building I’ve ever seen. So we thought… we thought…

We didn’t ‘think’ anything. We were just compelled to go for breakfast. We succumbed. And oh my, it was so worth it.

Happy, still full, Monday

A xxxx