Andy's Glasses

Houston, we have a problem…

We all love music. It’s… musical. Nice. Singalong. La-di-daaah. But thing is we’re hard wired to love music. It stirs… things inside us over which we have no control. I don’t have much control over anything really, but for music, it’s just a matter of which bit, of which song, pushes particular ‘buttons’ in our brains.

Now don’t laugh, but the first songs which really ‘got to me’, in an emotional sense were sung by Gerry and the Pacemakers. When I first heard Ferry Cross the Mersey, I had no idea where the Mersey was, or I’d have had my audio-sensory system re-wired immediately. I probably didn’t know what a ‘ferry’ was either; we didn’t have them in East London. Only at Woolwich, but no-one ever mentioned South London in those days. Some of us still don’t. But then they released Never Walk Alone. And I would watch Top of the Pops (it was all we had and we were grateful for it, Jimmy Saville and all) holding a tissue to my eyes. It stirred bits of the proto-me that I didn’t know I had.

Since then there are many songs which ‘get me going’. ‘I will always love you’, by Whitney. When she hits ‘that note’, everything else in the world is temporarily suspended. Elvis Costello’s ‘Alison’. ‘Black Sabbath’ by the eponymous band; those 3 notes simply dig inside your kishkas (innards) and shlep (pull). The piano version of ‘Everchanging Moods’ similarly induces a form of deliriously happy melancholy, as long as I don’t have to look at Paul Weller whilst I listen.

Islands in the Stream is magical. Jolene. I know, I hate Country music but this is beyond mere ‘choice’. Virtually anything by Taylor Swift. Someone Like You; when that hit the charts I cried non-stop for 3 weeks. Leather and Lace by Stevie Nicks.

I don’t choose these songs; they choose me. They hit me.

And my latest addition, possibly my most shameful is ‘Let it Go’. The world’s most annoying song ever written, by Walt Disney (and he’s responsible for most of the Top 10 Annoying Songs, for sure), and I heard it on the radio the other day and now… now… it… affects me. I haven’t yet gone to see if I can get an Elsa dress for a 38 inch chest but it’s only a matter of time as karaoke season warms up, I’m already practicing those high notes.

Shoot me now.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I like football. There. I’ve said it. I’ve ’come out’ as a football… fan-cier. A devotee. A worshipper at the alter of the Premier League. Who, ironically in the light of this metaphor, have shown themselves to be as godless as any organisation can be, as deducting 10 points from Everton was purely the work of the devil. Within the ‘context’ of ‘sins perpetrated’ by both Chelsea and Manchester City. (My choice of putting the word ‘context’ in quotes is because, for a word so previously benign and concise, it has recently become the go-to ally of those wishing to justify all manner of evil thoughts, words and actions. For ‘abuse and reconstruction of words in general’; read ‘the bitch is back’, by… errrr… me).

Like all football fans, I come with ‘baggage’. The older you are, as in all walks of life, the more baggage you carry. And tragically, this tends to affect my appreciation of the game. Reduces the much-advertised ‘beauty’. Because over the many years I have been upset, abused, ridiculed and devastated by the actions of other football teams. And really, it goes beyond ‘they beat us 6-1 in 1927; I’ll never get over it’. And most of it so subtle in its lingering manifestation that I’m barely aware. Other than for Arsenal, obviously and Chelsea, both of which are patently self-evident to every decent person.

My first ever visit to Spurs was in (probably) 1965?, ‘66??, against Man City. 1-all draw and my blue-and-white bobble hat was stolen by a Mancunian thug, probably Liam Gallagher’s father, if he knows who that is, on the way home. Some things can never be forgiven. Then being bought by oil money and hauled up from low-ranking obscurity destined to an eternity in United’s very long shadow, to the ultimate, treble-winning juggernaut (current form notwithstanding), didn’t seem to increase any lurve for the northern bastards. And, if I’m honest, they will remain forever rooted to that hateful place in my footballing heart.

Whereas Everton have never really done anything to upset me at all. They’re just sort of ‘there’ but not in a particularly real or threatening way. But take 10 points off them and suddenly I’m an Everton fan. When they beat Newcastle in the week, a team I almost actually ‘like’!!!, I was thrilled that they may yet survive the most outrageous abuse they received from the Premier League. And for all my fondness for Newcastle, let us hope that they take at least another 7 days before recovering from their loss.

I used to go to West Ham quite a lot as a kid. Leyton Orient too. And to this day I dearly love Leyton Orient. And deeply despise West Ham United.

I’ve never had any issue with Aston Villa. I’ve been to Villa Park numerous times because they always used to play cup semi-finals there. Because it was a ‘lovely ground’. In about 1962. Now it’s a shit-hole. But I do have time for their team and, in particular, for manager Unai Emery, who is performing miracles there. Let’s hope, after their midweek domination of Manchester City, they can repeat against the Gunners tonight. It needs to be done.

So you see, much as no man is an island, thus, no man in football is free from a thousand prejudices.

Hope they have more luck playing today’s football than I had playing tennis.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

What did we ever do before ‘WhatsApp groups’ were invented? What was our meaning in life? And that of our forebears? It was all meaningless. Pointless. But we all had way more time on our hands.

But they can be fun. Well, for me they can be fun. For others probably ‘really annoying’ and ‘stupid’ and ‘a waste of words’. Yet I realised my role in the grand scheme of things. My rightful place. As an ‘agent provocateur’. Not, like, the women’s lingerie version, the other one. That annoying bastard who’s always winding everyone up. Because why should everyone get an easy ride in life?

Because I just had a big ‘row’. On a WhatsApp group. Because… I called a woman a ‘bitch’!!!! Only because she was one. Not a woman on the group but a woman who was the president of the board at Penn State University. Oh, ‘that bitch’. Yup. The one who, before a government inquiry board, refused to say that Penn State would stop students from advocating ‘genocide to all Jews’, following the horrendous antisemitic incidents at her university. She was asked the question 10 times and contorted, obfuscated, evaded, eluded and avoided giving any statement which unequivocally said “Yes, we condemn such actions”. And then, a day later, she issued a grovelling retraction, stating categorically that she does condemn them and she’s not supporting the entire murder of every single jew in the world any longer. She’s done with genocide, she’s over it!!!

So I deployed… ‘the b-bomb’. Used to be the ‘b-word’, but its apparently been promoted whilst I was engaged elsewhere, into ‘the single word guaranteed to upset any post-modern woman more than any other… except… that other word they don’t like very much, the one you can’t print or God, bless Her, will strike you fucking DEAD!

And someone complained. ‘Disgusted’, she was, that such a word was uttered in her presence. So even though we were both in agreement that Ms President of Penn was a total bitch, only one of us was allowed to say it. Or possibly disallowed from saying it. But I refused to retract it. Because I like words. I like their richness, even whilst abusing them. I like the fact that words have different meanings. Another woman piped up because she saw the term as an insult to her dog. Female dog, obviously.

Yet sometimes you need to be gentle and considerate in your terminology but sometimes you can’t. There’s nothing in the world of gentle that can express exactly what you wish to say. And that’s when you upset the feminists. You have no choice.

To do anything else is just bollocks.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

“We must stop obesity!!!”, cried Rishi Sunak, as half the kids in our fine nation waddle to school with a satchel, a separate lunch-wheelbarrow and a BMI of 46. And why does our PM wish to take an interest in this? Particularly as his kids are stick thin? Is it for the health benefits of reducing fattiness? Is it because the kids need to be fitter? And will live longer lives??

No. It’s because obesity costs the NHS 100 billion quid a year. And I’m not even sure if that figure includes the food they’re going to eat whilst they’re in hospital.

But that strikes me as rather cynical. Whilst the younger generations are beefing up, morbidly, no-one cares. As they sit on their fat arses watching endless tv and computer games whilst eating chocolate eclairs provided by the NHS, no-one cares. Yet as soon as the bean counters work out what it costs, then HOLY SHIT!!!! We need to slim everyone down!!!

Even though the 360 million pounds a day that we ‘have saved’ by leaving Europe (Nigel Farage would NOT lie), amounts to well over 100 billion a year! So let’s eat more; the NHS can afford it!!! And it’s just like the French are paying for it!!!

That noted health brand, KFC, love opening… stores (restaurants? Cafes? Diners??) near schools. The councils try to stop them but stop trying when KFC uses its corporate clout to extend appeals and legalities way beyond the budget of any local council.

It’s not just the quantity/quality of food that has made us the fattest nation on the planet. It’s the horrendously sedentary lives we live and our children live. Whereas the kids today play ‘FIFA 23’, we used to go kick footballs in the park. Kids today watch porn all day, we used to go out chasing real women, sometimes miles and miles, if they were fast enough runners. And kids love to play shoot-em-up games, whereas we used to go out and kill real people! Which is… healthy. Well, exerting, at least.

Get them up, get them out, and don’t let them back in the house until they are slim and beautiful. Phones are for phoning people, preferably to ask for a ride home from football/netball/gym/triathlon.

Happy slim Wednesday

A xxxx

There was never a doubt in my mind about yesterday’s game. I was brimming with confidence, I was cool and calm and relaxed in my confidence in team and especially, in our manager.

(Any impressions given yesterday to the contrary were typos).

Because ‘in Ange we trust’. Oh. My. God. But do we trust. Even after that most horrible of first halves, he kept on message. The Ange message. The only one he ever gives. ‘Attack!’ You’re playing Manchester City at the Etihad and half your team are missing: take a ridiculously high line and attack. And in a quite wonderful second half, it just all paid off. As our constant pressure, coupled with their somewhat diminished approach in that half, paid off not once but twice. It felt like a win at 3-3 and it also felt like a total vindication of Ange’s methodology, the one which is pretty much the stated envy of every manager in the league, Pep included.

But then. At the ‘death’ of the game, in the dying minutes of added time, as so often happens for us at Man City, God stepped in to ensure that His team came away with the point they so deserved. The point which every football lover wanted them to keep.

Haaland was fouled, City were in possession, in attack, so the ref, rightly, waved the game to play on. Haaland got up, played an amazing through ball which took out 3 Spurs defenders and left Slightly Obnoxious Jack Grealish free on goal with just the keeper to beat. And… and… and the ref then blew for the free-kick, stopping play.

Why?

I’ll tell you why. Because he’s a good person who believes in right and wrong and the sort of morality that doesn’t want Manchester City to win games. Particularly against Spurs. And he was prepared to prostrate himself before the brutal court of public opinion, which comprises ignorant pundits, ill-informed media-men and professionally complaining commentators, in order that God was served and the right result was achieved.

So yes, his decision was ‘wrong’, but only in, like, a ‘footballing’ sense. Only in a, sort of, ‘against all rules of football and logic’, way. In the ‘broader picture’ of life, the heavens, worldwide conflict and downright HUMAN DECENCY!!!, he was right on the money.

And we had a totally brilliant game of football, negligibly interruped by the dreaded, cursed VAR. You don’t get many like that.

I consider it an honour and privilege to have watched it and NOT castigated the referee.

Very happy, if slightly relieved, Monday

A xxxx

I’m writing this at 5.40 in the afternoon. Just after the restart of the Spurs match at Manchester City. Because my sense of impending doom, of foreboding, my sense that all is not quite right in the world, is massive. And is definitely not improved by watching the tv. In fact, it’s quite depressing. We’re 2-1 down but it could be so much worse. And I can’t help worrying that it’s going to get worse. So I’m writing this instead. To distract. To try and avoid the inevitable. Even though my eyes keep drifting over the screen.

The good news is that I managed to play 50 minutes of tennis before getting rained off the court, whereas according to the weather forecast, the chances of starting play were less than 10%. So one must only deduce that weather forecasts are total bollocks and speculation and thus must wonder why I put so much stock into what they say.

And then I look up at the screen and WE SCORE!!!! It’s 2 all. My spirits lift, football once again changes from being the cynical plaything of sports-washing Arab oil barons, to become the beautiful game, played by beautiful people, in a world full of flowers and baby lambs (like, frolicking, not in the kebab shop).

Otherwise I was going to abandon this and watch the new series of Slow Horses. On Apple TV. Firstly because the first two series are the best thing ever filmed (I’m a victim of hyperbole on occasion but this time I really mean it!!! Like every other time) and secondly because my free 6-months of Apple TV expire in 5 days time. And even though £6.99 for 6 or 8 episodes of Gary Oldman’s brilliance is a bargain, it still irks a bit. I mean, did those bastards at Apple wait specifically until one week before my time was up before screening the only thing I ever want to watch on their poxy channel? Other than Lessons in Chemistry, which is the second best thing ever filmed ever.

The problem being that I’m currently reading Slow Horses 4 and the tv one is 3. And if I start watching, I’ll get them confused. So I can’t really start watching until the book’s done.

Meanwhile, I glanced up again on for Jack fucking Grealish to put City 3-2 ahead. Just 10 minutes to go… what should I do… where should I go… Don’t make me watch it!!! It hurts.

– Sunday

A xxxx

I’m not sure what amuses me more; holding the COP 28 global warming summit in Dubai, or having the UN Human Rights convention in Iran. It’s like having a Love and Peace weekend in Millwall. Or a Michelin Star Meeting in McDonalds. A Stamp Out Money Laundering campaign at the Etihad. A World Transparency Event in Wuhan.

But that’s all part of the ‘inclusivity’ which cynical people, like YOU, view as some form of -washing. Trying to sanitise your evil practices by holding a meeting which condemns them. Carbon-washing by the UAE, morality-washing by the nation which murders young women for failing to tie a head scarf in the right place. Though the United Nations lost the plot many decades ago and, hopefully, will soon just become so un-funded that it will simply disappear up its own ridiculously prejudiced and biased brand of international insanity and hypocrisy.

Well that’s sorted the UN out.

Over here we have our own brand of stupidity. It’s called ‘the Covid Inquiry’ and is being held in a courtroom right near you! And is possibly the only venue around which produces more expletives per hundred words than I do. Because, as we all know, you can’t govern without profanity and when you’re governing during a pandemic, it all goes right through the fucking roof.

We’re all clever after the event. ‘Monday morning quaterbacking’ is never a good position to adopt. Basically, they’re paying a dozen top lawyers to ask one question: knowing what you know now, would you have done what you did then?

The answer to which is: whatever answer I give now, will it change what happened then?

What we already knew:
Boris Johnson is a tosser. Not news. But also, possibly, the absolutely worst kind of tosser to be in charge during a national disaster.
Dominic Cummings was and is a very dangerous, toxic and destructive person to have around, let alone to have in almost total power over events.
Matt Hancock is a hapless, hopeless lightweight, fit only for grabbing bums and eating slugs in jungles.
And the overriding fact that whatever course of action occurred in the pandemic was going to be ‘wrong’. It was wrong then and, in hindsight, it’s even more wrong.

Because there was no ‘right’. And if there was, we have no idea of knowing how ‘right’ it would have been. And is ‘right’ just judged in protecting from deaths? Or is ‘right’ also considering the economy and the mental health of the entire nation but especially the kids?

So why bother. The ridiculous cost of the inquiry could fund a hospital for a year. Could pay for 1000 one-way flights to Rwanda. Could buy Spurs another midfielder until Madison is fit again.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Things change. Evolve. Metamorphosise. Its the nature of things.

We used to have the dreaded Lyme’s Disease. Get bitten by a tic and you’ll suffer, bit like flu, bit of pain, and up to 6 months when you might have difficulty thinking. Which is why the condition evolved into Lime’s Disease. In which this lack of thinking causes sufferers to leave their electric rental bikes all over the fucking place. Blocking paths. Blocking pavements, roads, driveways, shopfronts, anywhere. Rent a Lime bike; dump it wherever you want. You’re struggling with thought processes, so just don’t bother. Such things like ‘decency’ and ‘consideration’ and ‘not being a total wanker’ are for people with less befuddled minds.

Then there’s miles. As I’ve mentioned previously, us drivers of electric vehicles, we smug, sneering planet savers who accuse COP28 of being ‘blah, blah, blah’ and who are allowed to criticise the chairman there of being a ‘fucking hypocritical nob!!’ just because he happens to be the chairman of an oil producing company too, when he’s not being an eco-warrior, we have a different concept of ‘miles’ to the rest of you dolphin-murdering petrol-heads. On Wednesday night our EV showed 140 miles. 24 hours later, having driven possibly 20 miles, it was showing 32 left. Which changed, as the temperature dropped, to 16. What? Your ‘miles’ don’t change with the thermometer??? You total dinosaur!! Anyway, plugged the car in and went to bed.

To find this morning, we had… 16 miles on the car and a ‘charge interrupted’ notice. Interrupted by whom? I wished to know but who would you ask? The car?? And the car wouldn’t charge. And what use is an electric vehicle which won’t electrify?

Never mind, Kamil’s coming to change the thermostat on the bath. The whole room was replaced 6 months ago and yet you can’t make the bathwater colder. Without a mallet and strong pair of pliers. So they sent a new thermostat, and our boy said, just 10 minutes and he’s turning off the water.

Though as it happened, not all of the water as, following the screams in Polish, I found him with both hands against the opening in the wall, from which Niagara Falls was coming, at the speed and force of my high pressure hose. And I’m guessing that’s not right.

5 minutes, 326 gallons of water, one wet Pole and three changes of clothes later and everything was great. Except the car, obviously, but can’t blame that on the bathroom.

Happy days

A xxxx

Last night I had the (thankfully) rare priviledge of putting Lila and Joey to bed. It wasn’t the plan. I was coming round so mum could pop out for an hour, after bedtime. She didn’t tell them because they’d get excited. Not because they’re seeing me, no one wants that, but because I would be the cause of their excitement. It’s what I do. What I’m supposed to do. Grandparental duty. Chase them round the lounge, dangle them by their feet and swing them, tickle them mercilessly, it’s all the ‘grandad handbook’. But, ok, not necessarily at bedtime. So I was a secret. Shhhhhh…

But as I crept in they were both at the top of the stairs waiting. However: I was warned: DON’T GET THEM EXCITED!!! My daughter’s always been much much stricter with me than I ever was with her. Though there’s a fair argument that I need it more.

Anyway, we played: oh so gently and quietly and still-ish. And we were calm and tranquil and we barely had any fights which involved screeching or excessive blood. So to bed. Lila jumps in with her t-shirts (one of mummy’s, one of daddy’s, I offered her one of mine and she said she’d use it to clean the windows), and a lovely soft, cuddly panda, and we kiss goodnight.

Joey clambers under the sheets, taking his essentials: about 14 muslins and… an axe. Ok, it’s plastic and only about 18 inches long with a bright orange head. But an axe? I mean, really?? I’m used to seeing Joey in bed with toy cranes, lorries, buses, dumper trucks and so much plastic (sorry, Greta) that there’s no room for his little body. But an axe is different. As he closes his eyes holding it closely, lovingly to his chest. An axe shows intent. It shows a mindset.

I checked online. The preferred bedtime toys of Fred West. Ted Bundy. Jack the Ripper. Peter Sutcliffe. All went to bed with axes. Probably.

This photo shows Lila exactly 6 years ago, according to whatever oh-so-clever phone or app or whatever reminds you of such things. But it’s so wonderful I had to use it.

Happy, slightly concerned Thursday

A xxxx

Is there anyone in the entire fucking world, other than Rishi Sunak and Kyriakos Mitsotakis (Greek PM) who really gives a shit about the Elgin Marbles? Or the Parthenon Porcelain or the Crumbling Concrete, or whatever you choose to call them? Because I don’t. But, I really don’t. And I have seen them. You can’t miss them when you go to the British Museum. Which generally you do to see something else and just kind of stumble across these most highly contentious old lumps of stone en route to the purpose of your visit.

Lord Elgin basically went to then Ottoman controlled Greece in 1807 and knew a ‘good little earner’ when he saw a bunch of old statues and stones in the Parthenon in Athens. So rather than wait for the marauding Turks to smash them in one of their drunken rages of rape and pillage, he basically stole them. Ok, he alleged that he had permission from the Turks to ship them to England ‘to protect them’, but there’s never been proof of that. They’ve held inquiries, they’ve done loads of research but the cctv in pre-Victorian Athens was really shit. In fact it was a man called Theasophelos who sat on the street corner with a sketch book. Thus did Lord Elgin shift about 4 tons of Greek stone relics to London. Not to ‘give to England to look after’, nor to ‘be viewed by all of our people’, but to house in his private collection. Which he later sold to the government. Who probably parted with some serious wedge to get a bunch of old rubble.

And the Greeks want them back. But for some reason, Rishi is rather unnaturally attached to the marbles. To such an extent that, knowing what the discussion was to be on Monday morning, he cancelled the scheduled visit by Mr Mitsotakis for ‘coffee and cake’ at 10 Downing Street. Which, in the world of diplomatic protocols, is a slap in the face. With a wet flannel. Mr Mitsotakis had to go to Starbucks and buy his own coffee and cake and was most unhappy that he had to fork out £7.47 from the Greek national purse, and the cake was a bit dry.

The obvious action is to ‘share’ the marbles, I mean shipping them back and forth is no trouble at all, I’ll drive. But our two fine (?) nations have no trust in each other that they’d ever get them back. Creating a bit of an impasse. So Rishi bottled out of facing the Greek demanding gifts, rather than bearing them. Although Kier Starmer is happy to let them go. Does he not realise what they mean to ME!!!!

There is death in the world. There are wars. There are serious economic issues at home. There needs to be a proper debate about VAR. And its fucking freezing. So to repeat:

WHO CARES ABOUT THE ELGIN FUCKING MARBLES???

(Today’s pic is there because it is wonderful. No ‘meaning’, no ‘message’, just a polar bear. Probably the one I saved when the electric car arrived)

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx