Andy's Glasses

My brother was a guitarist. From when he was about 12 until his mid-30s he was always playing. From school bands to ‘the big time’ which was a really great pub band called, for some reason, but there’s really never a ‘reason’, the T-Boys. They played gigs all around, but mainly they had their ‘residency’ at the 3 Rabbits in Manor Park on Monday nights. I had football training on Monday nights but I never missed them, driving like a madman (as if there’s any other way) to get their second set at 10.15. It was a great pub. And ‘great’ in the East End, means ‘dodgy’. Run by a father and son called ‘Big Ron’ and ‘Little Ron’ respectively. Both loved the T-Boys because they brought in loads of people to drink. And it was like a party every Monday as everyone was a ‘regular’.

And my brother was a quiet man. Not like his younger brother who is FUCKING LOUD AND LAIRY!!! He was quiet and liked to be in the background, in the shadows. And yet, put a guitar round his neck and he was Eric Clapton. Jeff Beck. Tony Iomi. But always wearing black and standing way off-centre. By day he worked as a pharmacist and at night, he did a sort of Clarke Kent and morphed into ‘rock god’. A role which I would have embraced, abused and monetised until the last joint was smoked, the last bottle of Jack emptied, the last groupie turfed out. Unfortunately I lacked only any kind of musical talent. The rest; acting like a strutting tosser superstar, I had that nailed.

This was his guitar. I remember when he bought it. It was a big day. A watershed moment. There was life as a guitarist before the Stratocaster, and life afterwards. He’d wanted one for a while. In fact it’s probably safe to say that any rock guitarist anywhere wants a ‘Strat’. There are Les Pauls and Telecasters and Flying Vs out there in rockland, but this Fender is the defining instrument of the genre. And he bought this one. I’m guessing (cos it’s all a blur) between 40 and 45 years ago.

When he died last year, I decided I wanted it. And now I have it. Just looking at it makes me happy/sad. In a good way. It was so much a part of him in those years.

So now the big question. Do I use it as a shrine, as a beautiful artefact? Or do I try to play it? Were Rich around, he’d doubtless say ‘don’t you fucking dare! Look at it all you like but don’t presume to apply your tone-deaf cackhandedness to that wonderful instrument’. And as I never ever listened to my brother, I’ve had it tuned, borrowed an amp and its ZZTop here I come! (God help the neighbours). (God help Mel).

I’ve booked the O2 for my first gig. Next March. Should be plenty of time.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Oh my, its not since the end of the football season that we’ve had a weekend of such sporting amazement to wallow in.

First there was the Rugby, as the Lions beat the Aussies in the second test ‘down under’, this one at the vaunted Melbourne Cricket Ground, no less. It was an incredible match, with ‘England’ (as I call the Lions) overcoming an 18 point deficit. They were still 2 points behind when Hugo Keenan touched down in the 80th minute. It was incredible. The players went crazy. The crowd went crazy. I went crazy. And that was just this morning, which is a great time for sport because nothing else is on at that time.

Except a big tennis match. Me and Spurs Paul. In the park. 11.00. Not sure what channel it’s on but you’ll find it. Just google ‘old gits falling over on a tennis court’ and you can enjoy all the excitement. It’s hard to hold a tennis racquet when you have a walking stick in the other hand.

Starting around then too was the cricket. As England finished the first innings with some style to put India back in 311 runs ahead. To remind them who actually invented the fucking game. Then we took two early wickets.

And then, sometime… later, possibly Sunday, is the ‘main event’. The final of the Women’s Euro Championship as England’s pony-tail’s take on Spain’s. And that promises to be… to be exiting. England games follow a distinct pattern. 82 minutes of uselessness followed by 8 minutes of the sort of ‘brilliance’ you get at women’s matches. Sometimes extra time (nooooooo) and then penalties (even worse), sometimes just a late winning goal. Ok, I can only get so excited about this event, but if there’s no other sport on, if the re-runs of White Lotus have finished, if the News is delayed, I’ll sit back and watch it… eagerly. Knowing NOT to compare it to… to the football played by other genders. That only leads to frustration and/or laughter.

But if the Lionesses pull this off, what a weekend it would be for English sport. Escpecially if, like me, you don’t count the Irish, Scots and Welsh in the rugby.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Emmanuel Macron’s wife is a man.

There. I’ve said it. Now I wait to hear from his lawyers. Who are rather busy suing other people for making such an assertion. In fact, one person. An American blogger called Candace Owens who has repeatedly made the claim. Not sure why. Not sure what her agenda is, but according to her, Brigitte Macron was born Jean-Michel Trogneux. A… a ‘he’. Of the masculine variety.

Now; I make no judgments. Other than those I make. But this is possibly the most fun since Hugh Edwards read our nightly news. Because we love a scandal. We love when a couple out on an ‘illicit’ date whilst having an ‘affair’, choose to do their private canoodling at a massive concert filled with tv and cctv cameras. We love it when French presidents ride out to visit their mistresses perched on the back of motor scooters.

But this, were it to be in any way true, would be another level of scandal altogether. This would be The Beatles compared to Coldplay. This would be The World Cup final to the Women’s Euros.

There’s a totally fantastic book, called “in one person”, written by a totally fantastic author, John Irving, in which his almost constant theme of ‘the seduction of young boys by older women’ opens up to the seduction of young boys to… to anyone. Older women, older men and, in what might be alluding to autobiographical experience, or just creatively running with a theme, the young protagonist becomes obsessed with a beautiful woman teacher at his (boarding) school, who possesses a penis. Her own. His own. Their own.

And here we are. Macron was 15 when he met Brigitte. Did she have a penis when he met her? And to whom does it really matter? It certainly counts in the ‘NONE OF OUR FUCKING BUSINESS!!!!’, category of things. But they are, quite frankly, some of the best of things. We already know most of our own business. The oddities of others’ business is way more interesting.

So I’ll wait for the photos to emerge. The long-ago witnesses. All the usual ‘say anything for a 10-bob interview with the Sun’ brigade coming out (no pun) of the woodwork to help ascertain the true extent of the French nation’s adopted role as ‘permissive’ and ‘libertine’.

Je regret rien!

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Here’s some free advice for all sports-people engaged in tournaments of a high profile nature: TURN YOUR FUCKING PHONE OFF AND LEAVE IT OFF. In fact you can leave the phone on, in case your mum wants to speak to you. Or your dad wants to give some advice about taking penalties. But turn off all data. Don’t let one single little millibyte pass through to the screen. Because it’ll be abusive. And that’s upsetting. Destabilising. Which you really don’t need when you’re about to play that semi-final, first round match, anything. You don’t even have to do anything wrong.

If you miss a penalty it doesn’t help. But not a necessary requirement to being trolled. Just being there will do. Even Katie Boulter who is only ‘mixed race’ if you count ‘white’ and ‘whiter’ as 2 separate races, suffered terrible abuse during Wimbledon.

Bukayo Saka suffered terribly after his penalty miss for England, and even though he plays for Arsenal, that was undeserved. Harry McGuire is white and regularly gets online abuse when playing for both England and Manchester United. Ok, a lot of it is not completely wrong, but still.

Now Jess Carter, the Lioness, racially abused during the present Euro competition.

Online abuse is a particularly cowardly, anonymous and limp example of the art. The scrawniest of horrible little shits sit in their bedrooms getting off on sending out horrible, hate-filled messages, death threats, rape promises, knowing that ‘no-one will ever know’. These nasty little sociopaths are the ‘flashers’ of the post-digital world, the guys (sexist, I know, but I’m guessing 90% of these are guys) who sit in the corner of the room fondling themselves through their trouser pockets. And ‘online’ gives them the opportunity to say things they would never say to anyone’s face. They’re just too creepy. They voted for Corbyn, support Chelsea, claim sickness benefits, watch Eurovision, surf kiddie porn and drive Teslas.

Even with the Lionesses winning last night, the abusers will be there. So the logical approach would be: don’t look. The abuse doesn’t appear by magic, you have to go on the app. So don’t. No social media during competitions.

Poor Ozzie Osbourne. In a world dominated by the exceptionally bland, we need 3-D, 5k, ultra-HD characters like Ozzie. And for all the years he spent in Hollywood, he always sounded like he’d just walked away from the Bullring on his way to Villa Park. I’d love him for that, if nothing else. But there was so much else. I would say RIP, Ozzie, but it’s a bit inappropriate in the circumstances. He worshipped the devil and will be happy in hell. It’s how it should be.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Best day ever yesterday. I went to a protest. I love a protest and have an app which tells me all the protests going on, any given day, so I can pick one. And yesterday was a bumper day. There was a protest against school dinner funding in Bolton, garbage disposal in Birmingham, social services in Streatham and one for Iraq war veterans in Esher. But I picked the one in Westminster for a number of ideological and political reasons.

Firstly, the protest against the proscribing of Palestine Action was easily accessible on the tube. Secondly, and perhaps most importantly, I bought a keffiyeh in a car boot sale in Chelmsford and I’ve been looking for the right moment to wear it. And I wanted to make my statement about all those children being killed in Palestine. Or Gaza. Possibly in Israel, I’m not really sure, but if children are dying ANYWHERE!!!, it’s just not acceptable. Someone at my book club meeting in the church hall in Crouch End the other day said that the information coming out of Gaza is all lies and exaggerations from Hamas. But does it matter where the info is coming from??? Hamas are also ‘proscribed’ and how DARE this government keep on proscribing groups?? Calling them ‘terrorists’ when all they’re doing is fighting for their rights?? Its awful. Mabel told me at bridge on Tuesday.

So I pitched up along Pall Mall and it was wonderful, even in the rain. I coupled my keffiyeh with a lovely Laura Ashley shirt-dress and a black leather jacket, so I looked suitably ‘cool’ and less like the captain on the Borehamwood Golf Club (women’s section), which I am. I took a selfie and sent it to my children so they could show it to my grandkids to see how fab ‘Nanny’ can be.

My kids immediately questioned what (the fuck!!!) I was doing??? So I told them: I’m protecting innocent children from dying!!! That’s what I’m doing!! But my son told me that it wasn’t a protest for Gaza in any way. It was a protest against banning a protest group who had attacked a military installation, basically committed treason and therefore became a threat to our nation. It wasn’t about the ‘cause’ but about the manner of protest. Nothing to do with Palestinian children, everything to do with the acceptable limits of any ‘protest’.

Oh.

I went anyway. Marched with a whole load of other women from my golf club, the vicar’s wife from church was there, though she wasn’t wearing a keffiyeh, and I saw Nadine Hapthorpe’s chauffeur milling around, so she must have been there too. And we all sang: “from the river to the sea…” and “save the children!!!…” and the atmosphere was wonderful. It was like Glyndebourne with lots of Palestine flags.

Then we all got arrested. I called my husband. He was out sailing. The way I was treated was quite appalling. Like I was a criminal, for God’s sake!!!

But it was worth it.

For the children.

Happy Sunday

Tricia xxxx

Dianne Abbott was the first black woman MP, back in 1987. Her career went steeply downhill from then on. From being Corbyn’s main squeeze for a number of years (a relationship which could act as the absolute definition of ‘ick’), she held tight to the hard left of the Labour Party, which reached its zenith under her ex and for which she became the spokesperson in charge of getting it wrong. She became a liability, then a joke. Her name is now a metaphor for ignorance and incompetence.

That just about covers it, other than the antisemitism. And there were several incidents of this arriving at our shores from La Abbott. As it should be if you’re a spokesperson for the most antisemitic party this country has known since Moseley’s blackshirts. Who weren’t really a proper ‘party’, more a group of nazi thugs.

Once Starmer arrived her position became difficult. She was no longer a protected species as she had been under Corbyn. But she was an MP and Starmer was leader of the opposition and he needed her, even with the fight to rid the party from the Jew-haters. He needed the numbers. Though Dianne and numbers is never a happy marriage. And she wrote a letter to the Observer in 2023 in which she stated that discrimination against Jewish people (the subject at hand), like that towards ‘travellers’ and Irish people, was not like the racism black people endure every day.

She created, in one ill-conceived letter, a ‘hierarchy of racism’. Not appreciating that such a thing only divides further when anyone with one functioning brain cell would perhaps feel the need to try joining people together in this context.

More importantly, again in that specific context, of antisemitism, the issue of the undeniable racism against black people is irrelevant. As is global warming and the fuel consumption of Hybrid cars. And her letter only served to produce an ‘it’s all about MEEEE!’, moment.

She apologised, after they remove the Labour whip from her, because she wanted to stand as a Labour candidate in the election. Her words were facile (obviously), transparently insincere and meaningless. Which was fine for Starmer. He’s not one for confrontation so her returned the whip. And she won her seat once more and all was fine.

Until this week, when they played an interview with DA in which she stated that she wasn’t at all sorry for her original letter and the statements contained therein. So Labour suspended the whip once again. Probably never to be returned. But it doesn’t matter. She’ll go and join ‘love of her life’ Corbyn in ‘the new party’, should it ever materialise, and abandon her lifelong love of Labour. And with Dianne as the new party’s ‘intellectual heavyweight’, how can it go wrong?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I was so lucky last night. I turned on the tv for the news and it was delayed because of the football. Women’s football. Which, amazingly, I’d forgotten all about!!! Even though it was the quarter final!!! I mean, turning on in the last minute of extra time. I could have missed it!! And you know how I love women… ‘s football. So it was time for penalties!!! I wasn’t prepared for so much excitement!! All ready for winding down with a cuppa tea with the news and there I was, in the peak of a thrilling penalty shoot-out!

But I didn’t realise that the rules are different in the Women’s Euros from our all to familiar Men’s version. In which we’ve lost a penalty shoot-out or two over the years. They must have found that the reason we had such disasters with Gareth Southgate and John Terry, was due to excessive practice and too much skill and technique. So to resolve this problem, the rules for Women’s penalty shoot-outs would appear to be:
Blindfold the penalty taker and spin her round 3 times (off camera) then put her somewhere near the ball and get her to either roll it gently towards where she thinks the goalkeeper might be, OR, slam it as hard as she can over the bar, so it won’t hurt the goalie if it makes contact. And that in turn creates the most wonderful randomised feeling about penalties. Rather than ‘most footballers can score a penalty’, we have a much more, ‘roll of the dice’ type outcome, with about 1 in 6 being about right. It makes it even more exiting, even more wonderful! Further benefits from women’s football.

The only exception seemed to be Lucy Bronze. She cheated. She acted like a total fucking MAN!!! Strutted up, like she knew what she was doing and with no blindfold, and slammed the ball into the net. And because of that action, I’m not sure I can be as happy with England’s reaching the semi-final as I should be. Taking penalties should NOT just be about scoring goals.

Can’t wait for the semis!!! Unless I’m washing my hair. Cleaning the car. Doing a jigsaw puzzle…

Happy Friday

COME ON LIONESSES!!!

A xxxx

Been e-biking quite a bit lately. Its just too gorgeous out not to. So I bloody do. I mount up, put my helmet on (YES, MELISSA!!!! I ALWAYS PUT MY HELMET ON) and take off into the sunshine for thirty-five minutes of pure joy and freedom. And everyone asks if I feel vulnerable, fearful, concerned about the ‘dangers’. And, of course I’m concerned. Just not enough to outweigh the pleasure. And after getting bashed off my bike by a blind man in a white van, I’m always ‘wary’. But its not really buses and lorries that concern me. They’re big enough to avoid. The main problem is bikes. They’re dangerous, Stupid. Stop for nothing. Ignore other vehicles, particularly other bikes. Won’t stop at red lights. Drive through pedestrians. Go on pavements. Ride through shops.

Yes, I am the problem. It’s like they used to say when you drove too fast; “one day you’ll meet yourself head on, coming in the opposite direction”. Which, of course, is total bollocks and logically impossible. But we all get the message. And yet the only thing I really fear when I’m biking is the Police. Who, according to our friendly City postman, were yesterday stopping battalions of naughty bikers as they broke numerous, so-called ‘laws’ in Farringdon. Though I’m always pissed off with slow bikers, erratic bikers, Lime-bikers and, basically, every other biker on MY road, or cycle path. Maybe pavement, if I have to. I need to know that if I’m actually going through a green light, all legal and kosher, that I’m not gonna get broadsided by some tosser on a Lime bike wearing headphones, sending a text message, as he flies through a red.

There’s an outcry in the scientific world because a BBC presenter said that science has become the domain of ‘left-leaning atheists’. Which is probably true. And because the answer to every big question, from the mouths of the devoted, is ‘God dunnit’, it actually makes sense. Darwin, who studied for the clergy, spent half his life fighting the church over his evolutionary theory which they deemed ‘ridiculous’, verging on ‘blasphemous’. Because it removed God from the equation.

Scientific study is always a reflection of the views of society. Were you to initiate a study today to ‘show’ that white races are ‘superior’ to all the ‘darker’ races, that they are ‘more evolved’ and generally ‘better’, I reckon you’d struggle for funding. Unless the KKK have any spare cash. But in Europe in the 19th century that’s what all the ‘scientists’ (rich white men) ‘proved’ in many ways. (Why I have no faith in statistics whatsoever, without knowing who paid for it).

Science and religion should always be separate. One is strictly ‘material’ and one is, or should be, strictly ‘spiritual’. Otherwise religion gets offended when anything ‘hand of God’ is explained (I don’t mean Maradona’s goal) scientifically, and science gets all shitty, like Stephen Hawking, and actually ridicules people for any religious belief at all.

The late, great Stephen Jay Gould, master of many sciences at Harvard and scientific historian who, in his own way, believed in God, laid this out beautifully in his work on ‘NOMA’, non-overlapping magesteria. Keep religion and science separate. Where they belong.

So scientists should be atheists. And preferably ones who don’t ride Lime bikes round London.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

I’m a theoretical cricketist. In theory, I love the game. Love the figures, the scores, love the way everything is analysed by the run, by the wicket, by the minute. It’s a statisticians dream sport. And although every other sport now measures how many drops of sweat each player produces per minute, in the first half/set/chukka because the computers are monitoring and recording everything, giving tennis and football matches much more useless information than we really need, cricket has always been a bit more ‘pencil and paper’. It’s always used these stats. They’re part of the scoring.

Yes, I love everything about cricket. Except watching it. I simply lack the patience to watch 5 days of anything. 5 hours would be a push. My attention span is measured in milliseconds. So I don’t watch much. I love the 2-minute hilights on the news reports. Half the wickets, a few sixes and a stunning catch. That’ll do; move on. Even one day cricket is about half a day too much.

But the cricket does captivate me. Especially when it moves from its normal appearance of ‘leisurely’ to 5th day of the test ‘manic’. And when it gets like that, with England playing, there has never been, in my lifetime, a captain like Ben Stokes. We’ve had Athertons and Brearlys and Jo Root and Colin fucking Cowdrey, but none can do what Stokesy does. Simply win a match, single-handedly, with his unique mixture of bat, ball and 100% commitment and inspiration.

When he thumped a guy outside a pub one night, somewhere up north, I thought, ‘yeah, another arrogant, stupid, ginger (sorry, Mark), tattooed, sporting thug’. But one year later he won us the World Cup. And became (quite literally because I use this word very sparingly) ‘a legend’. His performance in that final against New Zealand was just magical. And massively inspirational. He leads from the front.

So yesterday, with the match so finely balanced, once more England relied on the sheer brilliance of our ginger-haired thug to orchestrate an amazing win against India. Who, in case you’d never realised, take the game of cricket rather seriously. Probably because they are the best in the world. But not yesterday. Yesterday our Lord and captain, in the ‘11th hour’, brought on a bowler who had a broken finger. But with his other 9 he managed to deliver the final, fatal, and really slow blow.

Ben Stokes is 34. He’s had injury issues aplenty. But he brings everything he has to the job. Everything. And mustn’t ever be allowed to retire.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So I went to pick the kids up from school and decided, on the spur of the moment, to do so without trousers on. And I never wear underpants because, due to my ‘neurodiversity’, Marks & Spencer’s finest cause me terrible irritation. Even Calvin Kleins are bothersome. Therefore, I am Commando! The head teacher stopped me and called the police about ‘an inappropriate degree of danglage’, but I just told the officer that I am in fact on the Autistic spectrum and therefore its perfectly acceptable to behave and dress (or undress) in this manner. Furthermore, I told him that I could actually commit murder, in the relevant circumstances, due to my ‘condition’. Possibly rape. Certainly common assault or GBH.

Gregg Wallace is a fucking idiot. Whatever spectrum he’s allegedly on, if its measuring IQ or common sense, he’s down in the 3rd percentile. He was my absolute BFF for a while (ok, 20 minutes at a corporate dinner) but now I’m not going to call him again, or even send messages. Mainly because I don’t have his number. And its not even about the ‘alleged’ incidents with over 50 women. Its about claiming his ‘autism’ was the cause. As if that would prevent him knowing basic ‘right and wrong’. When he can work out the consistency of a white sauce with his eyes closed.

Of course, whilst we can’t and shouldn’t hold his ‘neurodiversity’ to blame for his actions, we can in fact cite his production company which received complaints about Greggy and his behaviour, as complicit. As, basically, they did nothing. Like Jimmy Savile Lite.

Serial sex offenders in high profile positions continue to be shielded by large organisations so protective of their ‘image’ that they’ll willingly and consistently throw victims under a bus to ‘save face’. Whether the BBC, the Catholic church or a tv production company.

And the last word about Wimbledon fortnight was spoken emphatically, if in slightly German accent, by Yannik Sinner. After a truly amazing match in which the 2 close friends literally slugged it out for 3 hours, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind that they were watching the best 2 players on the planet. Every game was HARD. Every point was HARD. Every shot was HARD. Sinner was magnanimous in his victory. Alcarez was simply wonderful in defeat. He appreciated how these 2 simply have to ‘take turns’, and it was Yannik’s. About whom I may just have to change my mind about my initial perceptions. Rather than my cry of the last 12 years of ‘Djokovich is soooo good, but I hate him’, at least we now have 2 worthies, neither of whom I hate. That much.

Happy Monday

A xxxx