Andy's Glasses

Oh. My. Goooooooooood!!! I’ve just looked at the nation’s finances and I’ve found… a massive black hole!!! Billions missing!!! Didn’t see that before because the outgoing government must have hidden it. Or covered it with… things. Or…

Well, its an interesting question how you ‘hide’ figures in accounts which are 100% fully on public view and accessible to anybody. Even to clever-cloggs incoming Chancellors-in-waiting who’ve been doing nothing but scrutinise the national accounts for the preceding 3 years. Upon which all promises about taxation and services have been based for the entire election manifesto. Cos you can’t shout ‘we won’t raise taxes!!’ unless you’ve worked out the numbers and showed that your expenditure plans can be funded by your tax income. Unless you’re a total tosser, a subnormal innumerate or Diane Abbot. We got Joey to work out the problem, which he did easily, as you can see.

Its very cynical to ‘suddenly’ find a ‘massive black hole in the accounts’ which would then negate all your pre-election promises about raising tax because they were made ‘BBH’. Before the Black Hole. Therefore we couldn’t have known and will indeed have to raise taxes, NOT just because we’re a Labour government and that’s what will ALWAYS happen, but because of the hole. The black one.

So let’s talk about metaphors. Does our very clever (apparently) Chancellor know what a black hole is? Because the thing about black holes is that they aren’t really black and they aren’t really holes. They are single points of infinite mass which hence have gravitational pull so many times greater than that of our sun. The point being that you simply cannot miss a black hole. You can predict them from light years away because of the incredible effect they have on nearby (like Jupiter is ‘nearby’ to us) planets. Black holes may be conceptually challenging but you really can’t miss them.

Unlike ‘black holes’ in the economy, which you can miss. Though I have no idea how, if your job (and probably a few hundred economists helping out) is ‘The Nation’s Economy’ and nothing else, you miss 20 billion quid. And you know what, she can call it a ‘black hole’ if she wishes, she can call it ‘the legacy of the last government’ if she chooses, she can even call it Doris, for all I care. But it is HER mistake, her error, her negligence, oversight or tragic miscalculation. And, if I’m being harsh, an admission of incompetence.

Happy Monday, Rachel Reeves

A xxxx

Its starting. The Olympics. Today. Paris. Though the opening ‘ceremony’ was yesterday. Pretty much all of yesterday. Went on for hours and hours. And being ever competitive the French showed us that they’re even better at rain than us. God probably hates the French too, so it absolutely pissed down upon the entire 9 and three quarter hours of the show/display/parade/ceremony. Which centred upon the River Seine. And had the finale of Celine Dion half way up the Eiffel Tower belting out a number in (Canadian) French. Bit odd really, last time she sang and boats were involved… well, it didn’t end well. But this time was fine. She sang her song. No man should have to listen to two. And now the games can start!!!

And I enter my ‘Olympics denial’ phase. When I’m convinced that none of what is happening over there is of any remote interest to me. Do I care whether the French can swim faster than Americans? That some obscure activity which no-one understands, in the velodrome, results in this nation winning or that nation winning? Do I care that the Dutch beat the Aussies at hockey?

Of course not. And yet… by the end of the weekend, I will care. Not ‘passionately’, not ‘massively’, not even ‘deeply’. This is more a ‘whateverrrrr’ sort of care, its more ‘peripheral’ to my life, its just an awareness and then a conscious consideration that there are medals, and results and all manner of statistical stuff going on. So that by the time the athletics proper starts off, I’m totally engaged and can quote you how fast Carl Lewis ran his 100 metres in 1873 (ok, not so good with the dates) and how everyone was steroided up to the eyeballs back then which was why it was such fun to watch, and how Simone Biles is just the best human being ever and how Charlotte Dujardin really isn’t, even though the horsey events are every bit as fascinating to watch as golf or paint drying. Horses have rights. Though not quite so many rights in France as they enjoy in more civilised countries where they’re not eaten avec des frites.

Basically: I’m not there yet, but I will be. I just have to work out precisely where ‘there’ is.

Happy Olympic Saturday

A xxxx

This is a copy of the email I sent this morning to the Foreign Secretary of all of England, South London, North Manchester and Golders Green, Mr David Lammy MP. I’m so angry with him that I didn’t even put xxxx-es at the end of it.

Happy Tuesday

A xxx

Dear David, if you’ll excuse the overly familiar, I’m an overly familiar person.

Taxpayer and Voter

It had to happen. For the first time in the 5,000 year history of the Jewish faith, one of our own will be living at the White House. Ok, for 4,800 years of that, there was no White House, and if there was it was referring to a little hut in the Judean hills that Shlomo Yaankovich built out of local chalk-stone to house his wife, Bertha, and their seventeen children. But now we’re talking THE WHITE HOUSE!! The big one. In Washington. Because if Kamala Harris wins the election, her husband, Doug Emhoff, will be the First Husband, but will change that honorific to The First Jew. Which has always previously been Abraham, but now, there’s a new kid on the block. Possibly a ‘new yid on the block’ but I know that fans of certain London football clubs take issue with such terminology, so I’ll refrain.

And its not like they’re having a Jewish president, just the First… person of coital importance. Everyone in America loves a title. They fought a war to rid themselves of kings, queens, lords and ladies, then spent the next 350 years obsessing about sounding as important as they can by using titles.

And all Kamala has to do to make this dream come true, is win the election. The dream, of course, is for the people who make mezzuzahs. They’re little boxes which Jewish people have on their doorposts which contain a little holy scroll and, essentially, ward off evil spirits. As all ‘things’ people stick on doors are supposed to do. But we do them on every door (no toilets, please), inside and out. So for the White House; oyyy, that’s a lot of doors.

But is America ready to vote for Kamala? She’s a ‘woman of colour’, though not a great deal of colour, but all woman. And let’s face it, half of America is pretty much in the dark ages, culturally speaking. There’s virtual segregation in many states, obviously not officially but in any practical sense. The bible bashers all have… ‘classical’ views on ‘a woman’s place’ (read yesterday’s Times article about the Mormon woman who’s a working farmer with 8 kids and she’s just 34). So are they ready to vote for a woman? There’s no question that Trump supporters (same demographic as stated above) won’t be changing sides any time soon.

Yet they really can’t have any other candidate. Kamala is quite unpopular across the political spectrum for her failure to do the American equivalent of stopping the small boats. They don’t use boats there, they just walk across from the massive Mexican border. But Kamala is who they will get on the Democrat side.

Because the funding for the ‘Biden-Harris’ election campaign is already in place. And even though it will become the ‘Harris-???’ ticket, the money’s still good. All $200million of it. But if anyone else stands, they need to find that kind of money themselves.

I’d vote for Kamala. Because I reckon they’d to a really fantastic Friday Night Dinner at the White House and I might get an invite one day.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Last weekend I was deploying my new ‘super-strimmer!!!’, the one with the circular saw attachment, to cut down an old bush. My mate popped round. Quite a big deal because he lives in France, so we had to make a big fuss. (We put the kettle on). And then he told me that I was doing it wrong. That what I needed was… these things in the pic. A super-amputater-lopper-killer-cruncher-DEATH MACHINE!!!! Ok, I don’t know how one would search for them on Amazon, but he did and bought them for me, bless him. Because it was his birthday. That may seem odd, but I never denied that.

And I love this new tool. I’ve added it to my collection of ‘tools wot break fings’, of which I now have a shed full. Because I leave all the ‘beauty’ and the ‘construction’ of the garden, and planning the ‘beds, and all what used to be termed ‘girly’ things, before the term was appropriated by people with beards and bras, testicles and pantyhose, to Mel. And I’m the removals department. She only has to point vaguely at something in the garden with a question about its rightful place and the next thing, you can’t hear for the sound of two-stroke engines, you can’t see from all the exhaust fumes and its much safer to go inside and lock the doors. You can replace a shrub; fingers and limbs, more difficult.

And the satisfaction is wonderful. Clearing space. The restoration of the Feng Shui. Yin (Mel) aligned with Yang (errrr…). And I’m sure we can fill that gaping void with something.

I’ve just learned that Joe Biden has withdrawn from the Presidential race. Not the human race, he’s got a few more weeks left in that one, we hope. Because now he’s done what he should have done about 6 months ago, before the race even started, we can go back to talking fondly about old people’s frailties in general, and his specifically. But for future reference, Joe: if it looks like a fuckwit, it probably is a fuckwit.

I’ve never been a big fan of his, the only thing good about him was that he isn’t Donald Trump. But his ever-changing words of ambiguity about Israel and Gaza didn’t endear him. His refusal to admit defeat when the entire world was screaming the painfully obvious at him showed either a profound arrogance or such an obsession with power that he simply couldn’t consider the good of his country above it. All he has to do now is remember that he’s no longer the candidate.

But in view of the fact that he is still the President of All America, except the Candian bit, I shall show him some respect. And therefore won’t proclaim him the ‘tosser of the week’. But I will name him plonker of the week instead.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We survived the pandemic. Well, anyone reading this did. Lots can’t read it, cos they died. Such is life. (Oh, the irony). But basically we survived. Collectively.

What happened yesterday didn’t directly kill anyone but probably had a greater effect on our lives. Not just because of the devastation to travel, hospitals, trains and doctors surgeries as well as many other small and very large businesses, shutting them down completely and irretrievably. But also because we now have something new and very all encompassing to worry about. Forever.

All that really happened was that a company called CrowdStrike implemented an upgrade on their security system which protects all the previously mentioned and many more. And the upgrade/patch/whatever you wish to call it, went wrong. Fatally. Catastrophically. Devastatingly wrong. And turned off systems. But not just ‘off’, but back to the dreaded ‘blue screen’ which means back to factory settings. Re-instal the ‘drivers’ which people like you and me don’t know nuffink about because your computers all come pre-installed with such things. And if there’s no drivers, there’s no data. There no connection to the macro systems which large companies use.

So when you turn up at Gatwick, south terminal, to check in for your flight to Majorca, they’ve never heard of you. When you go to the doctors because that pain in your heart which almost killed you last time seems to have returned, they can’t access your records, test results, blood information, scans, nuffink. And worst of all, when you go to Gails to buy a coffee and a cinnamon roll (the absolute ‘must have’, if you can afford one), you can’t have it cos you can’t pay. And Gails don’t take cash. Well, they didn’t til yesterday. So all those phone obsessives who refuse to carry any other medium with them for payment, for Id, for anything, went hungry. Or died at the doctors.

It didn’t affect me. My work system still worked perfectly and, more importantly, the credit card machine functioned normally. We really don’t care who people are, just what they’re paying. But anyway, I have ‘failsafes’ built into my system. I have two modems, secured links, anti-Russian technology, Chinese-fighting dongles and, most important of all, a stack of scrap paper and… a pen. The ultimate problem solver when the entire digital world collapses in a useless pile of gigabytes.

So next time you see me at work, with loads of post-it notes stuck on my computer screen, rather than taking the piss, I think you should bow in admiration for finding someone who is prepared for digital doomsday, which yesterday almost became.

And I ALWAYS carry cash. You never know when a good drug deal will come along.

Happy Saturday. Or, ‘happy next Tuesday’ if you’re one of the affected.

A xxxx

So when last we spoke of The Brother, he was banged up in the Royal Free, having avoided dying of sepsis but trying to overcome complete organ failure. That was some months ago. And things were indeed looking brighter as stuff started functioning again and thus one more of his multitude of ‘life support’ could be removed. Until, eventually, about a month ago, they decided to ‘let him go!!!’, like Elsa in the jungle, away from the ICU (they probably needed the bed) and free him… to the kidney ward. As he was still on dialysis. And then… his kidneys started working again. So other than his failed swallow reflex, meaning he had to retain the naso-gastric tube for feeding, he was… unplugged. Not a euphemism for an acoustic set, but literally unplugged. He was doing physio but with no massive degree of success. To spend 15 minutes having a team of nurses shlep you bodily out of bed just to sit on a chair next to the bed for 30 minutes of discomfort can be… demotivating. And produced no discernible improvement to his mobility. But he carried on. Mainly as his diary was otherwise clear.

Just return to the dire depths of January for a small detail of massive importance. The third operation to save him found the cause of the sepsis. A perforated tumour in his colon. We never even knew he had an unperforated one and there ya go, he hit the jackpot. They ‘removed it all, and a big section of colon’. And because we were worried about dying from sepsis, what we’ll term ‘the immediate concern’, we kind’a compartmentalised the whole ‘tumour’ thing. There’s only so many ways you can worry about your brother dying at any one time. So the sepsis and the organ recovery took over our thoughts.

Until we reached the first paragraph above. When it was all going well. And flickers of light could just be seen at the end of a very long tunnel. When they told us that the cancer had spread. Widely. And can’t be treated at all. Palliative care. Two words you never, ever want to hear in the context of anyone you love. And Richard entered a very dark and depressed 6 weeks. Not that any of us were exactly whistling down the corridors of the hospital.

We struggled to find a nursing home that would take him because of his feeding tube. Apparently nurses don’t like them, can’t deal with them. And he couldn’t eat. But eventually we found a lovely place where they would take him, N-G tube and all. Butttt…

It is a very orthodox, Jewish care home. And my brother is an ultra-orthodox Atheist. But, so what? He’s bed-bound and left alone other than the nursing, which is first class. And the food’s great. Which shouldn’t be relevant but the weirdest thing happened the day before he left hospital. He ate a bowl of soup. Swallowed it. As you, kind’a, would do. But he, kind’a, couldn’t do. And then on Wednesday when he moved in, I sat with him as he had a bowl of soup and then ploughed his way through moussaka. HE CAN EATTTTTT!!!! A miracle.

His whole mood lifted when he left the hospital. Its strange, as the room he’s in is very much like the one he left. And now he can eat again. And is talking of getting in a wheelchair, possibly (a thought which hadn’t previously crossed his mind), as he’ll need to be lifted into it, so we can go out and see if he can swallow unkosher food as well. Its the will of God.

Thus in a sea of gloom, we have just a little twinkle of light. Not the brightest of lights, but at this point, we’ll take it gladly.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Victoria Embankment Gardens Park is the most sacred area in London. Because I said so. It is a veritable island of peace, calm and good karma in a sea of London mania, homeless drunks and lost tourists. And it is beautiful. So I walk through it every working day to get my fix of serenity. To marvel at the flower beds (they plant them about 3 times a year at some fucking outrageous cost; new soil, thousands of beautiful, mature, plants and flowers. Three months later they’re gone. Then new ones just ‘appear’.) To marvel at the fabulous statues and sculptures. The one of Arthur Sullivan (of ‘Gilbert & Sullivan’ fame) is just… wonderful. Its great in the rain, but when the sun shines, like today…

My park was invaded by an organised group of morons. Upsetting the whole vibe of the place. Displacing my chakra, no end, with all those Palestine flags spoiling the view. I went up to a policeman who told me its because of the state opening of Parliament later this morning. Well, they’re in the wrong fucking place then. Parliament’s a mile west of here. Tell ’em to piss off. No, I’ll tell ’em to piss off.

But then into the park came a virtual sea (possibly a big river) of high viz yellow. Miles of it. Emblazoned with ‘POLICE!!!’ Then from the other end of the park came more. But, like 30 more. There were possibly 80 law enforcers by the time I walked on, and no more than 25 protesters. Who were all pale and pasty and limp and, obviously, totally stupid sheep.

Everyone has the right to protest, that’s one of my cherished values. The one which doesn’t exist in Palestine. And everyone has the right to be stupid. Sometimes these two things coincide.

The inevitable chant went up through a megaphone, ‘FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE!!’ I didn’t stop to ask them which river/sea, I just know they wouldn’t have a clue. Nor understand that the saying is not Palestinian, as they understand where ‘innocent Palestinians’ live, but a Hamas chant, a cry from jihadis to destroy Israel, the current occupant of the place ‘from the river to the sea’, along with everyone in it. It is a cry for genocide. Which is stated in the Hamas ‘to-do’ list. Article 9, “kill everyone in Israel then the rest of the Jews in the world”. A bit ironic that the word ‘genocide’ has now been hi-jacked, thanks to our South African friends, by the imbeciles, the virtue-signallers and about half of the government’s cabinet members. I wanted to tell these poor, educationally sub-normal twits that they’re doing Iran’s bidding. Free of charge and blissfully free of any concept of reality. But the police formed a cordon and wouldn’t let me through.

I left hoping to hear reports of police brutality. Don’t know if that would help, but it wouldn’t do any harm.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Praise be to Jesus!! Sing His name!!! Because our Lord saved Donald Trump. From sure death. The hand of Jesus turned the ex-President’s head to the side and is the salvation of the entire world!!!

Donald Trump has always paid lip service to God. He’s a Christian (capital ‘c’) because his support base is the Bible Belt. How they reconcile his ‘belief’ and ‘God-fearin’-ness’ with grabbing women ‘by the pussy’ and committing fraud, inciting riot and generally showing the sort of morality and indeed Christianity of a crack-addicted jihadi coyote I don’t know. But Americans are strange people and they WANT to believe that a fat abusive con-man is their true representative. ‘Let he who hath not sinned cast the first stone’. Well Trump ain’t throwing no stones any time soon.

So our Don, ever the opportunist, finds himself first of all in the role of hero. Survivor. Others might see him as more a victim of his own stupid refusal to address ‘the gun issue’, or even accept that it is a problem. But then, secondly, he sees another opportunity, that his ‘near death’ ear-lobe experience has brought Jesus (himself!) back into his life. ‘Saved by the hand of God’, is how Don sees it. Or how he promotes it. And being generally such a vile and obnoxious creature (Don, not God) reaffirming his ‘deeply held’ Christianity is a massive ‘re-set’ for him in the eyes of most of his ardent followers.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christians, particularly in America, because they love Israel, they love Jews and they are a big part of the American support for the Jewish State. I’ve spoken to Mormons at Lake Tiberius, Texan Christians in Jerusalem and they’re almost like normal people. But more Christian. And they wear lanyards so they don’t lose each other. In the wilderness.

But Trump ain’t like them. They’re genuine. He’s a chancer who’s found yet another way to turn adversity into polling numbers. Hero and saint with just one nick of his ear. And the rednecks just lap it all up. Bless ‘em.

Fortunately, there’s serious opposition from the Democrats in the form of… oh, hmmm… ok, looks like Trump will win then.

God bless America. And God help America.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

It was the day of dreams. Ok, always open to the odd nightmare, but a day of sporting glory, or, obviously, not such glory, depending on… things. Most days in life without even having one massive sporting final, but yesterday there were two!!!, and a half.

Because first thing on the day’s agenda was MY tennis. Not that pretentious shit they play at Wimbledon with ball-boys/girls/things and Robinson’s Barley Water being served by morning-suited butlers, but proper, ‘grass roots’, in-the-park tennis, played by real men. Who fetch their own balls. And drink neat vodka in between the points. And thus did Spurs Paul and I ‘pre-enact’ the final which was to follow. I was Carlos Alacaraz, he was Katie Boulter. And it was brilliant. Magnificent. Two virtual gods of the game at our peaks. Held together with blood thinners, statins, anti-inflammatories and blue tack.

Then, after lunch, came that other game. The other Carlos Alcaraz playing everyone’s favourite pantomime baddie, Novak Djokovic. Not so much a match as a statement. A changing of the guard. An exhibition. Of how being 21 doesn’t solve all the problems in the world but it can be the absolute perfect age for pure physicality, stamina, strength and, as yet, injury-freeness. The only hard thing Carlos had to do was keep his cool. Because Djokovic has shown over the years that, brilliant an exponent of my game he might be, its mental strength which wins big games. And Carlos was simply magnificent. He broke Djokovic’s serve in the very first game and never looked back.

And then, at long last, the Euro football final. England vs Spain, in Berlin, everything set for the victory which has eluded us since 1966, all ripe for our ‘destiny’. Some of us were merely praying that an England win would see the end of the expression “it’s comin’ ‘ome” once and for all, because ‘it’ would have come ‘ome, so we could ban the phrase, making it punishable by prison sentence upon utterance. But alas, it wasn’t to be. I’m not sure England did a lot wrong, they just didn’t do enough right. And I felt for my boys. And for Gareth. Who deserved it if only to prove yet again what a total bellend is Gary Lineker. And I don’t really know how you put Harry Kane with Jude Bellingham, Phil Foden and Bukayo Saka, the best players in their respective leagues this season, and apparently prevent them from being brilliant. Yet consistently that’s what happened, other than a few moments of brilliance spread very thinly over the four weeks.

And now there’s NOTHING!!!!

Happy sport-free Monday

A xxxx