Andy's Glasses

Look, you know I was on holiday, you know I couldn’t sort out the entire fucking world whilst I’m here thousands of miles away from civilisation, struggling to download my Times every fifth bleedin’ day, yet as soon as I turn my back to look at a glacier or some falls, look what bloody happens.

Christiano Ronaldo becomes the world footballer of the year!!

How is that even possible? Just because he scores 100 goals a week, because he’s brilliant, consistent, arrogant, horrible and Portuguese?

WHAT ABOUT HARRY KANE??????

When I read the shortlist of the world player I thought they were just having a larf, leaving Harry out. Obviously if you’re playing 4-4-2, you’d drop either Ronaldo or Messi and play Harry up front with the other one. Maybe drop them both, for being foreign, and play Bale with Kane instead. Robben on the right, Ribery on the left, amazing. But no, Harry Kane was ignored, passed over, his birthright given to another.

I’d be really angry if it wasn’t for the phenomenum of ‘strategic leadership planning’.

Keely Huxtable is a bit of a babe. She also a Tory who stood for some God-forsaken constituency in Birmingham. And a school governer… governess… whatever. She’s married. To Mr Huxtable. Yet was caught ‘in flagranti’ with the headmaster of the school she runs. By his wife. Oooops. Keely denied running naked out of the cottage in which they were ‘found’, and also that her man, or rather, someone else’s man that she’d borrowed, pulled on a pair of boxer shorts after his wife forced her way in. And Ms Huxtable maintained that they were engaged in a ‘strategic planning meeting’, nothing more than that.

I’ve never been to such a meeting. Though I’ve subsequently applied to 587. But haven’t heard back from any of my requests for both pictures of the women involved and what underwear they won’t be wearing.

Came back from my second walking tour of Buenos Aires of the day (one’s never enough when its only about 36 degrees outside, gotta take advantage of the cool weather: that’s a smug bastard on holiday joke) to find Spurs had seen off Burnley. Ronaldo doesn’t play for Burnley but they still managed to be 2 up after 7 minutes. No point doing anything the easy way, is there?

Happy Wednesday (or possibly thursday)

A xxxx

We got everyfink in London. 5 top rate football teams. And West Ham. We got theatre, movies, museums, ballet and opera, apparently, and we got pubs. Loads’a pubs. Now I ain’t personally seen a glacier in Lundun, but I bet we got at least 4. Farkin’ massive ones. Big as St Pauls’. And its probly like really neat with coloured lights on it and chrome bumpers and lampposts and everyfink.

Yet you come all the way to Patagonia and they only have a few glaciers. Though to be honest, you only need one. Preferably this one, because its accessible. Its called the Moreno Glacier. Named after a geezer called Moreno. No idea who he was but I’ll take a punt, because there are trends for getting things named for you in Argentina. You’re either a date; 9th July Squares are everywhere, 5th of May was a big day round here too. Revolution. King died. Eva Peron bought a new pair of shoes. Big event days require the naming of a plaza in every city.

As does sainthood. San Francisco is 28 times more common here than in California. Argentinians were either big fans of Bullitt or of the early work of Michael Douglas. San Martin (pronounced with an accent that my pathetically non-Hispanic ipad doesn’t do) is another. Originally San Martin de Alejandro Martinez de Marcos Morinos Maradona Messi, reduced to avoid ink wastage. He fought a dragon, deposed a tyrant, shagged the Queen and scored three against Brazil.

This glacier is in the ‘town’ of El Calafate. Which exists to ferry tourists to the glacier. Its a gorgeous little town, but its really LITTLE. And very lovely. And because the rest of Argentina produce cattle (steaks; if you weren’t aware), in Patagonia they raise sheep. Because sheep require much more land and that’s something there really is no shortage of here. Its fucking massive. And totally empty. Other than the sheep.

I ate one last night and it was absolutely the best lamb ever.

Oh yeah, glaciers. Yeah, what’s the big deal? So its 5kms wide, 14 kms long and cuts its way through mountains? That supposed to be impressive? If it was that great Roman Abramovich would have 3, right?

Yours unimpressed

A xxxx

Without gloating or causing envy or hatred or anything: ITS SOOOOOO HOT HERE!!

Argentina is a hot country. In its summertime. Don’t know why I’m surprised at that. Doubtless when we head down south (deeeeeep south) tomorrow, it’ll feel a touch fresher. But here in wine country, Mendoza, we haven’t seen a single cloud for two days and we ain’t gonna get any today. Bummer. Yeah, right.

Yet a lot about Argentina is indeed very surprising. Most of all: the people are nice. Not just nice but friendly, charming and really helpful to pale European non-Spanish-speaking wanderers from the nation who stole their precious Malvenas from them and won’t give them back. Don’t mention the war. And we don’t.

And its very sophisticated here. I expected (as I always do), loin-clothed savages with blow-pipes and spears fighting each other over some relatively fresh-ish road kill. Instead you find lovely people living very very comfortably in the most foody nation I’ve ever visited. The food is outstanding. Not just the beef, which is to die for. As any Argentinian cow would tell you. But everything. The presentation, the composition, all done with care, artistry and pride. Just so some fat western pig like me can hoover it up whilst slurping buckets full of what they call ‘wine’. Which is in fact the national obsession, particularly round here in wine-land. Wine is the new Catholicism. Almost as big as football. And its not only wonderful, but available at every really great restaurant for about 5 quid a bottle.

Yesterday we rented bikes (some of us never learn) and rode round the vineyards and visited one for a tour, tasting and picnic lunch. But a picnic like I’ve never seen. More like the tasting menu from the Paul Hollywood savouries collection, mostly warm, all with fabulous wines. Which oddly, were local. The laws on drinking and riding are vague round here.

And in a very odd sober moment, you check the news. And its CNN. The only option that isn’t Spanish speaking. Football on a Spanish channel is fine, in fact in any language. Spitting translates in a way that news doesn’t. So can someone please tell me why CNN is so fucking successful when it is so awful? Reporting on events for some reason has to be seen as ‘LIVE AND ON THE SPOT!!!!’ as opposed to some nice, smart, slightly surgically enhanced babe in a suit summarising the any situation in 2.5 minutes? Why does it require CNN 95 minutes to tell you approximately 95% less? Its as if its like some job creation scheme for people who only have good-hair days. Moronic people. Who try to instil an excitement in the reporting when in reality if a situation (eg hostages in a Paris supermarket) is naturally exciting it does not require coverage as if its the superbowl. Just telling the tale is enough.

Ok, mid-morning, must be time to visit another winery. Work, work, work…

Happy saturday

A xxxx

Like most people, probably, I love Britain much more when I’m a good few thousand miles away. When I’m there, its nothing but a cesspit. Though when I’m away, its at least MY cesspit.

So imagine, if you will, my upset when, trying to download my Times newspaper my sodding app just wouldn’t do it and kept ‘stalling’ and stopping and giving me the sort of messages that my paper-boy at home never gave me. He might fall off his bike now and again, but he never suffers an ‘E110 error’, whatever the fuck that might be.

But this morning, at Salta airpot, I decided to give it one last try and kaboom!! (ok, if kabooms traditionally take 10 minutes, then it was a kaboom) there it was, the Times, in its gorgeous entirety, on my ipad. First time in over a week. The Eagle had landed.

There’s a lot to talk about.

Should scummy rapist footballers be allowed to play the game again, if they don’t apologise? Or if they do apologise, like Ched Evans has finally condescended to do, but only ‘for the effects of the event for which I’m innocent’. An un-apology. A meaningless soundbyte of arrogance and wank, as doubtless advised by his lawyers, his agent, his entire team. So he can sign for Oldham Athletic and once more become their cash-cow. Despite the fact that a petition has now been signed by 65,000 people in opposition to the club signing him. Who knew that many people gave two shits about Oldham Athletic?? Most bizarrely, the main supporter for ‘our’ Ched is his future father-in-law, who has promised even to underwrite any losses incurred by Oldham from deserting sponsors. He’s obviously very fond of the man, and is thrilled for his daughter to marry someone who thinks rounding up a partially unconscious drunk bimbette for group sex is the foundation of a good marriage to his daughter. And who’s to say he’s wrong??

Steven Gerard in LA. Those yanks will never ever understand one single word the man says.

But most importantly, JE SUIS CHARLIE.

Oh what a fucked up fuck-up when 10 lovely intelligent, intellectual, witty people are murdered for being humorous. I’ve never read Charlie Hebdo, for some reason its in French and as a rule I only read menus in French, or piste maps. But I know of it because it is a bastion of satire which is the ultimate pinnacle of free speech. Which is itself the way tolerant democracy measures itself. This was a ridiculous crime, perpetrated by criminally insane assholes who simply adhere to a culture that forbids humour. If you can’t laugh at yourself you are a worthless piece of shit.

Ok, arriving in Mendoza. Where they make the wine. I may be gone a while.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

Today we did a little trip. Well, it was 520 kilometers all in, but was probably the best day trip anywhere in the world, ever. Unless you were there when the Berlin Wall came down (Thompsons: end of Communism special, £476 including flights and B&B, which in this instance stands for Bratwurst and Bundesliga, find yer own fucking hotel), or were alive 4000 years ago to see the Hanging Gardens of Babylon (Virginium Sailaway special, organised by Richard Branson’s great, great, great, great… great, great grandad, 17 months, if winds were good), or happened to be at Igausu last week.

We went from Salta and headed northwest, possibly northeast, possibly somewhere else, into the Andes. And as a life-long (very very bad) skier, I’ve met loads of mountains, most of them very intimately lying face down with snow up my nose and a ski-pole up the jacksy, but I’ve never seen anything like the Andes. They are simply exquisite. And every corner you turn you’re presented with different ones, different colours, different shapes, some covered with those fantastic ‘signpost cactuses’ (ok, ‘cacTI’) that are about 5 metres high, others with herds of cattle, sheep or even more exotic creatures.

After visiting the salt flats, which are just something else, in that they’re salt flats and most other things in the world aren’t, we stopped for lunch at a tiny village high up in the mountains called San Antonio de los Cobres. Population of about 9, eight of whom attack you as you get out of the car with bad teeth and ‘local handicrafts’. They don’t understand the simple words: I DON’T NEED ANOTHER FUCKING RED PONCHO, 16 IS ENOUGH FOR ANY GUILT-LADEN WESTERNER. And if one more person shoved a little woolen llama in my face I was going to justifiably murder them.

Its a mining town, occupied by ‘indiginous’ people who are the lovely descendents of the Incas. Its a tiny and very sleepy town. What would be called a ‘one horse town’ but in this instance that didn’t seem as appropriate as a ‘one llama town’.

Which I ate for lunch.

I’m sorry, I know they’re lovely, smiley, cuddly, furry, wool-laden little things, but when a man’s hungry from a morning of trying to de-strangle the English language from the heavily Spanish mouth of our delightful guide, he’ll go a bit ‘native’. And llama was not just on the menu (in about 18 different varieties) but highly recommended by Ramirez the guide. Who promptly ordered chicken. Mel had canneloni, in keeping with the Inca ways of old Rome(?).

Llama is not only delicious but very healthy as its fat-free. I’m never going to eat anything else.

Happy eating

A xxxx

So why come to Salta, Argentina? Ever heard of it? Neither had I. Until the younger daughter, in gap-yaaah mode, arrived here a couple years ago on leg 17 of her ‘Drink South America’ world tour. She fell asleep on a bus in Buenos Aires and woke up in Salta. Fine, there are bars there; what difference?

But what she found here was a stunningly beautiful little town in the middle of mountains all around it. The mountains are… err… big green ones, possibly Andes, maybe Alps, big, pointy things. Very pretty. And there, nestled in betwixt, lies Salta. But what the daughter and I (from Google images) really remembered where the wonderfully striated rocks (non-geologists skip to section D) and the salt flats.

Section D.
So tomorrow we go to the salt flats, which are about 4 hours away and staggeringly ‘wow’. And Salta, the word, has nothing to do with salt, the stuff for chips. Salta is an ‘indiginous’ word meaning either ‘between the mountains’ or ‘fantastic steaks’, I’m not great with Inca wordage.

When we arrived here we were told that Salta is very very safe. In that they don’t do muggings here, nor drive by shootings, random stabbings or drug-deals-gone-wrong collateral damage. Not like Rio then. But what is a little hairy is the traffic. Most of the junctions have no traffic lights. They have a general rule of (don’t ever) give way. Fucking EVER!! Its like a big, mulit-user game of ‘chicken’ between the cars and those stripes that might normally indicate ‘pedestrian crossing’, over here are used to get a good line on some nervous English mutha so you can get revenge for the Falklands.

But here’s something I didn’t know about Argentina until a few days ago after speaking to a couple of Swedes who we met at Iguasu. That Argentina suffers terrible inflation presently. About 35% a year. Which is awful. Invest 1000 pesos in January and its only worth 650 by next xmas. So there is a massive currency black market so they can buy dollars or Euros which will probably still be worth about a dollar or a euro next year. The bank rate for pesos is 8.6 for a US $. But the fat man with a serious roll of notes in the Square will give you 13 pesos for that same buck. For some reason they’re not keen on £ sterling. Bastards. But we brought a few dollars with us, fortunately.

And thus dinner last night, in a great restaurant, wonderful steaks (for a change), all included, for both of us came to 15 of your English pounds.

So that’s at least 7 good reasons to come to Salta. Not counting the traffic.

Happy tuesday

A xxxx

A xxxx

Getting into Argentina wasn’t hard. We drove. Because Igausu (the portuguese way) borders Iguazu (Spanish) between the two countries. You cross a couple of guardrooms, they stamp your passport and its bienvenidu Argentina. Or whatever. And thus our flight to Salta (Argentina) is an easy, domestic, national flight, easy-peasy.

And the airport is quaint and remote and friendly. And at the check-in desk all manner of common sense and logic are suspended until you have your boarding pass in hand.

We only had one little issue with this particular ‘trip of a lifetime’ and that was luggage. Specifically, how can Mel get 3 weeks worth of 3 changes of clothes (minimum: walking, swimming, evening) per day into a little case when part of our trip is to Patagonia, where they have glaciers, ice, cold? I packed a sweater. Mel needs thermal everything, sheepskins, Eskimo-wear, that’s why I love her. Grrrrrrrrrr…

The problem was not with flying BA. You can take a fucking piano on the plane with you and they don’t care. The problem was always going to be internal flights. Upon which, according to the paperwork, you are allowed 15kgs of check-in luggage each. And that’s each person, not for each night. Ahhhhh, we’ve got that sussed, so we thought, and packed suitcases with 15kg each and put all the rest, all the heavies, in carry-on in-flight cases. Hah! That’ll show them. Right.

So we turn up at Igauzu, put our 15kg bags on the scale, and do a quick, telepathic high-five. Then the bitc– sorry, then the check-in gel asked us to put our ‘hand’ luggage onto the scales. WHAT THE F–????? Ahhh, too heavy, English pigs, remember the sodding Malvenas? ya bastardos?? So we removed items from the bags and stuffed them into our ruck sacks until we hit the winning number on the scales. Argie bird smiled, said ‘fine-o, you can take them on now’, at which point we turned round, opened up the bags and rammed all the stuff we’d just removed back into them. Whatever…

Que sera sera. Onwards and upwards, long as our bags don’t prevent take-off.

Iguasu is officially one of the seven wonders of the natural world. Deservedly. What an amazing place.

But now we move on. In precisely one hour.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

We survived Rio de Janeiro. I’ve got the t-shirt and everything. 5 days of paranoia and we left in one piece with our watches, money, cameras and phones still all in our possession. Against all the odds, if everyone is to be believed. We were even stopped, on our bikes, in the traffic the other day, just before ‘The Fall’ and warned by a beautiful older lady that we shouldn’t be wearing watches, even the cheap nasty ones we’d brought with us, and shouldn’t be carrying any bags, even if they just had water bottles in them. Too dangerous, she said, muggers can be anywhere, steal anything. Yeah, right, I’ll tai chi those bastards right up their favellas…

But it didn’t happen. Though everyone thinks it could.

We flew to Iguasu. Where they keep the falls. Not as in ‘The Fall’, that’s all healing, slowly but nicely, thanks for asking, but the falls. Waterfalls. Hundreds of them. In fact he most incredible waterfalls in the world. As judged by some world heritage organisation of waterfall people. And its not just he falls that are brilliant, its the whole national park in which they live. The forest is full of trees, big surprise, and animals. There’s these little sort of racoon/fox type things and you think ‘oh that’s so sweet with its stripey tail and pointy snout, oh and its got a baby one with him/her, ahhhhhhhh’, then ten minutes later you’ve seen three thousand of the scavanging fuckers around every dustbin and cafe and they’ve become a pest. How did that happen?

Salamanders. Great big, 3 feet long lizards. Amazing. Then monkeys, swinging through trees with babies on their backs. That is incredible. Fabulous birds, no idea what they were but just fabulous. Butterflies in a multitude of sizes and colours. And the sun shone and all was just perfect. Two hundred and seventy-five waterfalls here, with a new one under construction in Taiwan as we speak. Joking. They’re all linked by a river, coincidentally also called the Iguasu River.

But then, as luck would have it, last night was a full moon. So after dinner, an intrepid (read: clueless) group of explorers ventured forth back to the falls to see a true world exclusive. Lunar rainbows. I kid you not. Most amazing thing ever. The falls diffract the light, creating rainbows, so if the sun’s shining the water particles produce amazing rainbows. But the same thing happens at night, if its very clear (and it was) and if the moon is full and bright (like last night). And its a massive band of apparently white light arcing across the waterfall. Because its too dark to see the constituent colours. But just at the edges you can see just a hint of the colours.
I never knew such a thing coud exist. Though it did mean getting so close to the falls that we got drenched for the second time for the day. But it was worth it.

Rather than lose all my paranoia, instead I’ve just decided to keep it and replace its focus from the muggers of Rio to the snakes of Iguasu. I know they’re out there somewhere.

Happy Sunday/Monday/its all gone blurred

A xxxxx

Mel & I took a couple of bikes and rode all the way to Ipanema, about 2 miles away. Doesn’t sound far, its as flat as a pancake, but the 37 degree heat doens’t help much. Neither did hitting a sodding bump in the pavement and in the ensuing tumble (during which I never looked anything but cool, dignified and gorgeous) I acquired road rash on every elbow and knee I possess. The shower I just took I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

The pain could only be relieved by reading reports of yesterday’s Chelsea match. Morinho’s such a tosser. Like that’s news.

What do you think when you hear the word ‘Brazil’? I think football, I think beautiful bums and I think coffee. The invented coffee here (I’m guessing). In the 60s and 70s when the world starting drinking the stuff, it was Brazilian or it was shit. Then that name was hi-jacked by the waxing specialists but surely that didn’t end the biggest industry of this fine country? So you’d expect in the year 2015 P.S. (that’s ‘post Starbucks’) that the cafe society forced on the entire civilised world have made Brazil leap on board as it was their product to start with. And yet…

After The Fall, once the bleeding had been staunched and I’d stopped crying (the last time I fell off a bike I was 9 years old and so immediately regressed), we rode on to The Lagoon. Which is a gorgeous, big wet thing with a cycle/running/falling-over path all round its 7 km perimeter. Who the fuck goes for a run in 37 degrees? Who goes when its 15? But I hate running. The Lagoon is faced by fabulous apartment buildings that shout ‘too expensive for you, ya scumbag’, but in Portuguese. And the people walking, running, cycling, are gorgeous and fit and wealthy. Except for us, obviously.

So we were looking for the coffee shops, for juice bars selling green slime to the body beautifiers, somewhere to fucking sit that wasn’t a saddle, to drink a latte, or a frappe-mocha-caremalino-extra-zinc-hold-the-balsamic, or something nice and frothy. But no. Not one. Restaurants which hadn’t opened yet or a little geezer with a box of iced water and cokes on the side of the road.

Where are all the coffee shops?? YOU INVENTED THE BLOODY STUFF, KEEP UP WITH THE GAME.

Ok, time for more pain meds.

Good Day

A xxxx

Ever had a ‘dream within a dream’? You know, when you ‘wake up’ but actually you haven’t, you’re still dreaming but think you’ve awoken.

I had that yesterday. I had a nap in the afternoon, I’m allowed, I’m on holiday, and I dreamed that when I woke up Spurs were beating Chelsea 4-1. Obviously a dream within a dream type situation, though it felt really good at the time.

I’ll admit to being aware that a football match was being played somewhere in the world because before my nap I’d seen on the web that Spurs had equalised after going 0-1 down. Itself (so it seemed at the time) a minor fucking miracle. But 4-1??? Sorry, 4-2 because some little Belgian bastard had the cheek to score a goal and its 77 minutes and some serious dream-fretting would be required.

I’d also dreamed that Arsenal had lost at Southampton. Oooooooh, spooky these dreams, kind of wish fulfilment in overdrive. And that West Ham had failed to beat West Brom in their earlier match. And that Liverpool had run out of penalties and squandered a 2-0 lead over lowly Leicester.

So a win against Chelsea would not only be amazing, it would really, on this specific occasion, be the real ‘stuff of dreams’ because we’d get the leap on all our closest foes. And that never happens. Normally in that situation we lose 7-0 at home to Dagenham & Redbridge.

Its also worth mentioning another salient point. Chelsea just don’t lose. They may draw the odd game and feel they’ve been robbed, the refs have cheated, the world is against them, but this season, they don’t lose. And to Spurs, they never, ever lose. Only in my dreams.

And in that weird and wonderful fugue state I found myself, Spurs scored again. 5-2. Impossible. Chelsea have never conceded 5 under Morinho. Impossible. So I dreamed my way over to my ipad and realised the worst thing about Brazil. There’s no Sky Sports, you can’t get 5-live (ok, clever dick, I-I-I can’t get 5-live) and so you have just the BBC for comfort and they lag real time by 3 minutes. Bastards; what do I pay my fucking license fee for???? Plus frantic emails from the daughters back home. Yet, in dreams you do have that sssslllllloooooooowwwwww movement in which you’re like living under the effect of quaaludes or in deep water and can’t effect proper speed of action. Just like the BBC.

John fucking Terry pulled a goal back. 5-3 in the 89th minute. Dream on Chelsea. I clicked my heels together 3 times, just to check. Sadly I’d left my red high heels at home and had to make do with flip-flops, but I didn’t end up back in Kansas, nor even (heaven forbid) London. So I just had to live through 4 hours of injury time… ok, 6 minutes but in my dream it sure felt like 4 hours, and we had won. In my dream within a dream.

But it wasn’t!!!!! It was real!!!!! And we really HAD beaten the rotten blues and we really had overtaken both West Ham and Arsenal and… and… and…

Next year I’ve decided to spend the entire football season asleep in Brazil.

Happy Friday. If its real.

A xxxx