Andy's Glasses

And finally: THE FISH! The most fab fish in all of Europe. Now, unfortunately, an ex-fish, but he (/she) died in the most noble of all causes. To feed me.

What’s fishy though is the mysterious case of the exploding communication devices. Very strange. We’ve all had phones that pack up, electric bikes whose batteries catch fire, electronic devices recalled for manufacturing faults. But yesterday’s… event?, tragedy?, let’s say ‘catastrophe’, in which 4000 pagers simultaneously exploded causing deaths, terrible injuries and rather a lot of blood spilled all over Lebanon, was something different. In both scale and intent. And certainly in the message it sends (no pun intended… ok, just a bit intended).

Firstly, those in possession of the pagers were ALL Hezbollah members. Soldiers. Whatever you term them. And in the UK they are termed ‘terrorists’, like Hamas. So unless you work for the BBC, you would understand that these are not good people. They are not the moral equivalent of a democratic nation’s army. They are people who maim, slaughter and destroy indiscriminately. They target civilians, they bomb school buses. They are scum. Hezbollah are on the same page as Al Quaeda. As ISIS. They have an ideology which is essentially devoted to death. And their mission statement includes the annihilation of the state of Israel and the death of all Jews.

I get that a few innocent civilians were injured. Not many, and not seriously. And oddly, for that part of the world, not claimed as ‘mainly women and children’. Because most Hezbollah operatives are men. And they had the pagers. In their hands, pockets or just nearby. And they took the explosions. And became the ‘martyrs’ we all wish them to be.

But the message this sends is really one of ‘do you have any idea of who you’re threatening? Of how fucking clever we are??’ Because IT experts were last night trying to work out what happened. How it happened. At what level the ‘infiltration’ occurred to produce such a massive ‘compromise’ of an entire paramilitary communication network. Because for most nations this would be simply impossible to achieve.

Due to our limited tv options over here in Greece, I chose to watch the Al Jazeera news, because all CNN could offer was 24 hour coverage of Donald Trump’s golf course in Florida and how the latest ‘attempted assassination’ could have happened. And even Al Jazeera were in awe of the quite incredible ability of Mossad to do what pretty much no-one else in the world can even work out after the event. Which might make Hezbollah wonder ‘what else can they do?’

Ok, enough distraction, I need to get back to food.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There’s few sights in the world as beautiful as a ship under sail. With, like, sails. Four sheets to the wind. In the literal sense. It’s as peaceful as when your Nirvana cd comes to the end. As serene as a David Ginola goal. As beautiful as the South Stand at White Hart Lane. As relaxing as washing my car.

It is oft said that the two happiest days in the life of a boat-owner are the day he buys the boat and the day he sells it. And you know why. To buy something like this one pictured would be the achievement of a lofty aspiration. Then you have to park it. Even driving it is probably not as easy as it looks. I’ve tried using sails a few times in my past and the expression ‘failed miserably’ doesn’t cover the ineptitude even 1%. Ok, you think, so buy a motor launch. A ‘super yacht’. Even a ‘not so super yacht’. Still costs thousands a month to moor it up somewhere you’d need it to be. Yeah, you could park in Dundee pretty cheaply but you want it in Nice, Monte Carlo, Porto Banus, or even Athens. So you have access all summer to the wonders of the Med. I’d keep mine in Tilbury, then just ‘pop’ over to the Caribbean for a week or so.

In truth, I’ve never had any feelings to buy a boat. The Boatman has one but that’s just a luxury flat that floats. With a maximum of 4 knots it’d take 7 months to get to Ireland. I’ve always fancied those boats they have in America. Just a long speed boat with a massive dragster engine on the back. Accelerates from nought to ‘flip right over’ in 3.7 seconds. But they’d be the most exhilarating 3.7 seconds of your life. And the most hospitalised insurance claim of your life too.

So I’m not buying a boat, even though it looks like the best thing in the world. Instead, I saved up to buy a fish.

We ate it last night. I’d send you a pic because it was simply the most wonderful thing, but this photo is too good to waste, so you’ll have to wait. It was a sea-bream and at the totally-Kea-island-bargain price of 55 Euros a kilo. And it weighed a kilo and could have fed 4. They know how to cook fish here. Almost like it’s an island or something. It was simply fantastic. The second best fish I’ve ever eaten. By a long way. The absolute best was a sea trout we had in Port Douglas, Queensland. I’ve probably got a photo of that one somewhere. Must look in my ‘dead fish’ album and find it.

And that’s my life at this precise moments in time. Gorgeous boats that I don’t want and fabulous fishes that I can’t afford. Its tough.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’ve been to Greece before. In fact, I was here 2 or 3 years ago, for my maiden voyage to Athens. Wonderful city. And I’ve been to numerous islands over the years, as everybody has. You get off the plane, they tell you it’s Corfu, or Mykonos, or Crete, but it’s probably the same island with a different name-tag put up at the airport. They’re all lovely. Because it’s the same place. Only Cyprus is different because you have marauding Turks on the northern border. Otherwise, to all intents and purposes, Greece has only one main island, with a changeable name.

But no-one’s ever heard of Kea. Not until Mark came here anyway. And he’s a famous blabbermouth so he told me. And now I’m here and I’m telling everyone. I was sold by my mate’s words: ‘there’s nothing to do’. Oooooh, I thought, I like the sound of that. Nothing… for a whole week… hmmm…

The hotel pool is ‘refreshing’. So ‘refreshing’ that your testicles will shrink to the size of a (frozen) pea within 1.2 seconds of entry. But it is exhilarating. And because it’s September, the temperature here is a lovely 25 ish. All day. Hot enough to enjoy, not hot enough to fry.

The above is the view from our room. Its horrible. Where’s the motorway? Car park? Hi-rise flats with cladding? We looked at other rooms but they all have the same view. Nothing better on offer. No view of White Hart Lane. THANK GOD!!!

The only surprising thing about Kea, so far, is the price of fish. Just up the road from the hotel is a row of lovely little tavernas, all, basically selling the same stuff. Greek stuff, in the main part, oddly. They all have seating quite literally ‘on the sea’. Where the fish live. You’d think in some kind of abundance. In Epping forest you’d be hard pressed to stumble across a red mullet, but in Kea? How hard can it be.

Yet that red mullet will cost you £145/kilo in the little ‘local’ tavernas. Because they’re fished out of the sea in nets made from spun gold. Only 16 year-old virgins with webbed feet can catch them. They’re carried across the road, all of 12 metres to the kitchens, in special carriages which can only be made in Papua New Guinea and brought here by swimmers.

Fortunately there’s other things to eat. Yet it doesn’t matter anyway: Mark’s paying.

Happy holidays

A xxxx

So we’re on our way to Kea island. Where???? You may well ask. Middle’afuckin’ nowhere, is the short answer. Possibly ‘middle of the Aegean Sea. Same difference.

We were looking for a break, a quick holiday to raise the spirits and rest the souls and enhance Mrs Conway’s suntan. And me mate Mark begged me, encouraged me, eventually forced me to have the holiday he’d had two months ago. He didn’t offer to pay for it, like a good friend would have, just made me do it.

So Sunday morning we’re up at 4. Out by 5, driving to Stansted. Driving? Yes, for the first time in decades, I’ve taken a car to the airport. Because it’s reliable, the driving is better than an Uber, certainly faster, and it’s cheaper to park than take a taxi. Getting a train from Liverpool Street at 5am was never an option. And the parking guaranteed ‘a 5-7 minute walk to the terminal’. Which it wasn’t. No, it really, really REALLY wasn’t. It was one of those annoying carpark buses which I, quite frankly, hate. They’ll be hearing from my lawyers.

Flight good. They’re always ‘good’. You take off, go to sleep, land. In Athens. What can go wrong? Then a taxi to the ferry port and… you wait.

Ferry ports the world over are horrible. They build them in nice areas, beautiful surroundings, normally near the sea, probably, then they spend 3 years and 4 million Euros making it all look near-derelict, dirty, rotten and seedy. It’s an art. Like Tracey Emin designed it. Because if it’s too pretty, the ferries will refuse to land there. So it’s shitty. And we’ve only got about 2 hours here, so it’s not… yes it is, it’s very bad if you’re as impatient as I am. Mel’s happy as long as she’s in the sun. Anywhere in the sun. And in the absence of, like, a really nice cafe or restaurant, because who’d want one of those in the neighbourhood?, we instead ‘went native’ and at the typical and traditional Greek lunch. A bag of barbecue flavoured crisps and a Sprite. Mediterranean food; all good here, you’ll live forever with that diet.

Once the ferry arrives we’re just one hour away from Kea Island, the land of Mark’s dreams. Then a short cab ride to the hotel and that’ll be hopefully just 12 hours since we left home.

And all I can say, Mark, is: IT BETTER BE FUCKING GOOD!!!

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

War is brutal. Bloody. Gruesome. Nasty. So when Putin offers a serious warning, verging on an outright threat, it must be stressed most strongly that he is NOT talking about Arsenal playing Spurs tomorrow. He’s talking about that other conflict, the lesser one, over in Ukraine (currently). And although many might see comparisons between these two massive issues of truly global concern as somewhat trite, possibly in no way a comparison of equivalents, I’d just like to say that Putin invaded Ukraine 2 years ago whereas the Arsenal Spurs thing goes back, in my memory alone, over 63 years.

I’m allowing for being a fully fledged North London soldier at age 5. Because Joey’s now 5 and he fucking hates everything Arsenal. He can spot a red scarf at 90 yards. Even the blue away kit raises his hackles. Though our new green away one doesn’t do much for me, it must be said.

Here’s the wierd thing; the Arsenal Spurs ‘thing’ is not really about football. That’s just the medium through which two disparate groups of predominantly north Londoners choose to vilify each other. And insult each others mothers. Yet the football gives one side a moral victory, justifying all their venom for the past… the past ‘since we last played them’. Making tomorrow’s match at White Hart Lane so very much more than ‘just football’. It’s not ‘just football’ at all. It is fucking life, as we know it, Jim. At least in north London it is. So that’s where we’re now focussed.

Whilst some others, seemingly oblivious to The Derby Match, concern themselves with Vladimir Putin and Volodimir Zelensky and what might happen if NATO enables the missiles Ukraine already has, to let them rain terror on ‘Russia proper’. Which, Putin has now stated, will produce ‘reprisals’. But as it will be seen as coming from NATO rather than Ukraine, he will (in his fucking warped and warlike mind) seek his vengeance on any NATO country he chooses. Be it America!!, or France, Germany or even, apparently, ENGLAND!!!! He could nuke White Hart Lane during the match! Holy shit!.

Except it’s not really funny. We are on the verge of ‘attacking Russia’, at least in the mind of the only (nutter) person who really matters at such times. And that’s heavy shit.

Off to Greece in the morning. Early. Will keep you posted.

A xxxx

Years ago, on a creative writing course, I wrote a story about how we’re becoming so stuck in the cyber world that eventually we’ll ‘evolve’ into some kind of hybrid, linked permanently to a computer by some kind of horrible, organic USB… thing from our belly-buttons. That was prophetic as it was about 25 years ago. Possibly now we need another link fixing our heads to a phone, coming out of an ear, maybe. Not a good picture.

Zara, the fashion giant, are now launching a video platform for ‘live shopping broadcasts’. Oh. So I want those three t-shirts, where’s the queue? In my lounge? But they’re obviously trying to make the home shopping experience appeal to those who like being in a shop.

So enter the next ‘phase’. Scientists elsewhere, nothing to do with Zara, but may wear some of their clothes, are developing a ‘touch’ facility for video calls. Primarily so you can ‘touch’ distant relatives over the WiFi. Even if they’re in Siberia and you’re in Pontefract. They’re also looking at ways this could help with remote surgery. So you could remove an appendix from 1000 miles away? Volunteers for trials queue here.

Yet my first thought, on seeing a pic of a lady with her finger in this ‘touch’ sensor thing, was: who will be the first man to stick his nob in that? Followed quickly by my second thought which was: this is the absolute dream for pornographers. Sensory sensation over the web. The ties between man and computer tighten. And if you get your dick stuck in one maybe that’s just part of the ‘evolution’.

Talking of dicks, Donald Trump had a debate yesterday with Kamala. And stood their inventing stories, inflating figures and generally acting like a person not quite in touch with reality. In some instances a million miles from reality. “Immigrants ate my dog”, he claimed. Really, Don? Then, after acting like an idiotic child for an hour, he claimed first, victory, and second, that ‘it was rigged’. Because the moderators called him up five times for saying things obviously not true. Just fabricated flights of exaggerated fantasy. From the ‘next President’.

But then a serious nail in Trump’s coffin. The most important person in the entire world, and certainly the most influential, endorsed Kamala Harris. And when Taylor Swift speaks, millions and millions of people listen. People who may not bother with normal political discourse or news programs. But Taylor hath spoken. So I’m voting Democrat. Nothing else needs to be said.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Do you watch the film or read the book? Rebecca. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Godfather. Rosemary’s Baby. Anything by Stephen King (except ‘Shawshank’ which no-one realises he wrote). What’s better? The book or the film?

Well why not be greedy and do both? You read a book (they always precede; any books that come out afterwards are just capitalising on what is normally rubbish) and then when the movie comes out, 5 years later, you go see that. Either out of curiosity, to see how it translates across the media, or because you forgot the book ten minutes after you finished it.

Because we now have so many companies producing their own content, many books go to series instead, on Netflix, Apple, Amazon. Or eeeeeven… The BBC! If anyone still uses that. As it’s either viewed today as a state-run anachronism or Hamas’ propaganda machine to Britain.

Many books translate into amazing movies. 90% of every brilliant movie you’ve ever seen started life as a book. Obviously it all depends on who is producing and directing it and whether they ‘read’ it as you did. And cast it well. Does the leading lady/murder victim/love interest live up to your expectations of gorgeousness? WHATTT!!!! THEY CAST HERRRRRR IN THAT ROLE??? Jack Reacher is 6 foot 5, let’s cast Tom Cruise, who’s 5 foot 6. But there ya go. All the taller actors were busy.

Then once in a while they make a movie/series from a brilliant book which is also simply brilliant. Good as the book. And totally perfect in its casting. And ‘speaks’ in the same voice as the one in your head when you read it. That’s when you discover Slow Horses. If you’ve read/watched then you know why the horses were slow. If you haven’t, I strongly suggest/beg/demand!, that you do so at once. Both. Read and watch. The scripts are just Mick Herron’s words cut and pasted onto the page. The stories are brilliant. But those characters. The dirty, sleazy, vile brilliance of Gary Oldman’s Jackson Lamb. The vicious icyness of Kristen Scott Thomas.

If you’ve watched the first three series (from the first 3 books, doh) on Apple TV, then the 4th has just started. If you don’t got Apple tv, get it. They don’t do yearly contracts, just long-as-ya-like at about 8 quid a month. And in one month, if you put your mind to it, you could do serious damage to the first 3 series and more. And that would be the best 8 quid you could spend. Unless you bought the book.

I haven’t started the 4th series yet because I want them to notch up a few episodes before I start. But I’m itchin’…

Watch it; you’ll thank me forever. And its all about me. Always.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

My Dear Chancellor of the Exchequer,

I’d just like to take this opportunity to thank you so much for finally understanding the needs of the country so perfectly.

As I see it, there are three groups of people in this fine and verdant land:

Those, like me, signed off sick for the last 22 years and on permanent benefits.
Workers. They have the dirty hands.
And Rich Bastards.

And finally, we appear to have a government, generally, and a chancellor, specifically, who understands these groupings and their relative needs and burdens.

The rich bastards. Currently the 5% richest pay 60% of all tax in the country. Leaving the rest of us to find a truly massive 40%!!! Fucking billions! Well, strictly speaking it’s ‘the rest of YOU’, I haven’t paid tax since Maggie Thatcher was on the throne.

So really, it’s the ‘workers’, who pay that 40%. Other than the train drivers, some of whom have now entered the ‘rich bastard’ territory, even though their hands are still dirty. And it doesn’t seem fair to tax working people more.

Thus how do we raise more taxes. Firstly to improve ‘services’ (read: ‘benefits’ for me) and secondly because of that disgusting ‘black hole’ in the economy, a mythical beast that you, Madam Chancellor, brilliantly invented. The best excuse ever for changing from ‘we will NOT put taxes up’ to ‘we will take your testicles if neccessary’, without looking like a lying, hypocritical, U-turning, typical Labour Chancellor. Well done for that, Rachel.

Obviously, as you point out, the rich are the obvious target because… because they have more. Simple. They have: We want. So we’ll hit them with Capital Gains Tax, because they all use it to avoid paying full-rate income tax. Then we’ll increase inheritance tax so they can never help their children. And we’ll increase their school fees by 20% because… because we can. And then there’s the mansion tax which may be resurrected from its premature burial when first voiced by Ed Miliband. You get taxed just for owning a house worth more than 2 mil. Presumably it was named by someone from Burnley or Grimsby. If it was a Londoner it would be called the ‘bedsit in Kensington; parking space not included’ tax.

So ‘those with the broadest shoulders’ (meaning: deepest pockets) will get simply hammered. Which is brilliant. They’ve just got too much, drinking all that fancy wine and driving around in Range Rovers whilst the rest of us are waiting for a bus to take us to the off licence to buy a six-pack of the strongest anything we can find for the least amount of expenditure from our benefits. Maybe a 5-pack since you took away our heating allowance.

Which you needed to do. I’m with you one that. Because it wouldn’t have been possible to simply crumble up and blow away in the wind as you did when dealing with the Rail Unions’ wage demands unless you had ‘a balance’. And robbing the poor, frozen pensioners of heat was definitely the best way to overpay the most overpaid in our society. The brilliant bit being that you didn’t question even one of their ridiculous demands. Shorter weeks, less hours, more overtime, longer holidays: “TAKE IT ALL!!!!”, you said, “WITH THE NATION’S BLESSINGS”. Possibly not those of the pensions whose windows aren’t insulated. Total capitulation. That’s what we want from our government. And we got it!

And I don’t agree that the 100% increase in ‘the rich’ looking to relocate overseas will be of any bother. Good riddance to ’em. We can still tax ’em when they’re living in Belize, can’t we? Nor should we be concerned that they’ll take thriving businesses out of the UK. Should we? Otherwise that ‘black hole’ might just get a bit blacker.

But I trust you, Rachel, you’re doing a fantastic job. Based on envy, spite, jealousy, resentment and a great sense of entitlement. I’m with you 100%.

Yours loyally,

Andy xxxx

My mate the Hindu once said to me about his brother-in-law, a Seikh; “lovely people, the Seikhs, very war-like”. And yet here we are today with Britain’s Seikhs trying to claim that Islam was spread ‘by the sword’. Trying, because saying such a sentence would now be classed as ‘Islamaphobic’, should the definition of that created in 2018 by MPs and Lords, be accepted. As it has by many councils and unions.

But the Seikhs argue (even though my mate never accused them of being ‘argumentative’ too) that you only have to look at history to see that prevention of such phrases would actually require a revision of Indian history. Along with that of many African countries too. Where Muslims invaded, murdered, subjugated and finally converted populations to Islam. Not completely different to Christians in the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition. Though you can’t say Muslims ‘subjugated minority groups’ either any longer, cos its Islamophobic. Innit.

So-called ‘Muslin groups’ are still eliminating ‘infidels’, like Seikhs and Hindus, in Bangladesh, Pakistan and Afghanistan. Yet saying ‘Islam spread by the sword’, or ‘Muslims subjugated populations’ will be ‘Islamophobic’. Even if they’re true and historically valid. So something will have to give. It better be history. Just re-write it. Revise it. So that history lessons don’t risk accusations of ‘Islamophobia’. Those statements will be banned ‘tropes’. Along with accusations that Muhammad was a paedophile. Which is an odd accusation at a man who married a woman old enough to be his mother. But who knows what he did on a Saturday night out in Billericay town centre.

It’s true, obviously, that most Muslim people are peaceful, family-loving, nice, struggling to survive against hunger, poverty and trying to make a better life for all. Like everybody else. Yet of that majority is another majority who will unfailingly either support or fail to condemn acts of modern day ‘swordism’, when perpetrated by Muslims.

It’s just strange that in defining ‘Islamophibia’, Muslims will be protected from all sorts of terminology, including historical truths, whilst other ‘definitions’ of racism don’t do that. As they shouldn’t. Basically, it’s much easier to be an anti-Semite or anti-Seikh or Hindu. So you might as well go for that.

Also, in giving Muslims a quite ridiculously ‘privileged status’, it makes them more offensive to the Hard Rights, and thus more appealing as something to attack.

Every minority has the right to be protected from abuse. But not protected from the truth. No-one has the right to that.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx