Andy's Glasses

I’ve never mainlined heroin. It never really appealed to me. It always struck me as a way more ‘Trainspotting’ type drug than anything cool or glamorous. If cocaine was Studio 54 in its heyday, heroin was dirty syringes in the back alleys behind the club where the garbage and the homeless Scottish people were kept. But I always wondered why anyone would ever take their first ‘hit’ of something so horrendously addictive that your life, as you knew it, anticipated it, expected it to pan out, was over as of that very moment. And apparently the problem with heroin is that the first shot is so unbelievably amazing that you then spend all your time trying to get that same feeling which, apparently, is impossible.

I have a similar issue with doner kebabs. What? No, it’s NOT stupid, it’s a good comparison. Something that you know is really really bad for you but you can’t resist because it is so highly addictive. Thank you!

It’s the same thing, I am forever trying to have the feeling that was produced by the first kebab I ever ate. That taste.

It was 1975, the summer of. I was working for a mini-cab company in the West End, delivering stuff in my little mini. The office was literally underneath the Post Office Tower and I was concerned that it might fall down, because I wasn’t sure my car insurance covered me if I was carrying ‘goods’. Anyway, one lunchtime I walked into the office and was greeted by a smell so strong, so powerful, so absolutely wonderful, that it quite literally felt like I’d been punched in the face by an Algerian woman with a Y chromosome. I found out that what was being eaten by another driver was called ‘a ke-bab’, which sounded exotic, and was available, literally a 1-minute walk away. I went. I got. I bit…

And I can still remember that taste, the entire ‘wow!!!!’ as all those flavours exploded in my mouth. That restaurant was called Efes and was in Great Titchfield Street, where it had been for a decade before I discovered it and it lasted until about 10 years ago when, having already changed hands and ‘gone downhill’, it closed.

Part of me died. Is that a bit overly dramatic? For a kebab?? What you think??

Oddly, my old mate discovered Efes at about the same time, completely independently. It became something of an obsession. Although we’re talking a few times a year, rather than stealing our parents’ wedding rings to fund the habit.

He moved to France. And I’d get a call: “my flight lands at Heathrow at 4.50. I can be ‘there’ by 7”. There was no question where ‘there’ might be.

Obviously, I’ve had kebabs from many, many places. I was even taken in Los Angeles to try this ‘super new thing’ called a ‘giro’. But never has anyone produced a kebab to rival the ones Efes made.

And all this just because I had a kebab last night. From our local Turkish kebabery. And it was wonderful. I dripped down my arms, as they must do, it was filled with goodness and all taste. But was it ‘as good’? No, nothing is. As Crosby Stills and Nash sang so appropriately: “if you can’t be with the one you love; love the one you’re with”. Definitely works for kebabs.

So the quest goes on. And it’s such an enjoyable journey.

Happy Diet Day

A xxxx

It’s totally been the most, like, 100% bestest ever, like maddest, really insane week for Britain. Ever.

Because we’ve been in the Olympics and we’ve won gold medals in sports that until last Tuesday I never knew existed. Yet in just one week, we’ve excelled in the rowing, we’ve bounced on trampolines, shot things with rifles. If the Olympics was in America they would probably have schoolchildren shooting as an event but here we stick with clay pigeons. We’ve out-swum, out-run and out-horse-ridden absolutely everyone. We’ve been brilliant in triathlons, ridden bikes incredibly, had three gorgeous little girls murdered, watched 3 racially motivated riots orchestrated by right wing thugs with a promise of at least 30 morel!!! Oh, 30 more riots, I thought they meant 30 more medals. Anyway: what a week for Britain!!!! Every time I turn on the telly there’s either a gold medal coming in or a police car on fire.

I don’t know if these events are related. Does the Olympics produce levels of competitiveness and testosterone which are absent the rest of the time? The Games certainly produces unheard of levels of testosterone in a few women boxers. But this is not the place for gender issues at this time. It’s all a load of bollocks.

So as good a week as this has been for Simone Biles, it’s been even better for Nigel Farage. Because his ‘thing’ is not overt racism, no-one can get away with that any more, the Blazing Saddles days are long over. But Nigel can take an event, like the horrendous stabbing at the school in Southport, and turn it to fit his narrative. He lets others, or possibly gets others to, put out a few speculative stabs, just some fake news. Like, ‘the bloke with the knife was a Muslim boat-person’. Which then creates a narrative which falls beautifully in line with the hard-right, keep-Britain-white, stop immigration line. And by the time (about 24 hours) we know that the stabber was born in Wales to Rwandan parents, probably both Christian, its too late, the damage is done, The League of British Thugs are on their way to smash up a mosque and attack the police. And repeat and repeat and repeat.

So that’s where we are. Brilliant at the Olympic Games, not so great when it comes to controlling the streets. Can’t have it all.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So the thing about school holidays is that they cause a lot of work, even for grandparents. On a normal Thursday, between school drop off and the afternoon pickup lie hours and hours of peaceful inactivity. Whereas holiday days are full-on. Though realistically, is my life more peaceful with Mel or with Lila and Joey? Who of those can find more things for me to do? Deep philosophical questions. As are questions of ‘love’.

Lila was showing me her newfound ability to write ‘joined up’. Which is brilliant. She’s 7 and can write joined-up, our Prime Minister is 61 and can’t even think ‘joined up’. So I gave her a phrase to write. ‘My name is Lila’, which she dutifully and beautifully calligraphied (new word required: invent one) in lovely script: “My name is Lila”. Ok, now “your name is Andy”, and in lovingly cursived hand appeared “Your name is Andy”. Right, so now write: ‘and I love you’. And on the page appeared: “and I don’t love you”.

And that simply cracked me up. Of course, it may just mean that Lila in fact doesn’t love me, impossible though that would be for you to imagine, but that would be her right. Or it could be that Lila ‘gets it’. That she understands how the truth, integrity, honesty and consistency can only get you so far. Whereas duplicity, misinformation, lying, obfuscating and inconsistency are way more fun. Values I’ve always impressed on her from her first understanding that ‘Old MacDonald has a dog, with a ‘moo-moo’ here and a ‘moo-moo’ there’ is in fact a (rather stupid and exceptionally childish) joke. Why ever state the obvious when stating the opposite gets the laughs?

I know Joey loves me because the level of violence he demonstrates towards me is way in excess of any attack he would launch on someone he didn’t love.

The kids didn’t actually do any, kind of ‘hands on’ welding yesterday, as today’s pic might imply, but their mum did think that might be a good skill for them to learn young. And Thursdays have always been ‘dangerous implement days’, so maybe we’ll give it a go.

And its amazing to think that there are 2 less terrorist leaders in the world than there were on the weekend. Fuad Shukr was a general in Hezbollah and a man wanted for an attack in Beirut in 1993 which killed 241 Americans. He was ‘hit’ by a missile. Shame. And yet, before his body had even fully cooled, the Hamas Leader, Ismail Haniyeh, was hit by a drone, along with a bodyguard in Tehran. Even the Ayatollah had to agree that this was an audacious and brilliantly precise strike. Then, of course he had to add ‘500 women and children were killed in the attack’, so the BBC can spew their favourite line, even though no-one else was actually injured during the strike at all.

The world would sleep easier in its bed tonight for the loss of these two murderers, but for the extreme probability of revenge by Iran. The most humourless nation on Earth. Other than, perhaps, North Korea.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

This is now getting personal. Me and the Chancellor of the Exchequer. First we had ‘black-hole-gate’, into which Rachel Reeves blindly stumbled, and now it’s going to get much colder. Because La Chancellor has decided that the quickest way to pay off the 22 billion pound deficit in her mathematical ability is to get pensioners to pay it from their winter heating allowance. Which, for many of us, means that this winter I’ll be walking round a freezing cold house wearing all the clothes I own to try and keep warm because I can’t afford to turn the heating on because my 250 quid has to be thrown at the Black Hole. Maybe burn a few logs in the lounge. Maybe burn the sofa.

Its hard to think of the freeziness of mid-winter when we’re at the point of the summer when Weather ‘People’ (because we have boys doing it too now) are debating whether we are in fact in a ‘heatwave’ according to official criteria for such things. Or whether, as most of us ‘amateurs’ feel: it’s just a few hot days in a rotten summer of cold and wet, and about fucking time.

I’m applying for a new job for the winter heating bills. I want to be Kyle Walker’s mistress. No, I really do. Because the last incumbent in that post (I presume ‘they’re over!!!’ as they’re in court arguing) has a 2.5 million pound house, gets 350 grand a year, plus a new Mercedes, plus a nanny for the one-but-soon-to-be-2 children, plussssss… 500 quid a month for gardening (must be a big garden) and the same for the ‘hot tub’. In case its… not hot enough or not… tubby enough.

Thing is: when did ‘mistresses’ acquire rights? I thought that very word died in the war. I don’t want to get all Andrew Tate about this but I fully get Kyle has a definite responsibility to his children. I’m just not sure what she is being compensated for. She entered into a relationship with a married man. Who happened to be a millionaire footballer, which I’m sure had no influence on her love for the man, at all. She loved him for his… err… well, he’s a very fast runner, is Kyle.

Anyway; they’re in court ‘getting divorced’ yet were never married. He reckons he pays enough, she reckons she’s entitled to the status, lifestyle and respect of any self-respecting ‘influencer’ and ‘other woman’. I’m just not sure what the going rate for that might be.

Good work if you can get it though.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

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