Andy's Glasses

How was your Tuesday? Probably better than Rishi Sunak’s. Unless you’re a West Ham fan, obviously. Because yesterday they took the pre-vote vote on the Rwanda bill. Again??? Yes, again. We’ve got loads of horrible forriners fresh of their highly sinkable boats, just waiting for a one-way ticket to… well, kind of ‘oblivion’. There’s a queue half way round Heathrow as we speak, ok, that’s nothing unusual in itself, but this is people under guard. Chained to the Duty Free. Shackled to the Oyster Bar. Because they can’t be deported until we sort out the whole Rwanda thing. And this is the third time its come before ‘the House’. The proper vote is today. Yesterday’s was just to approve the wording of the plan. And for others to seek an amendment to it before it passes parliament.

60 people from the government voted against Rishi’s plan and 3 of them resigned in protest.

Not because they’re lovely people who think a few poor asylum seekers who’ve been tortured and persecuted in their own countries then crossed half the world on foot and by very precarious boats to arrive here, should be given a break of some kind. But because they think the wording of the policy is not strong enough. It gives refugees the right of appeal. Keeps them here when we want them gone. Make the wording tight and infallible so the courts won’t rule it illegal or unworkable, like the previous 2 times.

From my perspective, its all just a bit ‘random’, a bit ‘desperate’. You can’t send refugees ‘home’ if they’ve been victimised in some way so send them to (close eyes, spin a globe of the world, stick a finger on it to stop it…) to Rwanda!!! Lets just bung that semi-trustworthy, possibly human-rights-abusing, questionably corrupt, previously torturing nation a few hundred million and see if we pass a law to dump our unwanteds there. Oh, sorry, see if we can ‘stop this horrible trade in human trafficking’, what was I thinking?

They vote today. And if they don’t amend the bill, we’ll probably be voting again next month, possibly the one after as well, depending on when the general election is called.

This is precisely why we NEED football.

Happy wednesday

A xxxx

So we’re out to ‘de-escalate’ the potential troubles in the Red Sea. By bombing the shit out of a bunch of terrorists, armed to the teeth, who care about nothing but their hatred for us and, well, about escalating issues of violence and war.

So how did that work out, David Cameron? The ‘de-escalation’ business? Oh. They fired a missile at a ship yesterday. In the Red Sea. Oh. And they’re after our blood. Ok.

The thing is; we’re right to attack the motherfuckers where it hurts them. Can’t cower. Mustn’t yield. They are affecting 15% of the entire trade of the whole world. Causing delays. Increasing costs. And endangering the lives of all those involved in shipping through the area. Including our seamen. This is like the diametric opposite of Pirates of Penzance.

So Houthis beware! Though in reality they’re probably loving it. And their rockets come from Iran in an ‘all you can eat’ package. And ours come from Rockets-are-us at about a million quid each. But there ya go; the cost of defending the world. And doing the right thing.

Meanwhile, back here, the government has finally proscribed Hizb al Tehrir as a terrorist organisation. Really? What about freedom of speech? What about human rights?? Aren’t fundamentalist, Jihadi, hate-mongering, radicalising, death-supporting terrorists entitled such consideration??? Just because their agenda is to convert the entire world into a Sharia-controlled fun-house which would make the Taleban seem like Boyzone, and kill non-believers and anyone else they don’t really like; is that a reason to ban them? Other than their admiration and support for Hamas slaughter on October 7th and calling for holy war in the middle of Charing Cross.

So well done the Home Office for following the example of Germany, Russia, China and every Arab country except Lebanon and a couple of others. Hmmmm, too nasty for Russia… too nasty for China… yet takes us 5 years to declare them unfit for British streets…

Never mind, better late than never.

Happy Tuesday-at-war

A xxxx

I went to the rally yesterday in Trafalgar Square, ever conscious that at 4.30 Spurs were kicking off at Manchester United and would probably be more in need of my support than Israel is.

And how apt. How appropriate. How sychronistic. That Gary Lineker has chosen to unilaterally align my two pet obsessions of the moment; football and Israel. You wouldn’t get that ‘in the old days’.

Because way-back-when, Match of the Day was a football program. Its presenters were footballers, ex-footballers, football writers, football pundits or football obsessives. Or any 3 of those things combined. They didn’t venture into the realms of rationing, power cuts, Harold Wilson’s government, Ted Heath’s sexuality, the war in Vietnam, the war in the Falklands, the war in Serbia. They never tweeted anything. To them ‘X’ was a letter in the alphabet or a kiss.

But today, thanks to Gary Lineker, I can segue directly from defending Israel against the entire world in the frozen wastes of Nelson’s Column, to watching my favourite sport, without dropping the baton.

Because Gary Lineker, not only does he present the most fab football program in the entire world, but now, he gives us his valuable insight into the whole, Israel, Gaza, Palestine, antisemitism too!! He’s just brilliant!! Possibly the most brilliant man to advertise Walker’s Crisps! Because he really is so clever.

Well, he must be, as the BBC’s top earning ‘talent’. Mustn’t he? He’s taught me so much of his valuable wisdom.

He’s taught me that to score proper goals you never need to be outside the penalty area. And that being captain of England is a great thing. Also, that all jews are bastards, all Israelis war-mongering genocidal… Jews!!, and that if we boycott that horrible nation that’ll make everything better. Because we always sanction every country, anywhere, who’s actions are called into question… as long as its Israel. The rest we don’t bother with because, they’re not Israeli, not full of Jews, so we don’t care. We only care about the boat people, we care about hating the government and we really care about appearing to be really right-on, woke, super-cool, hard-left and full of misplaced compassion for everyone that everyone else seems to blindly care about when they have no idea what’s going on.

Gary Lineker is ‘taking the piss’ out of his employers. Pushing the limits. Challenging to sack him, after they’ve warned him, suspended him, threatened him. Yet for some reason he feels invincible. He needs to be shown. That being a habitual tosser is one thing, but to offend ME is completely different.

Time to rid ourselves of the hateful, ignorant, grinning creep, whose outrageous salary WE pay.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I just have three words to describe how the football season changed totally yesterday. How blurred lines and hopeful aspirations have now completely clarified and plummeted to zero. How the dreams of the wannabes were put to the sword in 24 minutes of domination and demonstration of future intent.

Kevin. De. Bruyne.

The Belgian returned from a 5 month injury to single-handedly turn the game around at Newcastle. The quiet man who you’d expect to find standing in the corner at a party, alone and sipping sparkling water (no ice), abandons his natural Clark Kent persona as he walks onto the pitch. And much as I hate his club with a passion, to watch him play is to watch a true master. I think he inherited Beckenbauer’s soul. Well, someone had to.

And now I’m off to Trafalgar Square. To March ‘for Israel’. Everyone’s favourite nation. I’m not sure what the stated intention is for today but I know what the outcome will be. That the 20,000, possibly 30,000 or more who gather there will feel their passions for supporting Israel bolstered, whilst everyone who doesn’t go will continue to hate it with renewed passion. We’ll convince ourselves that ‘we’ are right, morally, politically and in every way, and no-one who thinks otherwise will in any way be moved towards our stance. We’re really good at that. But heh, if we don’t think that, then who will?

As yesterday’s ’march against Israel’ ended up the predictable shit-show of Israel hate and blatant anti-semitism, with flags supporting Hamas all over the place, with nice, ‘liberal’ lefties from the Cricklewood Vegans showing their support for the group who murdered, tortured and raped 1400 people on October 7th.

Meanwhile, in the UN Court of Worthlessness and Impotence over in The Hague, South Africa, after a clandestine but fully reported meeting with Hamas leaders in December, have brought charges of ‘genocide’ against Israel. If this is upheld by the court, they will make ‘demands’!!! Like they did 2 years ago against Russian air strikes in Ukraine.
But genocide? The irony is not lost that genocide is precisely what Hamas states as intention on page 1 of its ‘Tips for better terrorism’ handbook.

So I will march. Someone has to. There were 100,000 marching yesterday for a ‘Palestine’ they neither know nor understand. But it’s the 20,000 dead we all bemoan. Just odd that no-one has marched about the 100,000 dead in Syria, nor 150,000 in Yemen. I don’t know the numbers for Sudan but it’s bad, horrible and tragic. Yet at the first civilian casualty caused by Israel, the UN, the ‘liberal left’ and the entire fucking world is up in arms.

And I shall stay there, in the cold, supporting Israel, until it’s time to get home for the second half of the Spurs-Manchester United game. That’s commitment.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I’m at war. I declared it on Thursday night and I’ve already bombed the shit out of half of Yemen. Even though I’m not at war with Yemen, but with the Houthis. Who? Hou??? Houthis. That band of warrior fighter/religious zealotish, rebel-type dudes from Northern Yemen. They look a bit like the Taliban, same dentists, I think, but it’s all a bit samey out there among the different groups of goat-shaggers in the all the different mountain ranges, different countries, just the same guns.

But the Taliban they ain’t. Because Houthis are Shia Muslims. And in any Sunni majority country, the Shias are second class citizens. Whereas in Shia nations, the Sunnis get treated like shit. Its a big divide in the Muslim world and growing all the time as the two massive ‘power houses’, (Sunni) Saudi Arabia and (Shia) Iran pull further and further apart and get closer to warring themselves. Rather than setting up proxy wars all over the place, like in Yemen.

Sunni and Shia are different interpretations of the Quran. A ‘minor detail’. But if ‘God is in the details’, when those details are actually about God, it tends to get a bit heated. Protestants and Catholics generally get along ok, but it wasn’t always the case. The Spanish Inquisition may not have been Catholicism’s greatest moment but it demonstrates how religious passions turn to virtual fucking insanity, in which torture and death are perfectly ok in God’s eyes to further His cause. Really? What kind’a God would that be, then?

Jews have this too. THIS is the correct way to pray; anything else is just NOT JEWISH. You want women rabbis; call yourself something else. You want to contemporise the rules, become some third rate offshoot with a different name. ‘Progressive’ or ‘Reform’ or ‘Jews for Jesus’, but we disown you. Jews just do it without violence. We don’t do pain very well.

But Muslims take things further. You can’t have a simple religious debate without beheadings. God wouldn’t approve. He demands blood. Again: really?

Iran will fund any Shia movement. Particularly those who stand against Israel. Hence all the rockets fired every day (as Hamas’s part of the ‘ceasefire’) from Gaza. And Hezbollah’s massive cache of weaponry and rockets. The Houthis can’t afford belts and tie their trousers with string, but they have guns, artillery, rockets, helicopters, all bearing ‘made in Iran’ logos.

And the Houthis, allegedly ‘in support of the Palestinians in Gaza’, have been attacking shipping the Red Sea. ‘To stop goods going to Israel’. Whereas in fact they’ve been engaged in mass piracy of shipping which has nothing to do with Israel. And in doing so have frightened freight ships out of the Red Sea altogether, forcing them to circumnavigate the whole of Africa to avoid the Suez Canal.

So that’s why I’m at war with them. Because they attacked ‘my’ ships.

And before the inevitable rabble of ‘ceasefire-mavens’ start saying how we should all ‘be sitting round a table, negotiating’, just a small point. YOU CAN’T NEGOTIATE WITH EXTREMISTS. Not the Houthis, not Hamas, not ISIS, not the Spanish Inquisition.

I tend to judge any group or race by the quality of its comedy clubs. That may not be scientific but it’s my measure of civilisation. And, without visiting northern Yemen to get proper evidence, I’m gonna guess the Houthis fall way short.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’ve been away. Came back to a variety of FA cup stuff which was all well and good until we got drawn against Manchester City in the next round. And no-one wants that. Least of all me. But while away, they chose not to suspend the league in my absence but played it anyway! So I could, from a vantage point of 5.5 hours of time later, enjoy the results. And they were enjoyable for Spurs. In the most part. We had a good little run over the Christmas log-jam and festival of ‘let’s see how many players we can injure in 10 days’. But never mind, we’ve bought Timo Werner so we’re good to go. He’s a bit like Harry Kane, but without the goals. More importantly, Arsenal had a not-very-merry Christmas. Nor Chelsea. But this weekend we play the most indifferent team of the season, Manchester United. Oooooh, that’s exciting.

Have to mention that this week two sporting superstars died. The word ‘legend’ has now been relegated to ‘anyone who buys you a beer in the pub’, as in ‘cheers, mate, yer a legend’. But there was a time when it was used, although metaphorically, far less so than it is now. And both Franz Beckenbauer and JPR Williams were true, total, legends of their games. In some ways redefining the way their games would be played forever after.

Franz Beckenbauer can best be described in one word. Class. Because he ‘saw’ the game so completely, he was wasted as a striker, waiting for the ball. Even as an attacking midfielder his options were too limited. So he invented the role of ‘sweeper’, a proto-holding-midfielder. Because from there he could see everything ahead of him and with his incredible ability with the ball at his feet, he would craft the perfect attack. He simply ran the game, whether for Bayern or for Germany.

JPR was the Welsh fullback in the greatest ever period for Welsh rugby, standing alongside Gareth Edwards, Barry John, John Dawes, Phil Bennett and all the most brilliant players the Principality ever produced. But fullbacks were limited back then. Defensive roles, field a few high balls, kick out from the back. JPR was speed, power and skill, equally adept at running through the field as putting in awesome tackles. In one match his face was stood upon. He went off, had his (doctor) father put 30 stitches in his wound, bind him up, and returned for the rest of the match. I’m not saying injury protocols are not a good addition to the game, but when footballers get stretchered off the pitch if their hair gel goes awry, there’s something heroic and noble for the likes of JPR. Who was, as they all were, strictly amateur.

As one wit put it on Twitter: Beckenbauer and JPR died today. No-one’s getting through the defence in heaven.

RIP two legends of my youth.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I was always ‘proud’ to be something of a diversity. That I could include myself happily in the whole ‘LGBT’ thing, paint my hair purple, wear rainbows, march in a ball gown, the lot. Because I was under the impression that the ‘B’ stood for ‘bath’. And for so many years after expressing my love of this wonderfully relaxing cleansing technique, only to hear people reply ‘poof!’, I just assumed I was a deviant. When later I found out the ‘B’ stood for ‘bisexual’, I thought that was a plumbing term, you know, that lever that switches from the bath to the shower. And as I love showers too, it all seemed to fit nicely into my diverse, inclusive and politically correct lifestyle. To such an extent that when I actually realised the errors of my thinking, I had to cancel myself. Which led to communication problems.

When we moved into our house, 35 years ago (how is that fucking possible???), it had been untouched for decades, possibly centuries. So we ‘done a refit, innit’. And they’d just invented ‘power showers’. So rather than standing under a trickle, you could stand under the power of 16 Niagaras every morning. A shower so powerful that only those with really strong knees could turn it on. And that’s what I wanted. And it was brilliant. Ok, a bit ‘brutal’ in those days as, when you turned it on the sound coming from the loft was like a V8 dragster powering up. Oddly, I liked that too.

But every cloud has a silver lining so every dog has its, err, day? Whatever, there’s always a downside. And with every power shower comes a squeegee. Because with that much water, there’s spray all over the lovely tiles. Which obviously needs to be immediately removed or otherwise… errrr… well, otherwise, Golgotha will fall! Hell will freeze over!! The Martians will invade!! Or, the tiles will have spots of water on them. And no-one wants that!

I never realised the real value of a holiday until this morning, when I squeegeed my shower. Because for 2 weeks of showering in loads of different places, I never once had to squeegee. Wasn’t even tempted to rush to a little Indian market stall and buy one for a quid (everything’s a quid in India, except taxi fares, they’re 50p). I just showered and… and walked out! So as I dragged that horrible rubber thing squeakily down the walls this morning, I realised 2 things. Firstly, that I was home again. And secondly, that I am Pavlov’s dog. I didn’t even have to ponder it. As the shower went off, so the squeegee began its well trodden path.

Which probably accounts for why I like baths.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Mel and I went to Sri Lanka 39 years ago on what was to be the first of many ‘exotic’ holidays. For Mel, it was fantastic because she came home with jewels and had found the man of her (and everyone else’s) dreams. And for me, I got to ride on an elephant; you just can’t beat that. But whilst there we went to a spice garden. It was magical. You pulled a lump of bark from the outside of a tree, break it and it is cinnamon. I mean, really? We had loads of trees in Ilford but I’d never done that before. Pull this ‘thing’, all withered and dark brown and woody, from a branch and it is vanilla!!! And that may have become the word to describe the almost indescribably bland and mediocre, but vanilla was the cause and main reason for the entire ‘spice route’ which opened up, quite literally, the entire world, and is also the most expensive commodity on the planet, by weight, depending on the price of gold or 35-year-old single malt whisky. And here’s some berry things, pulled off a bush. Crush one up, and ahhhhhh-CHOOOOO!!!, peppercorns.

Life was simple back in the last century. Spices were spices and leaves were leaves. Ok, there were tea leaves, bay-leaves, other interesting tasting leaves, but mainly the leaves of the other trees were a waste product and the seed pods of the the desirable leaf trees were just so much ‘jungle’.

In the intervening years someone came up with the ‘science’ of Ayurveda, which was a brilliant, incisive and commercially revolutionary innovation. Because, it is, essentially, the science of taking useless vegetable waste products like leaves, twigs, seeds, petals, bark, and any other green shit you can find, and bestowing upon the most useless of leafage, life saving properties. Possibly greater longevity. Better health. Alertness whilst sleeping much better. Sleepiness whilst being more alert. An end to bad breath. A longer penis (just rub this cream, Sir…), stronger hips, better rotation in your shoulders, enhanced neck movement, mainly on Tuesdays.

A cream, balm, capsule or tablet for everything and anything, all backed up by the ‘science’ of Ayurveda, which proves statistically, empirically and laughably, that ‘any practice involving the ingestion, application or insertion of any old green shit on your body can only be good. Can’t it?’

Ok, it is an ancient pseudo-medical system over here and, as always, if you believe, and it helps, then it works. But you go to see cardamum pods growing in the wild and they’re trying to sell you a million tubes and bottles of snake oil.

Happy cynical Sunday, possibly Monday, cos we’re on our way home. And it ain’t easy.

A xxxx

This is a fish. (The thing on the left). You didn’t know they came like this, did you? You thought fishes came in ring pull tins, or little plastic, vacuum-packed pouches, or in thin, pink slices of wonderful smoky fishiness from the deli. But no, this is how they start life. Well, end life. And this one weighed in at 2.2 Kilos. A big fucker. Not quite a full ‘whale’, but on the larger side of edible fishes. And the deal in this restaurant was just brilliant. You pick your fish. You pick what spices, combinations, variations, whatever and then you choose whether you want it grilled on a… well, on a grill, or over coals or… baked in a tandoor. And the result is, in culinary terminology: fucking spectacular.

But that’s not the issue here. This is not just another ‘Andy’s eaten something fantastic and he’ll never share one bite with meeeee’, thing. No. This is about people. And how we behave, ‘in the wild’. From a purely behavioural standpoint. Like stepping back and observing the human animals like David Attenborough would, as they gather around a common ‘watering hole’, which in this case is a hotel swimming pool. How they claim their territory (and if you thought this to be just an ‘animal’ event, watch any German claiming his pool chairs at 5.45am). And whilst most animals mate ‘for life’, humans tend to buck this trend and go for 7 years or 3 kids, whichever comes first. Then they’re hanging it all out with their thong bikinis as they try to be alluring to the next potential mate.

And it all starts with observation. You see another ‘mating pair’ coming to a sun bed near you. And you have to make a split second judgment: do you smile welcomingly at them? Or blank them, scowl, do a lot of ‘tutting’ and just accept that as you’re never likely to be friends with these people, might as well get the hatred kicking off asap. You have to judge books by covers. And decide accordingly. The closest thing humans have to ‘plumage’ is my Spurs hat. But that’s only there to attract a ‘mate’ in the ‘pub crawl’ sense of the word.

And one couple, a few days ago, crossed by our hunting ground, where I was the ‘dominant male’, which is the one Mel’s yelling instructions at. And we didn’t like the look of them one bit. Blanked them totally. Unworthy to befriend. Both much too tall to be decent people; you can tell. But then they started chatting. In English. Even though she’s certainly not and he had lived in Germany long enough to speak to the Germans here fluently in their own tongue. Yet they live in Muswell Hill. So we went out to eat. To this fish place which they recommended. And may possibly now become our best mates EVERRRRR.

Ok, possibly not. But just goes to show. I just wish I knew what it was that it did show, so I might learn for next time. But I won’t.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I’ve always viewed life as a series of movies, in which I play the hero. The saviour. The martyr, the lead singer, the quarterback, centre forward, the hand of God, Zorro, Christ the Redeemer, Florence Nightingale, Douglas Bader, The Cheerleader, Luke Skywalker and Kermit the Frog. Bruce Lee, obviously. But this morning we entered the set of…

Apocalypse Now!!!

You see, it’s about the tropics. Though obviously ‘that’ tropic was the Vietnam one and we’re living an Indian tropic down here in southest of south India. And yet… does it matter? Tropics is tropics, right? Because they are defined by: outrageous heat and stupid levels of humidity. Tick. A jungle view out of every window. Tick. If you mowed your lawn here on a Sunday, by next Thursday everything would be 70 feet up in the air with leaves the size of buses. And noises. Animal noises which tell you you’re in the tropics. Mainly insects and birds and, quite frankly, you wouldn’t want to be hearing anything else too close by. Or anything else bigger than parrots and grasshoppers. Or slitherier.

And so, as we took a boat ride into this fantastic mangrove forest on yet another wetlandy type nature reserve right by the coast, I could hear the Flight of the Valkyries playing in my internal soundtrack. I was lovin’ the smell of napalm in the morning, and I was looking for some ‘cong’ to shoot. Because that’s the soundtrack of the tropics. Forever ruined for me by a meaningless proxy war which killed thousands of American kids, then glorified by Francis Ford Coppola in between his Godfather years and immortalised by Martin Sheen and Marlon Brando (blessed be he).

I get that view, that ‘feeling’ of moisturised heat on my body, those noises, and I’m just waiting for the ‘dmp-dmp-dmp-‘ throbbing of the helicopters, with me manning the machine gun, Mel feeding the ammunition belt and making the coffee, with a Rambo knife between her teeth, and for the battle to start.

Happy Tropical Thursday

A xxxx