Andy's Glasses

Because I’m a deeply cultured man with a vast array of eclectic interests and passions (read: ‘I like rugby as well as football’), I found myself last night at the Barbican concert hall for a symphonic concert. As ya do. When yer fuckin’ cultured. And it was wonderful. It was a celebration of modern composers by the London Symphony Orchestra. And the music was… errrr… well… at times almost musical! Not much of the time, obviously, because these were ‘modern’ compositions and those modernists don’t like music which, sort of, sounds like music. Nah. It’s about the (lack of) structure. It’s about replicating nature, creating an atmosphere, Its about the total avoidance of anything which might be mistaken for ‘a tune’. Even though they’re all in tune. Because we heard them tuning up. Which was more pleasant on the ear than most of the compositions. And yet, it’s all technically brilliant and musically… ‘interesting’. Modern orchestral works are basically musical masturbation. Without a happy ending. The woman sitting in front of me had a solution. See pic.

I’m not saying that all classical music written since the death of Beethoven is shit. I would not be so crass nor, as above, uncultured. But with yer Tchaikovsky you knew what you were getting. Even Wagner, Hitler’s favourite, could bang out a tune that you’d be singing all the way home, and in some cases, use in wars to come (Apocalypse Now, helicopter rockets to the Flight of the Valkyries; THAT is inspirational music. Even if it only, sort of, inspires mass killing).

At its very best, modern classical music all sounds like the soundtrack to a horror movie. It’s like listening to Psycho. All mood and drama and jagged edges and sharp corners, catching you by surprise. I was sitting in the Barbican waiting for Freddie Kruger to leap on me.

But watching an orchestra is always wonderful. Whatever they’re playing. Most of the ‘band’ have fairly static roles. But the percussionists don’t. They run around, basically, banging things. But so many different things, all set up in different places and all needing to banged with different bangers. So you hit a cow-bell, (C-sharp, if you’re interested) with a drum-stick, then rush over to the bass drum, grab the big furry-ended stick and hit that a couple time, then whizz back to the pipes, for which you need a bow, then grab the drum-sticks…

Its frantic and positively exhausting. If only there was a way of having the drums and bells and cymbals all arranged together, sort of ‘surrounding’ the percussionist? You could call it… a drum kit!! and invent Ginger Baker to go with it.

Then play on.

A xxxx

This is my cat. Possibly the most beautiful cat in the whole world. You didn’t know I had a cat, did you? No. I didn’t either. He, possibly she, just arrived one summer day when the back door was open. We get lots of local cats ‘appearing’ but they run away. This one didn’t. Joey screamed at it, whilst holding a big stick. Joey’s default is ‘holding a big stick’. But this cat just ignored him, strolled up to the back door and squeezed his/her/their way in, lay on the floor and did a bit of ‘grooming’. Not, like trying to coerce Joey, or me, in some sort of sexual sense, but just licking himself and scratching. That kind of ‘grooming’. And he/she returns. Frequently. We’re having a bit of ‘work done’ (unfortunately not in the cosmetic surgery sense, even though I need that more than a new floor) and our builder left a door open and in walked… Kevin? Deirdre? Merlin? Just strolling round to see what’s going on. As ya do. If you’re a totally fearless/oblivious and exceptionally beautiful cat.

Football’s getting a bit depressing now. Arsenal keep winning, Manchester City keep winning, Liverpool… play in a few minutes. Against their true enemies and rivals, Manchester United. Who, this year, are shit. But engaged in the ‘thrilling’ ‘battle for 4th place’, though possibly 5th, we’re not sure yet, which will bring the kudos and lucre of Champions League entry. Later on Spurs are playing Nottingham Forest. That’s a big one. I don’t know why, but it just is. We should beat Forest. On any measure of any sometimes predictable criterion, we should beat them easily. Like Luton. Possibly West Ham (just on moral grounds). Yet it won’t be easy. It will be painful to the point of excruciating.

And I just want to mention Kathleen. She’s not a cat, she’s a storm. Well, she’s a wind. A very strong one. So they’re banging on about how half of Scotland has blown away in Kathleen’s wake, how the NorthWest coast of England is… well, stormy, wind and rain and waves half a mile high upsetting the residents of Scarborough and Blackpool. But there’s no mention on what Kathleen does to tennis balls. Its awful. You go to play your forehand down-the-line winner and by the time the ball arrives, it’s a backhand drop shot. Which will float over to the next court and interrupt their doubles match. Yet they don’t tell you that on the weather reports, do they? We’re suffering too, ya know!

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

The world moves along at a pace.

In 1974 I met my first photocopier. We called them ‘Gestetner’ after the cousin of the man who invented it. Probably because the actual inventor was either in prison for war crimes or hiding out in Argentina. And, obviously, the first thing I did was slap my penis on the plate and make a photocopy. You had to. Then drop your pants and sit on it. A right of passage. In this case, the back passage. No employer would give you a proper contract until you’d photocopied some naughty bits and pieces.

And you’d show the print copy to your mates and laugh. Yes, a group of men laughing at your penis doesn’t do great things for your confidence, but for making people laugh, no price is too high. I’d very rarely hand copies out to women on tube trains.

I didn’t show the copies to any gay men, because gay men weren’t invented until 1979. Prior to that the entire population of the world was heterosexual.

Then flash forward (pun very much intended) to 2024 and you’d no more have a photocopier than you would a fax machine. Instead you have a phone. Which is in fact a massively powerful computer which can handle bank transactions securely, photocopy any document, count your daily steps, monitor your heart rate and play every song that’s ever been sung. And it can send things. Messages, documents and, of course, photographs.

And thus that stupid, puerile, pathetic need to display your genitals to others has the perfect vehicle for dispatch.

Thus did William Wragg, a ‘senior Conservative politician’, one of the people charged with running our entire nation, chose to send a picture of his nob to some geezer he’d never met, on a gay dating app. Said picture was then used by Mr Anonymous to essentially blackmail poor Willy (nothing is ever better than a nob joke). If he didn’t provide contact details for a whole bunch of very important ministers, Willy’s willy would be on the front page of the… Mail? Mirror? Sun? Daily Penis? So he gave the horrible man some contact details of various top MPs. Some of whom then received photos of other people’s genitalia. Male and female. So poor Willy had to confess to his compliance. And make himself the ‘victim’ of this cybercrime. Thus getting himself off the hook.

But a ‘senior politician’ sending pictures of his dick? Really? How ‘senior’ do you have to be in the Conservative Party to realise that is probably never a good idea?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’ve solved the economic crisis. It’s so easy. You just have to think ‘outside the box’. And as most politicians have trouble even working out where the box might be, I’ll help them out. Rishi needs help. I really don’t want Starmer to be PM, he’s an Arsenal fan and not a very likeable one. I’m not opposed to a Labour government, it would be impossible for them to tax us any higher than the Tories do, but just not ‘this’ Labour lot. So here’s what we should do.

Import Taylor Swift. Kidnap her. Steal her. Force her to become English. (Not British, though I appreciate her citizenship may be tarnished by association with the Scots and the Welsh). She can stay at my house. We have room. I’ll make room. But the boost to our economy would be…

Taylor is now a billionaire. We know that. Was only a matter of (not very much) time. But more importantly is that she just improves any micro-economy which comes inside her immense gravitational pull. Which is not to say she’s massive, like it would if applied to Jupiter, f’rinstance, because she’s totally perfect. LIKE MY WIFE!!! (who may or may not read this but you just don’t take chances like that).

Her current world tour has grossed $1billion. But the boost this tour will create just in the American part of it (she’s touring 5 continents) is $6billion. Six bil. That’s a shit-load of “I heart Taylor” t-shirts, bottles of peroxide and curling tongs. Probably a few sparkly mini-dresses thrown in too.

Because of her relationship with Travis Kelce, she came back from performing in Japan just to see him win the Superbowl. It became the most viewed Superbowl ever. And for those of us fortunate enough not to be American, The Superbowl is simply MASSIVE in viewing figures, advertising revenues, every monetary measure possible. And she made it significantly better, without even playing. As a comparison, when Lionel Messi’s mum came and watched him win the World Cup, total sales increased by 3 hot dogs and a box of popcorn.

So, yes, we all love Taylor. We the songs she writes, the tunes she sings, we love the ‘don’t fuck with me!!’ attitude and of course, we love her legs. Or would do, if we were allowed. But she is a complete industry, the benefits of which spread out to improve all of society. Just think what she could do for the NHS!!!

Come over, Taylor, MY BROTHER NEEDS YOU (and your money).

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Went to see my brother yesterday. And realised that I’m now fully conversant with the protocols for and at the Royal Free Hospital. Like; don’t even try to park within 500 yards of the place, it’s impossible. Like, if you take the lift to the 4th floor you end up in ICU reception and need to be buzzed through security doors to the wards, which in turn have their own security doors. But the reception desk is not always… ‘manned’? Can I use that word??? In Scotland I’d be arrested for even thinking of it. Anyway, you need a ‘person’ behind the desk, of unspecified religion, race, gender, sexual preference, football team supported, political affiliation or preferred chocolate bar, to ‘buzz’ you in, and at weekends and evenings such a person is absent. So you have to wait. Either for the next day’s shift to start or for some staff member to come from the wards into reception, when you barge them out the way and make a break through the open doors. Whereas, if you take the stairs, they bring you out on the ward corridor, the ‘other side’ of the reception doors!!!

The problem being that the ICU is on the 4th floor. and the stairs are very steep. So that’s how I can justify all the cake and chocolate I’m going to eat to replace all those calories burned on the way up. But here’s the weird bit; you go to floor 1, then 2 , then 3 and then, just as your thighs are burning and your breath coming short… you arrive at floor… nothing. Its not marked. Just a door with ‘no entry’ on it. Not ‘4th floor but you can’t come in’, not ‘danger: nuclear waste facility, you will grow extra limbs if you enter!!!!’, nothing. Yet it is a floor, so why don’t they number it? Possibly its just there to persecute the stair climbers by giving them a false sense of arrival. Bastards. Then another flight to the (nominal) 4th floor, even though we know its really the 5th.

Then we see the Brother. Yesterday, sitting in a chair. Holy fuck. That’s a good thing indeed. Still wired up like the NASA space centre but sitting. But this is the official progress report.

1. Stay alive. Check
2. Keep alive. Check
3. Regain consciousness. Check
4. Speak again. Check.
5. The ultimate sign of real recovery, at least for the time being, the true indicator that ‘he is back’. Complaining. Moaning. Impatience. Check, check, and check again.

And glorious that he is. All three. He hates sitting in the chair, and now he can let us know. And rather than my usual response which might be: stop fucking whingeing you ungrateful fucker, instead I just appreciate how massive an improvement it is that he can feel uncomfortable and express it and smile lovingly.

Onwards and upwards

A xxxx

Lila is 7 today. She’s (absolutely nobody’s) April fool. She’s so bright she’s found a way to monetise losing teeth. Her first of which fell out yesterday. She was duly compensated by the ‘tooth fairy’. And has been sitting in front of the mirror with a pair of pliers since then adding up her potential gains. Ok, maybe not the pliers. I would.

So that’s massive excitement, birthday, first baby tooth departure and she’s flying off to Florida to see Mickey Mouse this very day. Which should hopefully act as some compensation for her going to see Spurs on Saturday. Poor child. Social Services should offer guidelines.

Because Spurs were, by all accounts, both professional and fan-based: total shit. Appalling. An agonising game against ‘easy’ (they’re always ‘easy’ until kick off) opponents, which Spurs, eventually, didn’t so much ‘manage to win’, as ground their opposition down to lose. At the ‘11th hour’. Well, the 86th minute. Yaaaayyyy!!! We won!!! But at what emotional cost? This is where all those ‘mental health issues’ start.

But if an 86th minute winner is not late enough for you, you should have gone to Brentford to see Manchester United (remember them? Used to be a ‘big team’, arguably ‘the biggest in the world’, now they’re hoping to stay above Brighton so they might overtake Aston Villa). United scored in the 96th minute of an until then goalless game. Only to have Brentford equalise in the 99th minute. Such minutes simply didn’t exist 3 years ago. I don’t’ know where they actually get them from. You can’t just manufacture time, can you?

The funniest result of the weekend, though probably not for residents of Tower Hamlets, or those with sympathies for them, was at St James’ Park. Where West Ham took a 3-1 lead against the Geordie Saudis, and Moyes was actually smiling and smugness and arrogance was all over the pitch, wearing claret and blue. But then things changed. Personally I reckon a text came in from Mohammed Bin Salman himself, threatening to cut the right feet off the entire team if victory was not immediately forthcoming! Which, oddly, it was. 4-3 to Newcastle. Shame on West Ham. Not shame ‘for’ West Ham because they’re horrible.

And then came ‘the match of the season’ as it was cracked up to be. As Pep Guardiola called it: ‘the final!!!!’, even though we don’t have Premier League ‘finals’. Liverpool had beaten brighten in the earlier kick-off to go top. So when Manchester City and Arsenal strutted out on the Etihad grass, it was a kind’a ’winner takes all’ scenario, with the winner going top. And it was the perfect match up between the two best teams of the moment, a definite ‘goal fest’ in the making, a game to define all the glories of attacking football. What actually happened 90 minutes of paint drying, duller than dishwater mutual neutralisation which had me asleep within minutes and with nothing worthy to bother awakening from my slumber for. For entertainment Watford Leeds was in a different league. Ok, they are in a different league, but you get the point.

Happy Easter Monday. Jesus rose up from the dead. Spurs only have to rise above Aston Villa. Which would you put your money on?

A xxxx

I went to visit the boatman yesterday. He’s moored up in Runnymede, (out near Windsor, where they signed the Magna Carta, you remember, surely?). I didn’t want to visit, no-one does, but I needed some ‘work done’. And in a former life, Mr Boat-person (not presuming nuffink), before he became aquatic, ran garages. For cars. And I needed a job doing on my mid-life-crisis, and a thirty mile blast round the motorways seemed like a good way of getting it done. Although you don’t so much ‘blast’ round the M25 as… stumble?, agonise?, crierch??, though really it wasn’t too bad.

And the job was: change the number plates. Which, I admit, in a little car park down by the river, looks a little on the dodgy side. But it was legal. They’re my ‘vanity plates’. Well, actually, and obviously, they’re Mel’s. But I want her name on my car for all to see. So they’ll know the love, the contentment, the happiness of our life together. And if I get flashed for speeding, (which I probably did on the way home), they’ll think it’s her.

And by then it had even stopped raining. Then the sun shone on the world. And all was wonderful! Except I was busy changing the details on my insurance, really quickly. It only takes ten minutes but if the car was nicked during those 10 minutes I wouldn’t know how to report it. And that cost £5.50. ‘Admin fee’. I thought it meant they were going to pay me as I was the one who did it, but turns out I had to pay them. For… well, ‘ad-min, innit?’ Then last but not least, I had to go to the DVLA and ‘put’ the number on the car. Then, and only then, could I enjoy life on the river.

Which started with shooting an empty beer can on the shore with an air pistol because… it deserved it? Or just because; ‘why not’? Lunch was in a local pub, right on the river, The Bells of Ousley. Lovely place. Now a ‘Harvester’. And as harvest brings to mind fields of wheat, ripened apples coming off trees, digging potatoes out of the ground… we had the ‘vegan special’. Which, in a Harvester, consists of meat. And more meat. Then more meat. Oh, and a few eggs. But even they had meat underneath them. Even the ‘salad bar’ in a Harvester is meat. The ‘vegan’ bit was the chips and onion rings. And you need both because… because you do. That was two of our ‘five a day’ right there. All nicely fried.

It was wonderful. I’d eat it every day, though if I did I probably wouldn’t have many more ‘every days’ left.

Then I drove back on surprisingly empty roads, top down, sun (ok, and a bit of wind) on my face, trying to keep the speed down even though I had the reassurance that Mel would take the hit if I got caught.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

This weekend is the annual ‘Boat Race’. There’s only one. Which counts, the rest no-one gives a shit about. And that’s precisely the problem. Shit. In the water. More specifically, in our rivers, streams and seas. Loads of it. To the point where there is a warning on the River Thames, the nation’s only ‘proper’ river, by virtue of it running fru Luundun, which none’a de others don’t. The warning is for e-coli, the horrible bacterial infection. Which is such a problem in ‘the River’ that they’ve said that the Oxford and Cambridge boat race teams really shouldn’t throw their cox into the water after the race, as is tradition. Because he (or she) will possibly be dead before they resurface. Ok, so they could take a spare one, for the ride home, as they’re only small, but that misses the point.

Our waterways have basically become the nation’s toilet system. Because the water and waste companies get confused about that particular bit of multi-tasking and confuse the water with the waste. And thus, in times of stress, or even heavy rainfall (this is England, FFS, we ARE heavy rainfall) the shit gets dumped… anywhere. Rivers, the Sea, waterways to a massive extent. The actual magnitude of which is the real issue under discussion. Well, I’m discussing it, everyone else thinks it’s too gross, but I care for my environment in ways you wouldn’t even know about.

Because they seem to be measuring the quantity of shit dumped (yes, very funny…) not in kilograms, pounds and ounces or tons. But in ‘hours’. Last year they dumped waste for 3.6 million hours. Their limit should be just 1.8 million hours. Ok.

What the fuck does that even mean. Let’s get a bit graphic. I take a dump, that takes approximately 42 seconds. I’m good. Efficient. So if you allow, say, a minute and half, even two minutes with a good groan and push, then 3.6 million hours, divided by 2 minutes… that’s sixteen trillion tons of shit. Maybe 3 billion. Let’s just say ‘a lot’. Even ‘a shit load’. Because really, for any meaningful understanding, we need to know how much effluent is being siphoned off every ‘hour’. But we’re not told. Just the number of ‘hours’. Which is bit like telling everyone how big your penis is; in amps. The units are simply wrong.

The water companies make simply humongous profits. Yet bemoan sorting out this sorry, sad and soiled mess. I’m thinking of going on a toilet strike until this dire situation is rectified. Not sure how that’ll work out but that’s the meaning of most strikes really.

BOYCOTT THE BOG! NOWWWW!!!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So we’re all preparing for World War 3: the Final Apocalypse!, which will in fact be filmed live on YouTube, according to the law, and starring… well, all of us, really. I was going to play Schwarzenegger, but due to my recent shrinkage, I’ll now play Tom Cruise instead. The ante was upped on the weekend with an attack in Moscow by ISIS (allll-eggggg-edly) in which 134 innocent Russians were brutally murdered. How on earth did they manage to find 134 innocent Russians? Who knew there were that many? But murder them they did. Putin immediately blamed Ukraine. Well, why not, he blames them for most things. Then ISIS not only claimed responsibility but showed video proof. So Putin changed his tack and claimed ISIS did it ‘on behalf of Kiev’. Because he needs to maintain that narrative for ‘his people’ lest they think him to be a murderous, tyrannical warmonger sending their sons to their death in Ukraine.

It is now suggested that the attackers were part of what is known as ‘ISIS-K’, which is very much like ISIS but a bit more… K-ish. They come from Afghanistan and they fucking hate the Taliban. Because they’re too… errrr… well, murderous, too hard-line, right-wing-Sharia, Islamist, fundamentalist Muslim… which is a bit different to ISIS-K who are more… hmmmm.

ISIS-K perpetrated a suicide bombing last year at a mosque in Kabul in protest (they ‘protest’ a bit differently over there, less posters, more Semtex) against the Taliban. And they hate Russia. Not just because everyone hates Russia, but because of the military aid Putin gave to Assad to try to rid Syria of ISIS. Ok, while they were there they murdered tens of thousands of non-ISIS Syrians who happened to oppose Assad, but their stated mission was ‘destroy ISIS’. Or, at least halve them, so they became just IS. So there’s ‘history’ there.

But attacking Russia? I mean… it’s Russia! The meanest, nastiest, lyingest, vile-est, warring-est, nuclearest, biggest horrible nation on the planet. Its like a flea attacking an bear. And yet Russia can’t retaliate. Because like Hamas, like Al Quaeda, like so many of these similar yet disparate groups, they exist nowhere but everywhere. They are merely an ideology. And even Putin can’t bomb, destroy or put troops into an ideology. If there was an ‘Islamic State’, he’d have a target, but there isn’t. The four dudes wot done it appeared in court looking in… not the best of health, after their ‘interrogation’. One was missing an ear. Another was unconscious in a wheelchair. The other two looked ‘worse for wear’. Russia doesn’t have a ‘no torture’ agreement with anyone. And how much sympathy can you feel for four deluded morons who’ve just murdered 134 people? And who would torture you without a moment’s hesitation.

Everyone else seems to have missed this massive point along the way, but Putin will now get it. That Radical Islamic organisations are there to promote death. They live for it. Ironically. And stirred up by religious fervour, there are no limits to the death they’ll spread. Israel alone is not allowed to defend itself from the repeated threat of ‘total annihilation’ of all its people. The UN ‘won’t allow it’s. But they can’t stop Russia.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Today is the Jewish festival of Purim. That’s nice. What’s Purim? Ahhh, it’s a celebration. Of… well, pretty much a celebration of the Jewish condition. Purim basically means ‘Tsurus’ or ‘Aggro’, as most Jewish festivals do. You see, its all about King Ahasuerus and Queen Esther…

This was in ancient Persia in about 400BC!! Yes, BC, before the dinosaurs. Almost. And Persia was still called Persia and was a great place to be; enlightened, a home of education, philosophy, architecture and all the wonders which ceased suddenly when the Clash released ‘Rock the Kasbah’ and Persia turned into Iran. They banned culture, imposed draconian measures on their population, wrapped the women up in black and re-introduced all those lovely biblical activities like beheadings, stoning, industrialised misogyny, all under the heading of ‘God’s will’.

So the King sacked his old Queen (literally ‘old Queen’, not a reference to Quentin Crisp or Ian McKellen) and chose Esther as his new one, after she won a beauty contest. (I’d be interested to know if they still have beauty contests in modern day ‘Persia’). Pretty much like they choose Queens today in most countries. Esther heard about a plot to kill the king and told her cousin, Mordechai about it. The King’s head dude, Haman, was a real mutha who wanted to kill all Jews. Esther saved the day, and her people, Haman was hanged and we survived until the next catastrophe.

Which run in a pretty much unbroken line up to today. Always someone wanting to kill all the Jews, normally, but by no means exclusively, Iran.

Thus Purim celebrates survival. As does Passover and… possibly some others. And just think; if we didn’t have Purim, there’d be no Blazing Saddles! Not one Woody Allen film would exist! The Jewish Chronicle would just be ‘The Chronicle’ and ‘andysglasses’ would just be ‘glasses’! What an horrendous dystopia that would be.

It’s traditional to tell the story of Purim and every time the name ‘Haman’ crops up you shout and boo and bang bangy things and make lots of noise. You also dress up. Mainly as Queen Esther but I couldn’t get my dress zipped up so I’m dressed as an old man in tennis gear instead.

Happy Purim

A xxxx