Andy's Glasses

It’s snowing outside my window. Remember snow? That white stuff we used to get at Christmas when Bing Crosby was still alive? Well, its mid-November, following the ‘mildest’ autumn in the entire history of mild autumnal things’, when just last week we were sunbathing on Tower Bridge and diving into the River to cool off (metaphor. BIG metaphor. Approaching hyperbole), and now we’re building snow men. Who look like Kier Starmer, particularly as they start to melt and lose their facial features. And then we go outside and KICK THE SHIT OUT OF THEM AND BEAT THEM WITH SHOVELS!!!

Sorry, where was I?

Oh yeah. Snow in November. Not unheard of but quite unusual. Like temperatures of almost 20 degrees in October. Unusual, but not unheard of. Floods in Wales. Ok, the water didn’t get all of it; they managed to play a football match in Cardiff last night, so it can’t have been that bad. Hurricanes in Jamaica, destroying half the country. Well, its hurricane season, what d’y’expct?

But when you add up all these things, you have a choice. Its either ‘coincidence’ that about 120 really rare meteorological events occur almost simultaneously, (remember, we’re talking geological time here, measured in millions of years, so ‘within a few weeks’ is ‘simultaneous’), its just ‘the cycle of the planet’. Or you can actually start to think that in some ‘small’ way, we are influencing the environmental changes in our planet to the extent that the weather is really shitty today. We (I’m speaking for all 8.1 billion people in the world) have created… global warming!!!! And it’s real and its here and…

And we kind’a have to learn to live with it. Because for all the Greta Thunberg shit, before she joined Hamas and is following a new agenda, trying to make ‘environmentally friendly suicide bombs’, for all the Ed Miliband bollocks about ‘net zero’, at some point you have to realise that humans produce carbon. We exhale the fucking stuff. And we want to keep warm in our homes and we need to drive around sometimes and don’t want ‘range anxiety’, and we like the idea of AI, the world’s most energy-consuming… thing!!! So really, pragmatic limitations aside, we’ll have to learn to live with ‘global warming’ and snow in November.

But other things change too. Like ‘truth’. That’s changing. In fact it changed yesterday.

The old version of ‘truth’, was ‘whatever Donald Trump believed’. But then Mohammed bin Salman (MBS) visited him yesterday and I realised that this ‘truth’, as opposed to all the ‘fake news’, which is what Trump doesn’t agree with, can in fact be bought. Because for just a $1trillion trade deal, MBS has bought absolution from a horrendous crime. Previously, after the horrible murder of Jamal Khashoggi in Turkey, the American security and intelligence services declared that the ‘hit’ was approved, possibly originated, by MBS. Although that was only based on extensive research and physical proof and evidence. So fly a 12-digit sum in front of Donald and it becomes “MBS knew nothing about it. Things happen”. The new truth.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’d just like to say, that if you’re blessed with footballing skills, if you are ‘sheer class’ on any footy pitch, if you’re a Sunday league Glenn Hoddle, more skilful than Liam Brady, more elegant than Zidane, stronger than Vieira, more aggressive than Roy Keane (that would involve weapons), then it is enduring. That is me. I put shorts on because I have to get ‘in character’, even for a 1-on-1 with Joey in his kitchen. Ok, I’d come from tennis, but proper attire is essential! Unfortunately, I lost. Not because of any lack of artistry, great goals, wonderful tactics or even not scoring enough. But the first rule, in his kitchen, is ‘Joey wins’. He manipulates numbers like the most skilful tax-avoidance accountant; he cries ‘foul’ when the only such thing going on is the chicken his mother is cooking. His ‘goal area’ is marked clearly, by precisely where he is on the pitch, allowing him to dive on the ball and grab it. Similarly, the ‘goal line’ is subject to interpretation. His interpretation. If we’re playing up to 5 and I get the 5th, then we’re playing to 10. Or its ‘half time’. But this is not ‘cheating’, how fucking dare you!!! My grandson!!! No, this is being competitive (good thing), its ‘creative’, its… sheer genius!! This action photo was taken by one of the press who’d turned up in droves with their long-lens Nikons. I probably fell over after the shot. Or needed medication of some sort. Whereas Joey is like the Duracell bunny. But rechargeable. Just insert a ‘snack’ and he’ll go on forever.

And I’d just like to say that even though I haven’t watched any of England’s amazing run to the World Cup finals, basically because for some reason, I don’t give a shit about my national team, they are impressive. Played 8, won 8, goals conceded: none. Not one, in 8 games. Ok, one of the countries was Andorra, so that tells you lots. Serbia? Albania?? And Latvia. Not exactly Spain, Germany and Brazil. But you know what, you can only play who’s in front of you. And if FIFA put that sorry lot in front of England (Beckham probably paid the 3 million Euro bribe) then that’s who you play. And beat.

But the rugby? Oh. My. God. England beat the All Blacks. For about the third time in my lifetime. We were indeed brilliant. But they were indeed crap. For an All Blacks team. There’s no Dan Carter. There’s no Tana Umaga. They have Boden Barrett but he can’t do it all. And in fact had a rotten game. Thankfully. We were lucky to have played them in a year when they simply don’t have the 15 superstars that they’ve managed to keep producing for over 50 years. Even the Hakka was lacklustre.

Yet I missed the game. Because it was on TNT. And I don’t have it. The most annoying channel on tv. I refuse to pay a penny more than the £697.23 a week I currently seem to pay for ‘every fucking channel in the world except the ones I actually want to watch’. If I had any mates I could have gone round to watch it. But I don’t get invited. Because I eat too much, make a big mess, shout a lot and break things. But Joey does all that regularly but we still seem to invite him round.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I still haven’t quite gotten over dinner in Narbonne. I don’t think I’ll ever fully ‘get over it’ really. Last night at dinner time I emptied the freezer, cooked the lot, set it along the entire kitchen worksurfaces with the entire contents of all the larders and declared the buffet open. I’m scarred by the experience. And I’m not just talking about the stretch marks around my waist.

Today’s pic is one of the meat ‘stations’. Ok, we’ve all seen roast meats before, not so much pressed duck (fucking amaaaazing), but it’s the presentation of the place. At most ‘all you can eats’ I’ve been to, they’re staffed by miserable Lithuanian students or depressed Syrian refugees, wearing jeans, last night’s t-shirt and a grim expression. Whereas at Les Grandes Buffets, they’re in full livery, they are indeed all foreign, but because they’re French.

There is, literally, tons of food in big heated ‘servers’ all over the place, but then there’s loads more which, although unlimited, is cooked individually. Like my tournedos Rossini. There is quite literally a wall of seafood; everything you could imagine, and quite a few more unusual sea creatures that you couldn’t. There were the most amazing pickled whitebait I’ve ever eaten. Probably because I’ve never eaten them before. But I will again.

And there’s cheese. Fuck me, is there cheese. I must confess I’m not the bravest or most adventurous cheese-eater on the planet. Any trace of blue, green, black, grey, purple or pink and I wouldn’t even touch it. But if it’s shades of white-to-beige, I’m in. So I took four extra statins on Thursday night, with my pre-match whisky in the hotel bar. Ok, I didn’t but probably should have, thinking retrospectively at all the cheese I consumed.

The meat was outstanding. I had a ‘stew de boeuf’ which was basically great big steaks casseroled until amazingly soft and wonderful. Then I had a steak anyway. Because I could. I ate it in protest. Just not sure who I was protesting at.

There was some lettuce there, but I didn’t want to be a pig, eating everything, so I passed it by. And tried to moderate my bread intake, because it’s so filling, but alas, equally wonderful. And you can’t really eat foix gras, nor cheese, without du pain. I can’t anyway.

Then there were desserts. Oh. My. God. So many, so wonderful. And a geezer in a bow tie making crepes, and a little ice cream ‘shop’. I sampled (it was the size of a small car) the tarte tatin , because you have to. In France. It was magnificent. So was the ice cream.

Listen, I can’t go banging on about food for the rest of my life, over one little meal. Maybe just a week. Or so. Especially as there’s no proper football going on.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

This was an incredible experience. Food. Mainly. But the whole deal was quite remarkable. And this place is rammed full. And it books up months in advance, with seating for about 500 people. All in wonderful, cut-glass, shiny silver comfort. They even have a dress code. To avoid grotty French plebs from rolling up dressed like the crowds in Les Mis. Or British over-eaters bringing down the tone of the place. As it happens, I was wearing my gold taffeta cocktail dress, purple moon boots and a diving mask, so I was ok.

There is just so much food, it would be obscene except… because its food, the excesses become wonderful rather than grotesque. There’s a tower of lobsters. How they managed to climb it, I’ll never know, on those feet. And how many do you need? But this place was never about what you ‘need’. It’s about what you ‘want’. And it’s about going the extra mile. And acting like a real MAN! (Read: ‘a real PIG’)

There’s foix gras. But, like, loads of it. And in many flavours. There’s ’goose dying in pain with truffle’, there ‘goose in agony and port’ flavour, all of them uniquely wonderful. Another ‘station’ gave roast meats, lots of them, in all types of cooked-ness. They even had fish on the menu! Obviously catering to the more vegan types. I know, I know, fish aren’t strictly on the ‘glat-vegan’ menu but relative to everything else there, they’re almost a vegetable.

There was ‘veal head’, tripe, kidneys, all manner of everything which once owned space on an animal’s body, and a fair bit which didn’t. Cheeses. Miles of them. Most of them, I’m guessing, French. And everything in the place is simply outstanding. Can’t speak for the veal’s head, it’ll have to speak for itself. Miles of desserts, cakes, tartes, ice creams, crepes, freshly flipped.

We paced ourselves. Ish. Ate everything in sight for the first half hour, then let it digest. Which means drinking wine, obviously. And here that also means probably French stuff. Ok, we all prefer Stockport Malbec to a genuine Bordeaux, but you have to compromise. Because the wine list there started at less than 15 Euros. Loads and loads of fab wines between 15 and 30 a bottle, in a very upmarket restaurant. Something you never, ever find in a London restaurant.

We never got to see Narbonne itself. A sweet (I’m guessing) little seaside town between Montpellier and Spain. The restaurant is basically in the industrial area with very little around it that is in any way endearing. Yet it attracts 500 people in twice a day to eat from its amazing and vaaaaaast offerings.

We loved it. It was best 70th birthday me mate Mark has ever had. In Narbonne. Without doubt. If only the gods of the airways were not conspiring against ME, agaiaiaian.

Happy Friday, Maybe Saturday by the time I get home, FFS.

A xxxx

I’d just like to say that I have no desire to be the leader of the Labour Party. I’ve spoken to Wes Streeting and he doesn’t want the job either. In fact, I think it safe to say, no-one wants that fucking awful job whilst our proudly Labour government is doing such a terrible job of running things. And the funny thing is: no-one has stated that they want to get rid of Kier Starmer. Even though he is about as popular with the general population as a rapist asylum seeker with a knife. But less effective. And within our party he’s even less popular. Yet no-one has actually stated intentions to depose him. The ‘rumours’ all came from number 10. The work of Morgan McSweeney, Starmer’s chief-of-staff, in an attempt to pre-empt the inevitable. Coming out to thwart a rebellion which doesn’t in fact exist. Until those thwarted realise it’s not a bad idea. Hmmmm… Starmer gone… hmmm…

So to avoid all the bollocks, I’ve taken off for a day. I’m going out for dinner. But that’s also a problem. I mean, it’s just too easy, ‘going out for dinner’. You can jump in the car and be at a McDonalds within 5 minutes in any direction. Or you can get on the tube and go into town and choose from any of the 95,366 restaurants available. Or you could go into ‘the countryside’, loads of lovely pubs and restaurants there, but is that really where you want to go?

No. Where you really want to go is Narbonne. Yes, Narbonne. South-west France. Because there they do ‘dinner’ like nowhere else. Well, a bit like everywhere else, but much, much better and infinitely, much bigger. Iss French, innit, so it must be better. But this is the world’s finest ‘all you can eat buffet’. It is magnificent. And you just eat your way round it. But its posher than your normal ‘all you can eat’, so you have to use a plate, rather than rubber gloves and a bib. And apparently you’re not allowed to push people out the way to get at the lobsters.

And all you have to do to get a table is, get yourself to Stansted airport where Ryanair will take you, with all speed but not a lot else, to Toulouse. Where you just jump in a car and drive it for 161kms and you’re here!!! It’s so easy! Who needs to limit their horizons and go to The Villa Blanca in Hampstead or the Rising Sun and Lion in Highgate, when Norbonne is ‘like, literally’ just around the corner??? Ok, quite a few corners.

I’ll let you know how it goes. It’s like every food challenge ever, all at once. With really good wine.

Happy, hungry Thursday

A xxxx

Ok, the boss of the Beeb has resigned. The head of news; gone. So that’s taken care of the ‘bias’ then. Hah! Its over. The problem’s gone. The BBC will now forevermore sit on the proverbial fence of impartiality and dispense news untainted by bias, preconception, prejudice or political direction.

As fucking if.

There’s bias and there’s BIAS. The former is the manifestation of mainly unconscious views which affect your ‘reporting’, which creates your own context and ‘starting point’. The latter is taking two parts of a speech by Donald Trump, cutting and pasting them so they say things he never actually said in order to fit the narrative you’ve decided upon. It IS fake news. And really, it is character assassination. And if there’s one man in the world who needs no help in ruining his perceived character, its Donald Trump. The odd thing is, it aired last year and no-one said a word about it. Now its resurfaced and Trump is going to sue for a billion dollars. Does he think he’s in Texas or something? My license fee would go up from £169 to $22,796 next year.

Yet all the BBC have to do is apologise. Oh, and ‘compensate’. By Friday. Or the legal teams will be on their way over on Trump 1 or Air Force 7 or whatever mode of climate destruction they choose. We should treat them like boat people!!! Send them to a nice hotel, all-you-can-eat buffet, give them new phones and stick a few hundred quid in their pockets.

But meanwhile, we need a new Director General (sounds positively Idi Amin) and we need one who’s not biased. And possibly one who’s in more control of the bias of others. And I reckon we need some editors, who share that dream of a balanced world-view. Good luck with that.

So I now don’t know how to view the BBC from a personal, emotional viewpoint. Mainly because the Beeb have been there my whole life. Long before Sky was born or Netflix was even a glimmer in anyone’s eye. And the trust in them comes from a long-standing relationship. Yet there’s no doubt that they’ve changed. In their obsession with the ever-growing minefield of social hyper-sensitivity to meaningless political correctness rubbish, giving them virtually no choice but to adhere to a woke-ish, more left-wing narrative which didn’t exist when all the newsreaders sounded like RAF wing-commanders just back from the war. So now that’s their bias. Born of ‘safety’ from complaints from pedantic imbeciles who agonise over the offence potential of every syllable uttered.

Ok, the Trump ‘thing’ was a step way too far. When ‘reporting’ became ‘rubbish’. And you can’t do that. But bias? Of course they’re biased. If they’re too left-wing for you, watch GB News, that’ll have you waving your Cross of St George flag in no time. Its just a matter of picking the ‘bias’ which agrees with your own.

Happy Viewing

A xxxx

There’s always accusations of ‘bias’ at the BBC. I’ve found this myself with Match of the Day showing Spurs matches that we lose. That’s very upsetting and the entire tone of the reporting, calling us ‘useless’ and ‘lacking direction’ and ‘fucking crap’, although possibly true, is unfairly discriminatory and causes me ongoing mental health issues.

Everyone finds the BBC biased. The lefties think they’re too right wing. Everyone else thinks they’re pathetically leftist and too woke for their own good. The Zionists think they’re pro-Palestinian and the Palestinians think they’re pro-Israel. Even Donald Trump is a victim, as he should be, when the BBC edited a speech he made to create an inflammatory sounding message. Which has now caused the great (???) Boris Johnson to refuse to pay his license fee until ‘this bias ends’. And we all know what a high moral bar Boris uses. If it breathes, shag it, if it’s edible, eat it, if there’s a rule, break it.

The woke-ism reached its peak last week when a newsreader had the audacity to raise her eyebrows when reading from her autocue the phrase ‘pregnant people’. Which she then amended to ‘pregnant women’, causing uproar, outrage and irreparable mental damage to all the pregnant men, boys and hermaphrodites.

Yet bias is not really purely about statements. Or speech. It’s subtle and nuanced in that it manifests as an attitude. Which affects the whole tone of what is being said. If you have a preconceived position, your report will be given from that perspective, even though you’re not conscious of doing so. The news presenter on BBC Arabic who had sent messages in praise of Hamas’ atrocities is not really the person to be speculating on Israeli actions. A fairly obvious case. And the fact is that when an ‘independent journalist’ sets out to find ‘just facts’, around which to base a report or a program, they set out on their mission because they have an agenda, way more personalised than mere ‘truth’, and they aim their reporting towards that. It’s the human condition; we think. Therefore we am. ? (Rene Descartes, long time ago).

They should face up to this side of human nature, give up the whole idea of ‘neutrality’ and just give people the news they really want to hear. So you would have BBC-Left, BBC-Right, BBC-Hamas, BBC-Hitler, BBC-Chelsea. BBC-nice, BBC-horrid and BBC-Russia. And BBC-Spurs. But only when we win. Ok, or draw.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

To err is human, to forgive, divine. Allegedly. But its contextual. One ‘error’ is forgivable. Two or more speaks of incompetence or conspiracy. Especially, when its the government making all the mistakes.

First we had ‘suit-and-specs-gate’ when the Prime Minister suddenly went from looking like a low-rent, part-time bookkeeper with a gambling habit to like he’d suddenly become sponsored by Primark and Specsavers. Not a great look, but a bit better. Because he had in fact been sponsored, but by Lord Ali, to the tune of about 16 grand. Which he ‘mistakenly’ forgot to declare. Well its ‘only 16k, innit?’

Angela Rayner had to resign from her deputy-PM position (thank the Lord) because of a ‘mistake’ which had her paying too little stamp duty on the sale of a house. Her 19th such ‘mistake’ to do with houses since becoming the crown-princess of the Left.

Then Rachel Reeves ‘forgot’ to get a license to rent a house out. Oh, sorry, no, she never knew she needed it. Even though not one but TWO agents had advised her to do so.

And now its Lisa Nandy’s turn. She made a ‘mistake’ this week. As Minister for Culture and Sport, she appointed David Kogan as football’s main overseer. There were three main candidates for the head of football’s ‘watchdog’. Kogan wasn’t one of them. But Lisa Nandy chose him as ‘the anointed one’. The best candidate by a long way. She said. What she didn’t say was that Kogan was a donor both to the Labour Party AND to Nandy herself when she stood for party leader. And, as a minister, you’re not, kind’a, allowed to reward donations with prime jobs. That’s, kind’a ‘corruption’. And no-one wants that.

If you add on a few instances of ‘oops, I seem to have set free from prison a few illegal immigrant, criminal sex-offenders. Sorry; honest mistake’, then we are fast reaching ‘the Mistaken Government’.

Though the biggest mistake was electing them in the first place. The rest was almost inevitable.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Having managed to avoid mooses (I know, it shouldn’t have the final ‘s’, I just think it should), all summer in Newfoundland where they’re ’everywhere!!!!’, in vast numbers (yeah, right, figment of the Canadian tourist board’s imagination), I instead make my own. Though being European, I call it ‘mousse’. And it tastes of chocolate. And is, quite frankly, the best chocolate mousse in the world. Here’s the recipe.

Take: 6 eggs,
300 grams of Bournville chocolate (you can use other chocolate but only if you’re stupid or want it to taste like shit)
A litre of boiled water,
A pinch of salt (to fluff the eggwhites, innit)
1 Lila
1 Joey
1 bath to put 2 chocolate covered children into afterwards.
And bowls. Lots of bowls.

A friend showed me this recipe and it’s easy and brilliant.

Separate the eggs. No, I don’t mean shells, I mean whites and yokes, right? Beat the whites so they go white and fluffy. I’m sure there’s a term for this, but no-one told me.

Get the children to fight over who breaks up all the chocolate, eventually seeming to use 324 grams up but there’s only 300 on the scales. And the kids have full mouths. Go figure.

Pour boiling water over the chocolate. I’ve found doing this in some kind of vessel works much better than pouring it all over the kitchen table. Leave it for a ‘while’ (just how long depends how lucky you’re feeling) then pour off virtually all the water. The chocolate, amazingly, stays in the pan. Then you stir it like fuck. This is the man’s way of melting chocolate. Those of a more ‘gender fluid’ outlook may use a ‘Bain-Marie’.

Mix the chocolate into the yokes and once more, stir like your life depended on it. Keep little fingers OUT of the mixture. Which you then fold into the whites.

This creates 3 pans/bowls in various stages of chocolatisation. Which again need to be fought over and the contents distributed over little hands, arms, faces and most of the kitchen. And those standing in it.

I would have taken a photo but I was too covered in chocolate to pick up a phone and too busy breaking up fights about who has what utensils to lick.

Make it. You’ll thank me. The rental terms for Lila and Joey can be found in the link below. Because, quite frankly, I couldn’t have done it without them. (HELP MEEEEEEE!!!!!)

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I know a lotta yous are worried cos I’ve got me budget comin’ up in a few weeks and you’re concerned about the rumours wot are being spread by the right wing press. So I wanna reassure yous, to show you wot a kind’n’considerate Chancellor I am, even though I don’t seem to be particerlerry bright.

The main problem is the previous government. All the problems are ‘the previous government’. Winnin’ the election after that lot was not a good thing. Would’a been much better to have won an election when the economy was rolling along swimmingly. Would’a been better off not winnin’. Then I wouldn’t have to keep makin’ excuses. Which, I get, seem more and more stupid with each repetition. Specially as we’ve been in power over a year and it’s all gettin’ worse.

The main problems for the economy are: Brexit, the last government, the Crimean war, Churchill, rich people and Chelsea football club.

But we inherited a maaaaasssssiiiiiiive black hole. More than 16 trillion, billion, thousand and 37p. And the way to fill that hole is by growing the economy. And the best way to do that is to piss as much away in benefits as is possible. And then, we need to protect the workers. And the NHS, obviously, all bow.

The other ways to grow the economy are relatively simple. All you have to do is find out who is acherley responsible for creating jobs, wealth and all that range of wonderful things, an’ tax the shit out of ‘em. Tax their companies, their pensions, their houses, and keep taxin’ ‘em until they leave the country and go create jobs in Dubai or Monaco. An’ then, raise employer-paid National Insurance contributions to ensure businesses are priced out of employing new workers. Who we’ve now given a massive raft of new protections and security to enable them to be off sick with ‘mental health issues’ from the very day they start work, and stay ‘signed off’ for the next six years on full pay, without ever having to turn up.

So that’s what we’re doing. Taxing anyone with any clue wot’s going on and giving it away to the refugees who come here to use the NHS.

I appreciate that the stock markets are interested in what happens to the economy, which is why I’m not going to go all ‘Liz Truss’ and upset them. Instead I’m going to tax them.

To ensure the growth this country needs. For the future!!!

Rachel from Accounts xxxx