Andy's Glasses

This was it!! A Kennedy moment for the post-millennials. Because ‘everyone always remembers exactly where they were when Kennedy was shot’. And nothing since then has been remotely as memorable. And that’s 61 years ago. Yet realistically, the rest of the 1960s was in black and white, then, as they say ‘if you remember the 70s then you weren’t part of it’, and once the 80s came everyone tried their utmost to forget the whole ‘New Romantic’ thing. So now we finally have our moment. “We all remember exactly where we were when Trump got shot”. And how we immediately wondered how the fuck anyone could miss such a massive target. He is not only ‘as wide as a barn door’ but he’s painted bright orange. The perfect target.

Following this tragedy (tragic because he missed) Once President Trump was rushed to hospital where they later declared that The First Ear Lobe will survive this assassination attempt. And Mr Trump hardly cried at all as they stuck the plaster on. He was a very brave boy.

Trump later posted on ‘X’ what a terrible thing to happen and, ‘how could such a thing happen in America??’

I’m no expert but I reckon it’s got something to do with guns. Those same guns which Trump, when president, refused ever to see as ‘part of the problem’ when school kids were getting machine-gunned in their classrooms and concerts became killing fields. The guns aren’t the problem, the fat guy said, we need to address mental illness. Which they do. But having 433 million guns in a country with a population of 360 million may have just a slight impact on… issues where shooting is concerned.

Trump can’t ever offend the gun lobby, the NRA and other right wing arms manufacturers who fund his campaigns and demand their quid pro quo. Anything that threatens the domestic arms trade is simply off the table for any republican politician.

So inevitably, this shit occurs.

Police are looking for a partially sighted Democrat with a tremor in both hands.

Well, actually they found him and shot him, obviously. Its America.

The assassination attempt will have no effect on the men’s final at Wimbledon today, nor the Euro final in Berlin this evening. Unfortunately, Trump is coming home.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So it came to pass that following ‘debate-gate’ in which poor Joe Biden forgot where he was, what he was doing or how to get away, there have been growing calls for his withdrawal from the presidential election. Several leading democrats have now spoken the unspeakable and suggested that Biden step down because, basically, he’s unfit to stand, let alone to govern for 4 more years. And each democrat who speaks out gets, pretty much, duly ignored. Only Biden can sack himself, fall on his sword, he can’t really be ‘sacked’ because he’s been elected by his own party to stand against Trump.

Then yesterday the game changed. Because yesterday, the suggestion that Biden pull out came from, not just politicians, not mere senators and congressmen and state governors or other generally clever and engaged people, no. Yesterday’s call came from George Clooney.

George Clooney!!!! Yes, George Clooney. So this is something that now has to be taken seriously. When the politicos fail, you need an actor to take control. And George knows because he’s actually played a president or two in his career. He didn’t just go from ER to Oceans 11 automatically, ya know? He’s never played a President with incipient dementia, specifically, but the point is: he COULD.

And in this instance, George Clooney, or ‘Jordan Cloobey’ as Biden calls him, is not just a mere thesp. He’s not only an interfering, virtue-signalling, do-gooding all round mouthpiece for virtually any fairly liberal cause which gives him and Mrs Clooney a good photo-op. He’s also a big-time Democrat fund-raiser. So when George speaks, the whole fucking party sits up and takes note. Because you can’t run an election campaign on steam. It takes billions of dollars. Which is fine for Trump, he’ll just steal them from the tax-man, from his investors or rob a bank if he has to, now he has almost total ‘immunity’. Whereas Biden is constrained. Which is not the same as being restrained, that’ll come a bit later.

So to get this straight, the President of the most powerful nation on Earth doesn’t know Zelenski from Putin. Thinks Kamala Harris is Donald Trump and only chooses not to believe in Santa Claus because he ‘knows’ its just Kermit the Frog wearing a beard. And the only person powerful enough to stop this man running for re-election is a third-rate actor who is America’s equivalent to Gary Lineker on the scale of handsome/moronic.

Glad I’ve cleared that up.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I’m not the most ‘god fearing’ bloke in the world, I admit that. I only speak to Him when Spurs are losing or when they miss stupid, easy goals. When I’m driving sometimes. Often. But sometimes there are ‘signs’ that simply cannot be ignored. Not ‘miracles’ in any biblical, Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the Whale, burning bush, sense, but ‘signs’ that can only really be understood in the context of some form of divine intervention.

England winning the semi-final last night was miraculous enough, given the awful way we’ve been limping through the previous rounds. But then, this morning, ‘this’ just dropped through the letter box when I came down for breakfast (see pic). And the combination of England reaching the Euro finals and some ‘angel’ delivering a message from The Lord above, loosely disguised as a menu from a cheap and cheerful, bog standard, 307 different curries all described in exactly the same way, restaurant. Or possibly just a ‘take-away’. Who knows? Who cares. You phone ‘em, they bring you a curry. And the ‘angel’ didn’t look like… you know, l’m thinking white, wings, diaphanous, looked more like a brick-layer from Warsaw’s wife, but ‘He moves in mysterious ways’.

So that would appear to be Sunday night sorted then. It’s the will of God.

And the goal by Ollie Watkins. A player I’ve loved for many a year and have always paid him the finest compliment I know: I WANT HIM AT SPURS. Ok, it would possibly condemn him to Kane-syndrome, but at least it would get him out of Aston Villa. Who wants to live in Birmingham?

Anyone who critises Gareth Southgate if officially the absolute tosspot that we already know Lineker is. Two finals in four years. Over a hundred games and always clever. Even if not always ‘beautiful’. The man walks on water.

And for last night’s game, I was so exited by the prospect that I actually went and spent time with God. No, honestly. Well, I was in a synagogue in St John’s Wood for the memorial service for a bloke who selfishly died during the fucking Euros!!! And we prayed. And there were speeches which, in the manner of such events, all sounded the same. So I watched my watch, checked the score on my phone very sneakily and then, for the first time in my entire life, I ran past the sandwiches and cakes without touching them, dived into the car and broke every speed limit (Hampstead is all 20mph, so speeding is really easy there) to get home for the last 20 minutes. Had to overtake a blue-lighting ambulance but that’s his worry.

So now I’m exited. Not to the point where I’d ever say ‘it’s comin’ home’ in earnest, because it’s stupid. But I’m brushing up on Neil Diamond lyrics in case good times never feel so good. So good. So good. And I’m up to lamb pasanda on the menu.

And, as long as no-one else dies, I can’t wait for Sunday!!!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Gotta give it to Sir Kier; he don’t hang about. Hit the ground running. Hasn’t even had time to unpack his collection of Arsenal shirts at 10 Downing Street and he’s off, whizzing round the ‘Kingdom’ in search of allies. Starting in Scotland with the current leader of all of Scotland, Mr Not Nicola Sturgeon. I’ll bother to look up his name if he manages to last 3 months without a corruption scandal or rape conviction. I think Starmer went there as his first port of call because the guy was available. Wee Jimmy No Mates. The First Minister of Scotland had just seen his party get hammered in the Westminster elections, losing three quarters of their seats there. And is the head of a party that no-one likes any more, a party with but one message: separation. Which no-one wants to hear. So his diary is completely blank and the chance to speak to Kier was something he could just squeeze in between golf (all Scots play golf) and lunch (haggis and chips). A very productive meeting they had too. Discussing… well, important political shit involving England and Scotland, obviously, possibly the Loch Ness Monster.

Then Kier flew over to Northern Ireland to try to understand what various leaders and deputy leaders of former terrorist organisations were saying as they strangled our language into something akin to Russian. More productivity. And too much productivity is exhausting so he went to Wales where nothing ever happens and he could be gloriously unproductive.

Meanwhile the rest of his party did what incoming politicians always do to show they mean business; they put on hard hats. Yellow ones. Over 400 MPs went around the country disrupting good and struggling businesses, reducing productivity for a photo opportunity which cost 400 factories at least 2 hours of lost production whilst Angela Raynor learned to rivet and the Chancellor of the Exchequer put a screw in a car door all by herself.

And now Kier’s off to New York for a NATO summit of all the big-wigs and strutting plutocrats and world leaders. Where he belongs. Where all that destiny and productivity has led him. To take his seat at the top table of world authority. No, not Putin’s house, NATO.

And talking of Putin, he bombed a children’s hospital in Kiev yesterday. It was all over the news. And terrible, tragic and to be honest, disgusting. If Waze knows when I’m in the passenger seat and shouldn’t be driving, Putin knows where his missiles are going. So I’m waiting for the marches, the protests, the demands on politicians, the upsetting of all democratic process in the name of those poor children, murdered. Well, I thought that’s what we do when we disagree with international politics. Oh, no, of course, only against Israel, sorry, what was I thinking.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Mel has left me! She’s gone! It had to happen I suppose. She’s lived with a virtual God for 38 years, it gets a bit much. All that awe.

Ok, she’s gone to Dubrovnik with her sister for the weekend, but it’s basically the same thing. I have to do things. Which I don’t really want to do, but have to because suddenly, there’s no-one else here to do them. But how will I cope??

I bought this, in my lonesome misery. A substitute wife. I know, it doesn’t look like Mel really, but it’s about the same size. And almost as dangerous. Because we needed a strimmer, to cut the lawn edges. And I don’t like wires because I cut them. And when you search for ‘battery operated strimmer’, you get one of these. Rather than a little bit of plastic whizzing round to cut the grass you get this which comes with “15 blades!!!!” Which reminded me of the guy at the end of ‘Enter the Dragon’ who had one hand and on the other he attached a selection of wicked, vicious weapons. And because we have a dead, blighted bush which needs… removing, I thought ‘brilliant’, this does it all. And it appears to even work.

So, due to my ‘lonely’ status, Lila and Joey decided to come round and watch the football with me. And they brought mum and dad for added cheering. But there was nothing really to cheer. It was predictably dull as dishwater (and I fucking know a lot about dishwater, this weekend, MELISSA!!!!). And Joey’s attention span is measured in milliseconds. Except when really dangerous, preferably violent, equipment is concerned. Out we went to the garden with the new strimmer/chain-saw, because that’s what all 5 year-old boys dream of. Lila came too because… because she’s Lila and also worked out that watching England felt like a punishment.

And that’s where I spent the match. Fun and frolics in the sunshine, with Little Miss Fun and Mister Exceedingly Dangerous, whilst you were watching another in the series of ‘most boring football matches of all time’.

Then we came in. Because the match had gone to penalties and the curry arrived. Not sure which I enjoyed more. And five kicks of the ball later we could dance round the table, papadoms in hand, Sweet Caroline, chicken tikka masala, Football’s comin home, aloo gobi, Ing-er-Lund, Ing-er-Lund, Mel’s comin home… and pilau rice.

Can’t wait for the semi-final. I’ve pre-ordered at the take-away.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We can now enjoy at least 5 years of stability, growth and low taxes under the leadership of Sir Kier Starmer. Unless either, he changes his mind about any of those 3 things, and he has very consistent history of doing just that, or that the Unions, who fund his party, get pissed off with all this centrist almost-conservativism and change him for someone more ‘aligned to their ideology’. Not Corbyn, but someone like him.

Either way, we have the Prime Minister ‘that we all voted for’. Other than those who voted for someone else. And that’s where there’s a bit of an issue with our electoral system. Because although this was a Labour ‘landslide’, less than half of the electorate (who bothered to show up) voted for them. They achieved almost 2/3rds of the seats in Parliament with less than 40% of the vote. How is this possible?

Well, you see, it’s our system. First past the post. Small(ish) constituencies which can be affected by groups or just large numbers of individuals intent on preventing someone else winning. Tactical voters. Thus Labour won over 400 seats with 9.7 million votes, whereas Reform’s 4 million votes brought them just 5 seats. Yet managed to fuck up the Conservatives royally whilst doing so. Because this election was never about Labour winning. It was just about the Conservatives losing at any cost, by whatever means, for all their ‘sins’ over the last, well certainly 5 years, but possibly up to 14.

So if you’re in the constituency of Lower Eshersdown & Heartmundshire and Labour are never going to win there, you vote for the Lib Dems or, if you really must, for the Reform Farages, just to stop a Tory victory. Which is why those two parties both had outstanding success at the polls. It also meant that those parties had so many votes, as they came second in virtually all the contituencies in the country.

Thus you can expect the usual Lib Dem rant about Proportional Representation, the only electoral model which would allow them to transcend their stance as ‘the go-to party for tactical votes’. And you’ll get similar from Farage who sees a way in and will cling on like a parasite in your intestine.

The good news is that George Galloway failed miserably, even after investing half his personal savings in Palestinian flags. The not such good news is the 5 ‘independents’ who won seats did so on a specifically, strictly and exclusively Gaza message. So if you’re thinking of complaining about school availability in any of those constituencies, or immigration, or poverty, in the next five years, don’t bother. It also means we have, for the next 5 years, five people in parliament who are way more sympathetic to jihadi ideology than they are to concerns about the King’s health.

Meanwhile England are playing in about an hour in what is being termed (in my house) ‘The Pragmatic Games’. Gone is flair and style and panache. Instead, we’re watching teams of great players playing for penalty kick offs from the first minute. Only Spain have decided to buck this trend. Which is why the Euros are currently ‘boring as fuck’. If England fail to win I’m never voting for Gareth Southgate again.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I hate it when anyone ‘reaches out’ to me. Not in the Four Tops sense but in the contemporary use and abuse of that term. More Freddie Kruger coming out the lake, arms outstretched, than Motown hugging. When you get the phone calls from someone ‘reaching out’, it’s generally going to cost you money.

But not this morning. No. This morning someone ‘reached out’ to offer me something free!! I love free stuff, however useless it is. This wasn’t useless. I was ‘reached out’ to in order to see if I qualify for, basically, an ‘old person’s panic alarm’. A GPS tracker (in case I forget where I am) that you wear round you neck with a button on it for when I fall over. And, obviously, I do fall over. But I fall over being a hero! Not an old man. I fall over doing fearless and dangerous things!! Like walking. Anyway, what I said to dear, sweet Bethan was: “YOU CAN KEEP YOUR FUCKING OLD PERSON’S FUCKING… THING!!! HOWEVER ‘FREE’ IT MIGHT BE AND YOU CAN CROSS ME OFF THE LIST OF OLD PEOPLE RIGHT NOW!!!! AND THEN FUCK OFF!!!!”

I’m not at all sensitive to aging, nor its alleged affects on physicality. I’m in what’s known as ‘deep denial’.

It’s election day. Thank God. Cos then we can all talk about something else. Which will be wonderful. But it won’t be. We’ll be talking about how we miss having a Conservative government, how the country’s all gone to shit, how ‘twinning’ Milton Keynes with Rafah was a big mistake, how Starmer lied about… everything, how we wish he hadn’t just become a puppet for Angela Raynor to pull the strings, about how bad it was doing a trade deal with Hamas only for them to blow it up with the building and everyone in it, and how the NHS is now 50 billion quid a week richer but you still can’t speak to a Doctor for six months and hospitals have queues round the block for essential surgery.

I don’t mind a Labour government. Just not this one. Now go and vote.

Happy Voting Day

A xxxx

I’ve decided to bow to the will of the people and stand for Prime Minister!!! Yes, your pleading and begging, crying on my doorstep, lobbying my support team (Joey) and imploring me to become the national saviour I’ve always been destined to become, has made me decide to stand tomorrow. But, like, just ‘straight to PM’, I’m not mucking about with all that local politics shit, getting a new lollipop lady for the school, neighbours bickering about a new extension, putting bobbies on the beat because Mrs Uppity feels vulnerable coming back from a night at the bingo. That’s not for me. I want the BIG stuff. Tax. Education. Defence. I want an SW1 address with a black door and I want the big red button which fires nuclear weapons. My destiny!!!

The country needs ‘CHANGE!’ And we know that because Kier Starmer is not allowed to go to sleep on any day until he’s said that word 4,750 times. And yet I agree, as everyone does, we do need a change. But disagree that Kier is the man we need to change to. He’s a flip-flopping tosser. Thus can’t be trusted. So my changes will be different to his intended ones.

Being a socialist, I’ll give lots of money to anyone who needs it. Even those miserable fuckers too lazy to get off their arses and do some work, we will support them! Make sure they have enough money for rolling tobacco and possibly even a few bob left over to feed their kids. England football shirts will be given out, FREE, on the NHS. Tax will be abolished completely, it’s nasty. This will need to be rolled out nationally, starting initially with my road.

I’ll sort out the perilous ‘trans debate’. Every ‘women’s toilet’ in the country will have a mandatory sign saying: ‘IF YOU’VE GOT A NOB YOU AIN’T COMIN IN ‘ERE!!!’ Followed by ‘go to an appropriate toilet or please take a free, disposable scalpel, stored underneath’.

Working people will be defined (are you listening, Kier) as ‘people who work’!!! I know, its not the Labour way, reserving the term for anyone who comes home at 5.30 with dirt under their fingernails, but that’s what its gonna be.

We will continue to welcome all illegal immigrants and consider them for asylum. In particular, due to their essential contribution to the nation’s economy, the ones convicted of rape, murder and assault in their country of origin.

And in line with boycotting Israel, we shall place immense skips at the end of every road. Please dump all your horrible, Israeli made or created things in there. Like: iphones, pacemakers, about half the drugs from your medicine cabinet and all your computer equipment, routers and anything else with a silicon chip. Then your conscience is clear. But you won’t be able to post that information on Instagram.

And finally, should I win, that will represent the official end of all democratic process in Britain. Like Presidents Xi and Putin, it will be my job for life. I can sack the king and become a virtual God.

Vote Andy tomorrow!! And God help you.

A xxxx

In my late teens and early 20s I would go to at least one ‘gig’ every weekend. We’d look through Time Out and they’d list every possible musical ‘event’ going on in every pub, club, back garden and garage across all of Greater London. And you could always get in. No booking required. We saw some amazing stuff. And also some out-of-key shit performed by drunken stoners who fancied themselves as Led Zeppelin but dropped like a lead weight. Ok, we were generally a bit selective. Because I’ve always been a terrible music snob. As everyone should be. ‘My music’ is brilliant, anything else is shite? Is beneath my level of sophistication? Is beneath contempt (pop)? But there was an incredible wealth of talent, and pubs were their way of promotion. Or failure.

Don’t know if they do that now, kids who want to be ‘stars’ just apply to tv talent shows and get their eyebrows waxed to show what great musicians they are.

But much as I used to love BIG gigs as well, at Wembley, the Albert Hall, Hammersmith Odeon, I always loved the intimacy of small venues. Ok, it doesn’t always work. In 1971 I went to the Red Lion in Leytonstone to see a ‘new band’. Tiny pub, ceiling about 2 inches above your head. About 500 people crammed in to see (then unknown) Status Quo. Were they good? Don’t remember. Were they loud? Oh yeah. Some of my teeth fell out.

And last night we went to see Graham Gouldman. Mr 10CC. Ok, one of four Mr 10CCs. He’s 78. And has been writing hit songs since 1964. For the Hollies. For the Yardbirds. For Herman’s Hermits. And, of course, for 10CC. And he’s never stopped. He’s written, produced and run bands continuously since.

It was at the Pizza Express Live in Holborn. The ‘live’ refers to music, not the pizzas. But both were just great. He played a mainly acoustic set of songs he’s written, new and old. With a group of totally brilliant musicians for accompaniment and harmonies. Who knew he wrote ‘For your love’ for the Yardbirds? ‘Look through any window’ for the Hollies? Ok, Dreadlock Holiday is easier to guess. Each track accompanied by a great story, charmingly related by a man very at ease with the world. Even though he’s a Manc. He’s a very lovely one.

But most importantly, there was pizza. The Pizza Express American Hot hasn’t changed since Churchill was on the throne, since Czechoslovakia was just one country. Although it has got a bit hotter. And no-one minds that. I’m only allowed to eat pizza about twice a year because it’s too unhealthy to be fashionable (why the fuck would you put the calorific load values on the fucking menu???). Given a choice, I’d eat it every day. A cheese sandwich with loads of other shit on top. How can you go wrong?

A really great gig. A really great man. A really great pizza.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m starting to believe! It could happen!! It’s coming home!!! Though, realistically, how could it be ‘home’ for a trophy that’s never even visited here? Ok, its coming to OUR home, but the implication is that its going where it belongs. And all trophies belong here. Somewhere near Golders Green.
So I’m believing, but not really sure whether I care yet. Even though it was an incredible result yesterday. And ‘incredible’ in that you really couldn’t believe that such a lacklustre bunch of underperformers could have ever pulled a win out of quite literally nothing. We were abysmal. Dire. No shots on goal. Midfielders asleep. Defenders caught checking their Instagram feeds during corners. It was so bad I went and made a chicken pie.

I cook to relieve stress. And to eat, obviously. I like eating. Not sure I like watching England. And when I came back to the tv half an hour later (pie now ready for the oven and looking really good, even if the fucking pastry split putting the ‘lid on’), we were still 1 nil down with about 20 minutes to go.

This was not Spain we were playing. Thankfully because that would have been a blood bath. Nor France, Germany or Belgium. No. We were playing Slovakia. Our second bunch of Slovs in a week. And this one, like the last one, belong firmly in the ‘second tier’ of teams. Nations which are so low on the rankings that they never try to win games, in any meaningful sense. They just try to stop other teams from winning. The Italian model. Horrible to watch. And they hope that at some point they get a break and can possibly score. Which they did yesterday. And if that doesn’t happens, they’re basically playing for a penalty shoot-out from minute 1.

But class will show and up steps the physical embodiment of footballing ‘class’, Jude Bellingham. Having slept through the entire second half, and most of the first, Mr ‘Walk-on-Water’ waits until the 5th and final minute of injury time to score a quite wonderful goal to send the game to extra time.

And in the very first minute of that Harry Kane, the man who’d squandered more chances in that match than in any 10 year period of his wonderful career, popped up with what would become the winner. And we all sang ‘Sweet Caroline’ because…

Spain played later on. I didn’t go to make any more pies. Didn’t need to. They were fabulous to watch. A pleasure on the eye. Pies are pleasure elsewhere and a tad more calorific.

So watch Spain. The healthier alternative.

Happy Monday

A xxxx