Andy's Glasses

So following a week of solid electioneering, I decided to take a break from politics, just for the day. And focus on more important things. Like Lila and Joey. Kicked out of school for the week for half term, abandoned by their parents who rushed off to work, those poor kids were dumped at us for 7.45. And the peaceful morning vibe is thus shattered in a whirl of frantic activity and noise. Loads of noise. And eating. Joey sets up a race-track in the kitchen, with a little help, for his whizz-cars or whatever they are. Lila brings a box of about 25 Barbie dolls and dumps them on the floor. All of them. And Ken. We bought a Ken, because Joey moaned that all the Barbies were gels. Which they generally are. Not one Barbie identifies as Ken. Not one has a penis. Neither does Ken. But he has a football. So must be a ‘boy’. Sporting equipment is now elevated to a ‘secondary sexual characteristic’. For Barbie purposes only. Don’t tell Leah Williamson.

After breakfast we rushed up to the wasteland between Edgware and Radlett. I call it a wasteland but you might see it as just ‘countryside’, depends on your perspective. No building, no tower blocks, no Tesco Local, issa wasteland. But there they’ve made ‘Europe’s largest Crazy Golf’. Never crazier than with Joey lying across the hole or beating the shit out of the footpath with his ‘bat’. But it was brilliant. The grandkids are naturals. Just, not necessarily at golf. Yet as they both love dressing up in funny clothes, golf could be their natural sport. Their grandmother was doing well until she 7-putted on the 11th. But then, (inevitable) tragedy on the 15th; it started pissing down with rain. We gave the kids a choice: play on in the miserable weather getting wet and depressed, or go to McDonalds where the sun is always shining!!! And you get toys. And I get to eat my twice yearly treat of… of rubbish.

After lunch, which was really early, the sun came out so we went to the park with the bikes. Their bikes. So you push them up the hills and pull them on the way down to hold them back. And that was fun. At the end of which we were ready for bed. Unfortunately, Lila and Joey refused to put us to bed, so we had to play on, make dinner and start the massive clear-up programme, room-by-room, corner to corner.

Joey has never been convicted of any crime. God knows how. But even if he had, he could, apparently, still stand to be the President of America. And arguably might be better than both current candidates for that job. At least he can walk without help and speak without sounding stupid.

I love half term.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

There’s a big problem with Diane Abbott. We simply don’t know what to do with her. The iconic Member for Hackney is a veritable institution. The first black woman in parliament without getting followed by security. The first black MP to shag Jeremy Corbyn. The longest lasting… errrrr… person of colour to… errrrrr… to repeatedly cock-up, fuck-up, get her sums wrong, get the plot wrong and finally, to make discriminatory statements. She spent an hour in parliament slamming private schools, whilst sending her own son to one. She worked out that employing 1000 extra police people, at 40 grand a year each would cost the nation… a lot… ok, more than £10,000!!! And then she said that Jews and Irish could never understand discrimination like she experiences. For which she was suspended from the Labour party. Which, to me, is a bit odd because of all the stupid, ridiculous, moronic things she said and did, that statement is pretty much true. But there ya go. Her party was into a massive, mainstream cleansing operation after the Corbyn departure so Diane, immaculate in her timing as ever, said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

So Labour wait until the day after you can no longer declare yourself as a candidate and restore her to their party. Awwww, nice. Why? Because they’re scared that she’ll do a Corbyn and stand as an independent in the constituency she’s held since 1987 and where, for some unaccountable reason, they seem to love her. But she won’t stand as a Labour candidate. Starmer is hoping that she’ll just walk out into the sunset with her head held high. If she can find the sunset. She’s not very good at geography. She’s 70 so she’s more than ready to become a drain on the nation’s pension pot and health service and, looking at it objectively, she should have been in some kind of institution years ago.

So having passed through ‘national box-ticked’, and on to ‘national institution’ followed by ‘national joke’ and finally reached the exalted ‘national treasure’ status, just by virtue of, again like Corbyn, never knowing when to quit, its time to bury her. I know, she’s not dead yet, but let’s not get mired down in details.

Yet in some respects she’s doing what she’s always done. Being very annoying. But as the people she’s annoying now are mainly her own party leader and his team of strategists, I’m actually quite enjoying this. But once her direction is finally decided, I think ‘out of it completely’ is the way to go. Because she was knee-deep in Corbyn’s toxic messages, complicit in his antisemitic everything and thus, no friend of mine. I don’t like her sufficiently to pity her.

Bye Bye Di

A xxxx

On Nigel Farage’s cv, it lists his qualities, as the enfante terrible of British politics. Sorry, of European politics. And under all his other… qualifications (drinking too much, smoking like a chimney, inciting racism, lying to the nation) and achievements (Brexit, UKIP, frightening a Prime Minister into proving how little the population understand), there is written: ‘spanner in the works’. It’s what he does. For the upcoming election, he won’t be standing for UKIP re-do, nor anyone else. Why? Because it would limit him to campaigning in a constituency. And he wants to campaign nationally. Centrally. Generally.

But campaign for what? For whom?? Reform UK, the latest incarnation of ‘Keep Britain White!, innit’ party for those who approve of the BNP but feel themselves too sophisticated. It has about 14 candidates, most of whom are either on remand or on parole, and the rest are horrible. They have but one message: we’ve cut ourselves off from Europe, now we need to get rid of all them forriners wot is still ‘ere.

Yet, although I consider myself not La Farage’s greatest fan, I have to always admire the way he says things. Unlike every other politician in the country, he knows how to speak to people. He is brilliant at pushing buttons. Especially at bringing out xenophobic feelings in people that they never even knew they had. That was his contribution to Brexit and to political life in general.

And now: Islamaphobia-gate!!!

In an interview on tv he said the vast majority of Muslims in this country ‘are opposed to British values’. On one level I totally disagree with that. Because the foremost ‘British value’ is eating chicken tikka masala and I’m sure loads of Muslims, the Indian ones especially, like that too. And yet, what are ‘British values’ anyway? Top hats? Twin sets? Morris Minors?? Though actually he meant the less important issues, like democracy, like various freedoms, which we all enjoy, especially those who’d really like to do away with them. And an acceptance, at very least, of the monarchy and I’d personally add, alignment with our ‘allies’. Which means America. Cos you can’t depend on the French. So Farage quoted the statistic that 46% of British Muslims support Hamas. A terrorist organisation. The rest, he implied, just want to do away with democracy and turn us into a Sharia state. Not unlike Iran, but with prettier headscarves.

From where these statistics emerged I know not. And, like all statistics, I am deeply, sincerely, appallingly cynical about them.

But if you took your sample population from a ‘Pro-Palestine’ rally, you could indeed end up with such a warped view of Muslim Britain. Because in the passion and massive ignorance which seems to define these ‘protests’, such views would be logical extension of the narrative on which they thrive. Otherwise (I really like to think) the vast majority of British Muslims are happy to be here and just trying to survive the week with a few bob in their pockets and sending their kids to the best schools they can find. Like all the non-Muslims. Getting through life peacefully and painlessly.

Yet old Nige can’t resist a dig or two, to stir things up, wind up the inner xenophobe, accuse an entire minority of terrorist-sympathy, ya-know, just ‘puttin’ it out there’.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

They’re bringing back conscription. Not present in this country since nineteen-sixty-something, we’re going to force people into ‘national service’. Or ‘national service light’ as it really comes with no real sanctions for not doing it and it’s sort of voluntary but you have to do it. Or sign up to community service instead. So given the choice between spending a whole Saturday picking up ice cream wrappers in Hyde Park and learning how to strip down an M16 and shoot people, where do I sign (up)??

I’m over 18, therefore I’m prepared to do my duty. Where’s my gun? I want to be in Stripes, with Bill Murray. Having fun on the parade ground. Bivouacking with the babes in the Gel’s division. Driving tanks through Brent Cross. I’m in.

As a life-long pacifist, I’m totally opposed to firearms. Unless they’re my arms. Guns, in principle, are terrible things which murder thousands of American schoolchildren every day. But that’s only because most Americans have mental health issues manifesting as psychopathic, sociopathic behaviour. Guns in the right hands (mine) are not necessarily any safer but more fun. And driving a tank would allow me to sort out people sitting at green lights immobile whilst looking at their phones. Middle-of-the-road tossers would be a thing of the past. Even South African mothers on the school run in their Range Rovers would yield to a Challenger 2, fully armed, with its turret aimed at her face.

The problem is that it’s a Conservative proposal. And therefore, probably totally irrelevant and due to be dead by July. Which gives me two months to fantasise.

I actually think National Service is a great idea. Countries who still have conscription generally have less social problems, thuggery, gangs of glue-sniffing, lager-chugging stoners, mugging and causing trouble.

The problem with the upcoming election is that we now have to see Kier Starmer’s face on the news all the time. And his charmless, creepy soundbytes carefully designed never to reveal any actual plans. And Angela Rayner. Destined to become either the Deputy Prime Minister of all of the United Kingdom, or a prisoner. Depending on the results of the current police inquiry.

Whatever the problem might be, the answer is NEVER ‘Kier Starmer’.

Happy Sunday, which looked depressingly rainy but turned sunny just in time for tennis.

A xxxx

Oh no! In light of the decision by the Phoenix Cinema in East Finchley to willingly and knowingly show… a film!!!, two members of the Phoenix Trust have resigned. In anger!! Yes, flagrant and life-long anti-semites, Ken Loach and Mike Leigh have resigned because of the showing of an Israeli film. Never mind artistic freedom, the right of cinema goers to see films of their choosing, the 2 Tossers want the power of veto, demand that freedoms of anything must be judged according to their own warped and Nazified set of prejudices. No-one minds when the Phoenix shows their awful films and no-one goes to see them. But a film made by an Israeli, any Israeli, even a film that depicts a single Jaffa orange, and out come the jackboots and swastikas once more.

Well fuck Mike Leigh and fuck Ken fucking Loach (‘nuf fucks). And all credit to the Phoenix management for being brave enough to show the film which was always going to be politically sensitive. And getting graffitied by some morons for their trouble.

And what’s the opposite of a ‘hate march’? The ones which occur every Saturday. Demanding annihilation of Israel, death to Jews, Rivers and Seas, support for murderous death cults. What’s the opposite? Because that’s what happened last night. A ‘love march’, which didn’t actually march anywhere. Because we were all to busy loving each other and enjoying the gorgeous summer evening, wrapped in our star-of-David flags, to actually move anywhere.

On the other side of the road were a few people who’d come ‘in their droves’ (37 of them) to protest along Loachian, Leigh-ian lines. Anything Israeli, or even Jewish, must be bad, so get your keffiyahs out, grab a Palestinian flag and PROTEST. But on our side, defending the cinema, mainly by kibbitzing and schmoozing (just ‘talking’ really), there were hundreds. Happy, cheery, chatting, mooching round, bumping into friends and acquaintances. If only someone had thought to cater it. It felt like a street party and the atmosphere was one of love and niceness.

One report spoke of ‘protesters clashing’. Didn’t happen. Lots of people crossed the road to bang their heads against the brick wall of stupidity and the misinformed narrative of Gary Linneker, George Galloway and the BBC, but mostly we just enjoyed the moment and, most importantly, showed that you can protest in a really lovely way. Mel wouldn’t let me hit anybody.

And you can’t have that crap right where you live.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Like Luke Skywalker, (another small person), Rishi Sunak listened to his advisers, his consultants, his electioneering specialists and then a voice in his head said: “FEEL THE FORCE, RISHI”, so he threw the whole motley crew out of his office, strode out into the pouring rain outside number 10 and told the world (57 drenched reporters and tv news crews) that HE, Rishi Sunak will prostrate himself before the electorate of our nation on July 7th. 6 weeks away. Plenty of time to overturn a 25 point deficit in the ratings. And why not? If he does brilliantly until then, he’ll still lose by 15 points, and if he’s made the mutha of all misjudgments, he’ll lose by 35. Does it matter?

Starmer greeted this with a typical smug but quite meaningless reply, as befits ‘the king in waiting’. Say nothing that may harm you and hope the people haven’t noticed that there’s no plan.

“FOURTEEN YEARS OF TORY RULE, RUINING THE NATION. THE NHS HAS PEOPLE WAITING SIX MONTHS FOR SURGERY!! THE RIVERS ARE FULL OF SHIT!!! AND ITS TIME FOR CHAAAAANGE!!! WE NEED TO SHOW THAT THE ECONOMY DOESN’T DEPEND ON THE WEALTHIEST FEW PEOPLE!!!!

Well, that’s interesting. Do we imagine that the day after the election NHS waiting lists will just disappear? Wow! Starmer’s brilliant!!

Allowing the water companies to pollute the rivers and waterways is awful, but nothing really to do with the government. And I’m not sure we can hold the last 14 years totally responsible. Ever since ‘man’ evolved the ability to take a shit, he’s been doing it near rivers, to avoid doing it on his own doorstep.

But announcing that you don’t need the business creators to create wealth? Ok, the ‘workers’ do the work, no question. But they need to be told what to do so that the enterprise can succeed in whatever it’s doing. And in the post-tech world, we need entrepreneurs who have the vision and can raise the money to start employing the workers.

Workers are essential. But without the ideas, and the money, they’d be out of work.

Tonight I’m going on a counter-protest. I’ve normally been a ‘protester’ so this will be really different. In, errrrr, so many ways.

The Phoenix Cinema, our local and the country’s oldest cinema, is showing the film ‘Supernova’ tonight. It’s a documentary about the Nova music festival which was attacked on October 7th. And apparently is a ‘hard watch’.

Protesters announced that they would be protesting (it’s what they do) because of this ‘Israeli government propaganda’. Which is particularly odd as most of the footage was taken by Hamas terrorists on the day and then posted, proudly, online. So how that constitutes ‘propaganda’ is beyond me, but heh, what do I know? And as with Lineker reducing the most horrendous massacre of modern times to a mere ‘thing’, people are already trying to downplay it. Make it an irrelevance.

Then they’ll try and write it out of history altogether because it doesn’t fit with their narrative. Another irony, if any of them knew what ‘genocide’ actually means.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

President Raisi tragically died in a helicopter crash on Sunday night. The president of all of Iran, famous for being an amazing Ayatollah-impressionist, met his doom when the aircraft was traveling across a mountain range in dense fog. So good work there from Iranian Air Traffic Control. The vehicle suffered what they are calling ‘a hard landing’. And I always approve of a wonderful euphemism. Hard landing. It hit the side of a fucking mountain; how is that a ‘landing’ in any sense.

But heh, I’m not here to criticise anything Iranian, just to bury a few.

Because President Raisi was… errrr… he did… errrr… wonderful… was a fabulous man? Yeah, whatever.

I have no idea what the President of Iran does. I’m guessing that his duties include wearing a black hat and long beard at all times and spouting Islam at every opportunity. Unlike the Ayatollah, who is the nation’s ’supreme leader’, because he’s more responsible for spouting Islam and wearing a black hat. More like the King. But with a hat. Beard. Yeah.

And the President is democratically elected. Everyone in the country gets to vote, even women!!! And as long as you vote for the ‘right guy’, that’s fine. If you vote for anyone else, you’ll probably be killed. Women have had the right to vote there since 1963, and even to stand for parliament. Yet there are no rights of protection for women from domestic violence or sexual assault. But countless laws about headscarves, enforceable, as are all laws in Iran, by the ‘Morality Police’ who will beat you to death for the most minor of infringement. But that’s fair. So they elected Raisi, who was known as ‘the Butcher of Tehran’ because he organised the mass murder of thousands of political prisoners, way back in 1988. Heh, we’ve all made mistakes, right?

Meanwhile, in Hampstead, my brother is doing much better. Than President Raisi. And much better than previously. He’s about to ‘move’, out of the ICU after 4 months, and into a general ward. That is big. He’s off life support. Other than nutrition, cos he still can’t eat. And dialysis. Few other bits and pieces of no real consequence, other than keeping him alive. The main monitor behind his bed showing his ‘vitals’ is not just a big clock. He’s been ‘turned off’!!! Which is great. And moving with great difficulty but its happening. And moaning. Almost back to ‘pre-illness’ levels. Yet he’s allowed to moan. Its a million miles from what anyone would ever choose. But onwards.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Silence may be golden but I know you worry when you don’t hear from me. Ok, you should worry when you don’t hear from me. But I’ve just been soooooo busy. As life sometimes gets.

Friday was an early start. We needed to be in Elstree for 8am to see a penis. Ok, for a circumcision. That delightfully brutal ceremony in which you ignore 5,000 years of medical capability and chop the foreskin off a newborn’s nob. In the precise instruction of Abraham. Who, if legend is to be believed, performed his own circumcision, at age of 80. God knows why. No. Literally, it was between God and Abraham’s foreskin and God won. So now we all have to do it, though at 8 days old. I’ve never seen a circumcision. I’ve been to dozens. But hide at the back of the room. Unless the bagels are near the front, then I get serious conflict.

So after the working day, which followed the eating of circumcised food, we had team Lila over for dinner, and that’s always exhausting.

Saturday, the sabbath day, started as all do. 8.15 tai chi class, punching my mates in the face. As you do. But then, no hanging round chatting, rushed off to play tennis, earlier than usual, because of an engagement later on. So rush to tennis, rush home, in the shower, dress, and off to see Lila in her first stage… thing. Ever. It was a ‘show’ by her club; ‘Razzamataz’, which says it all. Song, dance, and in a totally wonderful team display, Lila shone. Stood out. Not only because she was the littlest one there, but because of her natural talents. Mainly, being my granddaughter.

Sorting out the garden took the rest of the day. I do ‘destruction’, Mel does ‘pretty’. I mow the lawn. A job with a skill: moron ratio of 1:100. Then hacked some things down wot needed hacking, whilst Mel performed a ‘miracle with the beds’. Which she has to as she’s fallen out with every single (and company) gardener in the entire borough of Barnet.

Sunday was also an early start on the tennis court as I had to work for a few hours after. Then whizz down to the ICU (no weekend is complete without) and back in time to clean the car. Which wasn’t dirty, in any real ‘dirty’ sense of the word, but… its an excuse to spend quality time with it.

I also ‘had’ to watch the final day of the Premier League season!!! Its compulsory. There was just so much at stake!!! Would Arsenal beat Everton? Well, they almost didn’t but in that ‘Arsenal way’ managed to grab 3 points by the end. And so it was all down to Manchester City. Would they be able to beat consistently inconsistent but verging on shitty West Ham? A big ask. At home, when you haven’t not-won a match since about September. Nails were bitten. For 2 minutes til the quite unbelievably brilliant but slightly dim Phil Foden scored his and their first. Then we all celebrated the genius of Pep, the amazing and unprecedented 4th consecutive title and the hard-working lawyers, fraudsters, financiers, accountants and creatives who’ve kept that team at the top.

Tottenham Hotspurs finished fifth. Great…

Happy Monday

A xxxx

What’s a ‘foodie’? Someone who loves ‘fine dining’. As opposed to someone who likes all dining. Preferably with a trough of some kind, filled with wonderful things. Breakfast buffets do it for me, as long as they’re good. And am I a ‘foodie’? Or a ‘pig’?? Because I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Don’t want to. Wish it would stay open til 12 then I could carry on and just call it ‘lunch’ from then on. Or, if you eat enough, you don’t actually need lunch. Of course, you can have it anyway, but you fill up on breakfast, which we did in Lisbon, we skipped lunch. Other than a custard tart. Or two.

So a ‘foodie’ is just a pretentious pig. The foodie likes his/her trough to arrive in tiny little, works-of-artish, beautifully arranged, drizzled with a jus, for all 26 courses of the ‘tasting menu’. I do the same, but with bigger portions. I do try to be ‘artistic’ with the food arrangement on my plate, but it’s hard with a shovel.

Anyway, I’m back home now, so it’s just a banana for breakfast once more. Another 3 days in that breakfast buffet and I’d be in hospital.

Whereas my poor bruvva hasn’t had breakfast for over 4 months. Nor lunch, nor dinner. And now they want to start him on… well, water’s a start, but he can’t swallow. It’s a reflex and it goes away with lack of use. Needs to be retrained. Weird, or what? Because if he can’t swallow it, it goes down the ‘wrong pipe’ and will give him all sorts of problems. Like he needs more problems. If I was in charge (God help them all!!!), I’d give him a curry. He’d be swallowing with the first bite. But apparently this a common issue with long-term ICU… ‘abuse!’ It stops you working, completely. Even though he is now, officially ‘trach free’!!! Which is brilliant. No more little pipe sticking out of his throat. Don’t need it no more. (Count blessings). But don’t worry; he still has umpteen other tubes, lines, pipes in countless other places.

So yesterday he took his first two steps. Literally, in four months. I do 26,000 steps in one day in Belem, and he takes fucking TWO!! Slacker. But after those two his blood pressure plummeted and he had to be medically ‘improved’.

I’m going to see him this morning so called in first to check he’d ’be there’ (he actually doesn’t go out very much but does have various ‘procedures’ and scans and stuff) because I really don’t want to visit an empty bed. Or really, a space where his bed would be because generally, where he goes, his bed (and all his hi-tech gear and monitors, go with him). And he might be in the dialysis unit. With his bed. As his kidneys haven’t recovered from their original shut-down. But I can see him there whilst he’s ‘busy’ being dialysed. More pipes.

And that’s how it goes. 2 steps forward, but literally, and one-and-a-half back. But we’ll take that half step, put it in the ‘profit’ column, and go on from there.

When he’s finally ‘better’ I’m going to take him for that curry. And if he has any issues swallowing it, I’ll eat it myself. No problem there. It’s the least I can do for him.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

(today’s pic was taken by Mel. That’s why it’s all healthy stuff. I was somewhere else at the time, with no hand free for the camera).

Last night. White Hart Lane. Man City. Most important game of the season. Of the decade. Ever. In the entire history of all things. Here’s the scenario.

Massively important game for Man City. Lose, or even draw, and Arsenal become hot favourites to win the league. Win, and they take it all. Assuming of course that Sunday finishes as it probably will.

Then there was Spurs. ‘Just’ out of contention for the league title but vying for ‘that fourth place’, Champions League slot. And all we needed was to beat City, to win on Sunday and for Villa to drop down a hole in Spaghetti Junction and never come out. Or concede 15 goals in their last match whilst we score 27. Some such combination of total fucking impossibles.

Thus, having accepted, as virtually all Spurs fans have, that, yet again, we’ve fucking blown it, we were left with a choice. Like Sophie’s Choice, but much harder because giving away one of your own children is far easier than letting Arsenal win the league. Every mother knows that. Every good mother.

Thus last night’s match became the oddest of odd. Every Arsenal fan in the world was rooting for Spurs. Whilst every Spurs fan was rooting for Man City. (Every Chelsea fan was out, probably being abusive, aggressive, drunk and disorderly).

Because we had all agonised with our inner gods and gurus and some had even undertaken counselling to try and understand this peculiar dilemma. Do we hate Arsenal sufficiently to actually will our own beloved team to lose? Or should we put hearts and souls into a victory which would be as unlikely as it would be productive in achieving our own goals? Well, to those, like our dear manager, Ange, who say ‘you must always want your team to win’, I say, ‘then you don’t know the Arsenal fans I do’. The ‘moral high-grounders’ who feel that to ever wish for anything other than winning football matches is a mortal sin simply don’t get the ‘big picture’, the history between our near-neighbouring clubs. It is NOT about football. It is about… history, its about bragging rights, its about rubbing noses in whatever ‘it’ may be, its about good (us) vs evil (them), right vs wrong, its about the very basics of humanity!!!

So the match went well. Until they scored. Then… not so good. Except we played well. Certainly a lot better than we’ve played in the last totally abysmal 6 weeks. We always up our game for City, but alas it fell short. Had Sonny converted his ‘sure thing’ one on one against whichever keeper was on at the time for City, it might have been different.

Then the denouement. The finale. The coup de gras. Both for our hopes of winning (not that we had any) and of Arsenal’s season. The penalty.

I love a penalty taker who knows exactly what to do and just does it. I fucking hate mis-stepping, stutters, feints and all the other bollocks employed by the majority of those stepping up to the 12 yard spot. I loved Alan Shearer taking a penalty. Ruud Van Nistlerooy, Harry Kane. And… Erling Haaland. Shear class from the spot. ‘I’m going to hit this so hard’, he said to himself, probably in Norwegian, ‘that if you get near it, it will break your fucking hand. But you won’t because it will be so brilliantly placed.’ And that’s what he did. 2-nil, game over.

And that’s it. Job done. Not proud. Just what it is.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx