Andy's Glasses

I’m not going to talk about the football. Uh-huh, no way. It would be hurtful, nasty, possibly a bit spiteful and possibly even mildly offensive. To… some. I’m not going to gloat that Spurs beat Brentford because we should always beat Brentford. And the manner of the victory had ‘chaos’ stamped all over it. Yet it was a win, it produced all 3 points and we all feel really good about it, two people in particular; Dominic Solanke, breaking his duck, and Lila, for being there and undoubtedly the catalyst in ending our recent run of horrible results.

Arsenal on the other hand, if I were to speak of such things, were ‘robbed’. The ref dunnit, the sending off dunnit, everything and everyone else was responsible, conspiring to deny them of the 3 points ‘they so richly deserved’. I’m not saying that I was mildly amused at the very end of the match, that would be unkind. So I won’t.

Because my mind was already in Liverpool. At the Labour Conference. With Kier. Ange. Rache, and the gang, with all the Palestine Protesters and Hamas appreciators. But I was on a plane. No-one was worrying about US pensioners losing our fucking heating allowance!!!, being concerned about the economy, awarding massive pay rises to all public employees and trade unionists, with no debate, no argument, no negotiation, if your hands are dirty (blood counts as ‘dirt’ in this instance, hence the Doctors rise), just ask for what you like and you can have it.

Instead our concerns lay squarely on ‘clothes-gate’!! In which Kier, and Ange, both received ‘sponsorship’ for personal clothing. And for Kier, 16 grand goes a long way at Primark. Then, he also got a few more thousand for glasses. He should have come to me. It would have only paid for one pair, but they’d have been a truly ‘fuck-off’ pair of specs. Rather than the ‘Mr Invisible’ look he currently sports. And then Ange took a holiday in a freebie from a mate. In New York. So we’ve all become a bit ‘distracted’ by… not ‘sleaze’, that’s a Tory thing, this must be ‘the sleaze of Change’, or ‘New Sleaze’.

I heard a phone-in this morning by LBC’s Labour-in-chief wanker (no names, but it was James O’Brien), speaking of: ‘how do we stop the right wing press telling lies about gifts to our Esteemed new leaders?’ He’s deeply offended that these ‘trivial’ things are stopping us talking about the important stuff. And that’s because he’s a hypocritical, anti-semitic know-all. And if it was the Tories, no slur would be too small for him to dedicate entire shows to building moats on parliamentary expenses, or digging basements in second homes, or taxi fares to John O’Groats. Yet because it’s labour, it’s ‘the right wing press’ wot dunnit. He is emphatically (and always) my ‘Tosser of the Week’.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Its over. As I sit here at Athens International Airport, I’ve swam my last swim, walked my last beach, eaten my last fava-bean and drank my last ouzo. Which would have been my first in fact cos I’m not a lover of the stuff cos it tastes so strongly of aniseed and makes me dance the Zorba.

So the last night. we stayed in a fairly randomly chosen resort. I googled ‘Lavriou’, where the ferry lands and ‘hotels’ which we needed and came up with a bunch of contenders. None of them actually near the ferry port as it’s so horrible round there. So we crossed the most southerly peninsula of mainland Greece, just below Athens, and stayed ‘on a beach’ resort. The beach was in fact the other side of that part of Greece’s version of the M25. So, clever resort builders that they are, they built a little tunnel under the road to enable their residents access to the beach without getting killed by speeding motorists. They all speed here. It’s not just legal to exceed the speed limit, it is mandatory. Which, because they invented irony here, makes perfect sense.

The resort had all sorts of fab things. It was massive, involved lots and lots of walking, up hills, along walkways, down stairways. It had 2 fabulous swimming pools. The ‘big one’ where all the fabulous and the obese felt they needed to be, fighting for sun beds and drinking beers, and the ‘lesser one’ which was fabulously quiet and every person had 6 sun beds to themselves. But here’s the odd thing. The pools don’t ‘open’ until 10.00am for one and 11.00am for the other. Oh, we said, you mean that’s when the lifeguards arrive, right? No, they’re gated and locked until those times. Ah, well we like to swim before breakfast… ok, Mel likes to swim before breakfast and I’m the witness. Errrr, how you say ‘tough shit’ in English?

Fortunately, they can’t lock the beach. Even stupid, time-restrictive, no-idea-when-real-people-swim, jobsworth Greeks can’t stop you swimming in the sea, can they? And, due to our recent (ie, since Tuesday) vast experience of ‘open water swimming’ in our little bay in Kea, we were up for it in a tiny little bay on the mainland. It was just as clean, just as calm, just as wonderful. Almost.

So as we fly home, I’m thinking Hampstead Ponds (temperature down to -5 by November), the Serpentine (minus anything is all you really need to know), Southend on Sea (just need to get past the latest oil slick to get to the proper, sewer-enriched, water beyond), or Docklands (The Thames; the conservation area for 97% of the world’s bacteria). And I think instead: Netflix.

Happy return home,

Andy

We’ve moved. No longer on Kea, we took the morning ferry back to… somewhere fairly near Athens, from where we took an Uber to… a resort somewhere fairly near Athens. This picture will tell you exactly where we are now. We’re ‘there’. So we can enjoy our last day and tomorrow morning here before heading for the airport.

And I wanted to spend our last night on proper Greece. Where all the cool old dudes created our world. Where Pythagoras invented the triangle. Where Democritus (no such bloke, but there should be) invented the Liberal Democrat Party and a system of government selection that many countries adhere to, to this day. Not America, obviously, they have a system by which either Trump wins, or its ‘rigged’, regardless of the votes cast.

Plato lived here, probably alone, with lots of ‘friends’, none of whom he shagged. Aristotle was the guv’nor of them all because he was the first man to take some offcuts of chicken, skewer them onto a spike and grill them. When his grandson Donner was born, their restaurant went from strength to strength.

Then there was Socrates. I love him because he invented irony and used it to such a great extent that no-one ever knew what the fuck he was actually trying to say. Though all agreed, he was the ‘cleverest man in Athens’. Well they didn’t know my Uber driver, he was amazingly clever, getting us here in 20 minutes without getting lost more than twice.

So that’s why I’m here. To reconnect with the greatest society ever to exist. Until the Romans invaded, found everyone in Greece contemplating their navels and enslaved them so they could drink all the wine, eat all the animals, shag all the men, women and any animals left over, and take over the world.

I’ve just come out of the sea. It was just like the one in Kea. Almost like they were joined. Warm, clear, clean and fab. But more people here. Predominantly English ones. Not a Greek philosopher in sight. Just a few geezers with tattoos trying to work out how to make Mel a coffee frappe just like she wants it. (Spoiler: she’s FUSSY).

Happy end of holidays

A xxxx

I’m in Greece. In case you missed that. And here on beautiful Kea Island there is a population of 2,500. Mostly Greeks, I’m guessing. The demographic of our hotel is a bit different. As it’s a hotel. Where forriners live. Not many cos its a really small hotel, so its a bit ‘intimate’. I don’t mean shaggin the chambermaid, I mean, small hotel, breakfast tables, sunbeds, proximity, it’s natural to smile at people. Particularly if you sat next to them yesterday and managed to nick a biscuit off their plate. You say ‘hello’, or even, if you’re feeling really, overly friendly, ‘good morning’.

There’s a few Greeks staying here, cos it’s easy to get here from Athens, so they do. There were a couple of Germans but we scared them away. There are quite a few Israelis, as Greece is very close and there are, generally, less missiles than at home. We have quite a few Americans and they’re friendly, in that loud way they have. And then there’s the French.

They have a reputation for haughtiness, even appearing almost ‘arrogant’ at times. Ok, all the time. They seem ‘snooty’, unfriendly and disapproving of virtually everything. Particularly, as in Greece, where they’re forced to speak English. Something which always upsets the French as they go into ‘Napoleon mode’ and regret not taking over the world and making it completely French-speaking, even though you’re a little shnip with a dodgy arm. So the French wake up pre-pissed-off, which manifests as looking like there’s a bad smell all around. And then it gets worse.

It’s so easy to spot the French. They’re the ones who ignore your smiles and ‘good mornings’, even if you’ve worked out their problem and offer a polite ‘bonjour’. Maybe these ones don’t speak French very well?

Well fuck ‘em. Not literally, the ones here are all ugly, not like the ones waiting your table on the Champs Elysee, who all look like Brigitte Bardot and Lea Seydoux. It’s simply not worth getting upset about.

And the answer to the question: what’s the French for ‘nice’, for ‘decent, civil, friendly’, is that they have no words for such things. There’s no need for them.

Fortunately the Greeks are wonderful and bring you all the lovely food you need, as long as you pay them for it. Seems to work well.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

We all have our routines. And on hot holidays ours barely varies. Swim before breakfast; Mel’s golden rule. She does it in the Finchley drizzle, she certainly won’t miss it in the glorious sunshine and heat of Kea Island. I’m there. Like a puppy. Following. In her wake. I complete my statutory 3 lengths, she’s already done 15. I get bored, lie in the sun and wait for her to complete 40, or 60 or 80 lengths before I’m set loose on the buffet.

But here in our quite frankly gorgeous little hotel in Kea it’s changed. Two reasons. Firstly the pool is fucking freezing. Which is actually brilliant when you’re hot. But limits how long you can swim. Fine for me, not so good for Mrs Marathon Swimmer. And secondly, emphasis on the ‘little’ hotel. It’s a true boutique. And the pool sits right up to the breakfast tables on the terrace. And would you be happy splashing chlorine into everyone’s lattes? Or being watched as you struggle up and down?

We resolved this issue. There’s a little beach, 5 minutes away. I took a pic of it this morning. We go there in the afternoons because the sea is completely flat, totally clean and clear and warm, and it’s really pretty. So this morning we did our morning swim… in the sea!!! I know, it’s against all the rules but much as I find pool swimming boring as fuck, I find sea swimming totally fab. And the sea, according to Google, is about 24 degrees here. The pool… isn’t. We swam across the bay. With some fishes. Just small ones, no bigger than 18 to 25 Euros each, I reckon. There was no-one else on the beach at about 9.30 because we all know that Greeks are lazy fuckers, it’s a national characteristic. That’s how the Romans took over the world; they just got up before 7 while all the ancient Greeks were sleeping.

I can’t help be amused that since Pager-gate on Tuesday followed by ‘exploding other things Wednesday’, things like electric scooters and bikes, solar panels, all manner of electronic stuff, the world is calling out for ‘negotiations’ and ‘diplomatic solutions’. And I think, what part of the word ‘terrorists’ don’t the international press understand? Hezbollah, like Hamas are terrorists. There is no negotiation possible or worthwhile. These are people who behead children and take selfies whilst doing it. And no-one ever notices that in all the discussions about how a ‘2-state solution’ being the be-all and end-all of Middle East aspirations, that Hamas has never claimed that as a demand. Nor would Hezbollah, except all their spokesmen are currently either dead or in hospital having their ‘phone ears’ stitched back on. They don’t want a 2-state anything. They want it all. Along with the death of the current inhabitants.

But heh, I’m resting, sunbathing and, swimming in the sea. You’re in charge of international events.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

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