Andy's Glasses

You are not your brother’s keeper. Its official. He does shit; you’re not to blame. Why would you be? Ain’t fair to state otherwise. So why are you responsible for a great great great great great great grandfather? Who lived hundreds of years ago, you never met and, other than some much-diluted DNA, you have nothing in common with. Nah, nuffink to do with me.

Unless the ‘me’ in question is rich. Or ennobled. In which case this bizarre statute of limitations is extended infinitely and all descendants can be held responsible and punished for all eternity.

Like poor (ish) Laura Trevelyan. She’s a BBC journalist who happens to have had a very rich descendent back in the 1700s. Turns out, old gran-pappy Trevelyan was a slaver, so Laura duly gave 100 grand to some cause or other, to send some slaves back, return them home, or whatever this money is supposed to do. But now they’ve found he was also a big player in the Irish famine of seventeen hundred and whenever, in which tens of thousands of Irish people died. Not even slaves! But dead, just the same. And this man, the governor of Irish things, or minister for food or whatever, at the time, said that the famine was God’s punishment to the Irish. For… being Irish, or… well, in need of punishment either way. A perfectly reasonable thing to say, IN ITS DAY, I’m sure. Well, fairly sure. So now the Irish want reparations for the famine from the Trevelyans. And whilst we’re there, and they’ve got the cheque book out, I think I was wronged by a Trevelyan once, back in the day. 1856 it was, I remember it clearly. Uncle Hershel was walking along Warsaw High Road and he got attacked by a pogrom led by a Trevelyan and they made his tsitsit dirty.

I sort’a get the pulling down statues bit. Long as its done with agreement by all parties. Although we all have skeletons in our closets. Its a bit ‘judging what was done then by our standards now’, but I get the upset such things can cause.

But can you start moaning to people in 2023 about stuff their ancestors did in 1755? Its like a little girl going up to Joey and demanding his lollypop because of what his grandfather did to her grandmother at a party in Gants Hill in 1974.

It was never proven.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

The Mail is the most read paper in the country, normally because its online editions are free. And quite frankly, who would pay for shit like this? The country’s in an economic crisis, the prime minister fragile, leader of the opposition worthless, we’re on the verge of nuclear war, Chelsea just spent 300 mil in the transfer window, we lost the rugby to Scotland in the last minutes and yet the front page is given over to this person. The ‘older woman who took Harry’s virginity’. Message to the editor of the Mail:

NO-ONE FUCKING CARES!!!!

Whereas we do indeed care that Spurs are 1 nil up against Manchester City with just one minute, plus stoppage time, left to play.

I should have been there. It was written in the stars. But alas, not in my diary. Which instead reminded me that I had a ‘day of professional bollocks and lectures’ at County Hall, booked last September. So when some tickets came my way and I excitedly grabbed them, I then had to subsequently release them when the brutal realisation occurred. That I was to be at the South Bank for 10 and not return til 5. Just in time to see the final half hour. Which has been brutal, which has been frantic, panic-stricken, horrible, down-to-10-men-ish and quite frankly, horrible. But WE WON!!!!!! And I realise that we only beat ‘this year’s Manchester City’, who are nothing as good as ‘last year’s version’ but we can only play who they bring in the coach. And if they choose to bring this year’s Haaland and De Bruyne and Grealish, so much the better. Even though we beat them last year too, when they were good.

The rugby yesterday, which the mail decided was not as important as Harry and a slag in a field, was simply brilliant. Ok, would have been brilliant-er-er if England had won but it was such an outstanding match I almost didn’t mind. Ok, I did a bit.

And in The Mail tomorrow, right across the back pages, will be no mention of Spurs or Manchester City, but a feature on the first sexual experience of all the players from Accrington Stanley.

Incredibly happy Sunday

A xxxx

Because my bedtime book, The Ink Black Heart, weighs 14.7 Kg, I won’t take it on the tube. So I need a tube ‘read’. And if I read another novel I’ll get the two confused in my head. It happens. What’s Jack Reacher doing at Hogwarts FFS?? Why, when Harry met Sally in a deli in New York, did he disembowel her with a tyre iron in an alleyway in Peckham? And I had no non-fiction on my kindle. But I did have another book. A real one. Which someone gave me… a year ago? 2 years, maybe? Been on my bedside table for a long time, holding up my box of tissues. A valuable job, but not its real purpose in life. Its The Storyteller, the autobiography of Dave Grohl. So if its yours, do send me a message, so I’ll know exactly who is never going to get it back.

Because its wonderful. We all know Dave Grohl, except people who don’t. Who were never into Nirvana, who don’t head-bang to Foo Fighters. Oh, that Dave Grohl. And if you’ve ever seen him on tv programs, you’ll know he’s absolutely the nicest man in the world. Just lovely, funny, super. And thus his book. Which is wonderful. I wholly recommend it, but not necessarily to the person who lent it to me, cos he/she has already read it. Its a very easy read. And interesting because it dispels a lot of those silly ‘rock-n-roll lifestyle’ preconceptions. It takes up to about page 150 before our Dave is even eating proper meals every day. Because you make fuck-all with a small-time band, on the road, sleeping in the group’s van and struggling to make enough to pay for the petrol to the next venue.

Now, I don’t want any spoilers but I’m up to page 185 and he’s been sharing a flat with Kurt Kobain for 5 months in Seattle, Nirvana have just gone MASSSSSIVE and our Dave’s just noticed that Kurt has a bit of heroin problem. I give him about 5 pages but DON’T TELL ME!!!

The book’s great (so far), the man’s wonderful, charming, delightful. But will be forever immortalised in my mind for the incredible drumming on Smells Like Teen Spirit, which is possibly The Definitive rock song of all time.

Arsenal lost at Everton, you could hear Frank Lampard cheering for Sean Dyche all the way up there. I’m sure.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Ok, so January’s over, the transfer window has closed for football, and here are the results:
Spurs bought three new players, though unloading Matt Doherty may feel like we got 4. Arsenal bought a few new ones, and one very old one, but I’d have Jorginho in my team any day. Except Thursday. Manchester City hardly bought anyone. Mainly because they pretty much own virtually all the best players anyway. Manchester United made a couple of acquisitions… and Chelsea bought the rest. All of them. Every available, and quite a few thought unavailable, player made their way to Stamford Bridge. Hundreds of them. Costing billions. And billions, and billions. Because them Yanks know how to do shit. And buying players in such an excess that you’d have the dogs from Financial Fair Play sniffing all along the Kings Road, but no. Firstly, the FFP don’t use dogs, they use doves and cuddly wittle wabbits, because they’re spineless tossers. And secondly because what Chelsea have done, in their massive spending spree is something new. Something to avoid falling foul of the authorities. They’ve paid ridiculous transfer fees, but spread them over the terms of the players rather long contracts. Much longer than usual. So you buy some Spanish diva for 100 million, but give him a 10 year contract and pay his old club 10 mil a year for its duration. That way, rather than having a spend way in excess of what’s allowable this year, they only have to pay a fraction of that cost during any one year. A rather cynical ploy that is being shored up by UEFA, or FIFA, as soon as suitcases full of cash reach sufficient levels for them to act. But meanwhile, dozens of new boys are arriving in SW10 for their medicals and to have the mandatory ‘666’ tattooed on their heads.

And thus starts the second half of the season. One in which everyone is waiting for Arsenal to slip up, for Manchester City to up their game, for Brighton and Brentford to carry on entertaining, and for Liverpool to get relegated.

And fantastic news for Spurs fans today. Antonio Conte, our manager, has been admitted to hospital with cholecystitis. And I’m sure all of us are sending our wishes to the staff to keep him there for as long as possible, preferably at least until May.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I had a busy day yesterday. I had lots to do because I had to rush off early. For an appointment. With Joey. And 15 other 3-year olds. Because I was the designated ‘reader’ for the day. At ‘book time’ or ‘reading time’ or ‘celebrity read-over’ or whatever they call such things in nursery school. Well, I can read, can’t I? So why not. Didn’t say you need to be a good reader or nuffink, just “read!”, and I can do that.

They sat me on a special chair. Well, a chair, as they were all on the floor, all bright eyes and almost heart-breaking eager anticipation. And Joey was honoured to have a little chair next to mine. Being a ‘celebrity by proxy’, as he was. Whilst I was Kim Kardashian.

I started reading and immediately met a hail of shrieks. I needed to hold the book up and facing away whilst reading, so they could see the pictures. Which meant holding it over my right shoulder at head level. And then I gotta read the words, sideways on, through the wrong part of my glasses. But heh, I didn’t make too many mistakes and 3 year-olds, for all their wondrous enthusiasm, can’t fucking read and are unaware of mistakes!!!

Then I came home and was dropped back to Earth with a bang. I did a ‘focus group’, online, for a new test. For the BRCA (“bracca”) gene. Which is the most terrible thing. Its the one that makes you massively likely to have breast cancer, or ovarian cancer, and, generally, as genes go, its the veritable ‘Chelsea’ of the gene pool. Possibly even worse.

But I also learned that as well as those cancers we know about, BRCA also massively increases the risk of getting pancreatic AND prostate cancer too. Because men can have it and its bad, not statistically massive as the breast and ovarian risk but its up there.

And here’s the really bad bit. ‘Normal’ people have a 1 in 250 chance of inheriting the BRCA gene. Ashkenazi Jews have a 1 in 40 chance. All that fucking praying and that’s the thanks you get! Ashkenazi Jews are the ones who hail from Poland, Russia, Germany; the civilised nations. Where they were persecuted to shit and onto boats to safer havens at one time or another.

Anyway, the NHS have come up with a brilliant new test. Its done with just saliva (no needles!!!!), and you do it at home and post it. Lucky postman. And its going to be FREE!!!!! Everyone should take it. But me first, because my risk is greater and even if I didn’t before, I realise that medicine is more reliable than prayer.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

So what do you do when you’ve opened a brand new, fuck-off boutique hotel at the edge of Covent Garden and suddenly find you have a basement you never knew was there? You turn it into a Jazz Club, obviously. Its what you do with basements. Unless you want a prison, torture chamber or crypt. They considered all those options and decided that as a potential income stream, Jazz Club works better. But how do you get people in? Ahhhh, there’s a website (big fucking surprise) which offers tickets to jazz clubs very cheaply, late-ish, which ‘The Twin’ has used before. And we randomly selected this place, the QT Bar, and splashed out a fiver each on entry.

We went to the early set at 7.30, because the later one, at 10, would leave me grooving to the groove next to two sleeping twins. And I hate that because one might fall off her chair. This early start was a great sacrifice as Spurs were playing Preston in the Cup at six o’clock and you can’t get WiFi on the tube. You can in a jazz club, particularly a really stunning, posh one like this, but its rude.

There were abundant staff. Who were really lovely. And very smart. We were greeted by Wojciech (never asked his name but that one fits the bill) who was delightfully exuberant and ‘charming’ in that overly flirty way. Don’t know if he was some outlandish maitre d’ or a waiter but he brought us the bottle of wine we ordered, so I asked for a food menu. Five minutes later I asked him again. 5 minutes later I asked the mistress d’, and then again, five minutes after that. And five minutes later someone different just offered us one. About 20 minutes later the mistress d’ came to tell us that one of our food choices was not available. “But you only have 4 things on the menu”. Yes, and that one’s off. Sorry. What came was fine and beautifully presented as we listened to the ‘jazz’.

Which wasn’t ‘jazz’ as I know it. And I do know it a bit. I’ve been to Ronnie Scotts, I know what jazz sounds like. Its sounds… random. It can sound all sorts of things but generally its 7 brilliant musicians all playing different things at the same time but sounding ‘together’. This wasn’t like that. This was 7 musicians, certainly all capable of playing jazz, but playing re-arranged covers of very popular songs. Everything from Careless Whisper to Uptown Funk. And all done really well. But not jazz. This was more ‘barmitvah band’. But one of the good ones that people with much more money than sense fly over from Paris, or Tel Aviv, so that Auntie Fay can zimmer her way round to Hava Nagilla and then get taken to hospital. And they were fantastic musicians and singers with unusual and good arrangements. But it weren’t jazz.

Though what it was was happy music. And audience participation. And songs everyone loves, albeit in a different way. A really happy, lively, fantastic evening. But not a jazz one. And normally, going to a barmitzvah costs you much more than a fiver and you have to wear a suit.

What I missed was Spurs beating Preston thanks to the incomparable Son Heung Min scoring two goals of the highest class available. They weren’t jazz either, but we’ll take ‘em.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

In 2007 Jeff Bezos took an ipad and mated it with a copy of War & Peace. Possibly artificially inseminated, they never told me. Thus was born: The Kindle. 
In about 2008 I reluctantly, begrudgingly, moaningly, bought one. An ‘e-reader’. I hated the idea, hated the thought, hated pretty much everything about it, except ‘it’ itself. Because it was and is the most wonderful invention since the internal combustion engine. And look how that one turned out!!! You can take 5 ‘books’ on holiday and it still weighs 25grams. Possibly 74grams, no fucking idea, light enough that you never have to worry. If you take 50 books instead, it still weighs the same. I have no clue how that works either, but there ya go. So one holiday and I was totally sold on it, even though I’ve always loved books. They’re tactile, they have covers, they smell of paper, all the good things, yet replace them with yet another ‘device’ and all your worries disappear.

(as a ‘PS’, on that very first kindle holiday, on day 2 I managed to sit on Mel’s one and cracked it. Even though I’m not as heavy as the scales may say I am. And I thought ‘a book wouldn’t crack, would it?’ But again, we learned a valuable lesson. Which is that Mel can be very loud when screaming.)

I have a system. I only buy paperbacks for my kindle. Never hardbacks. But… but… but… I know, on the kindle there’s no difference. Except the price. For the same download you save a tenner waiting for the paperback. So I generally do.

Thus, out came The Ink Black Heart, by Robert Galbraith. Who is, some of the time, JK Rowling. When she’s not in Harry Potter mode. And we love his… errrr… her? books. But its only out in hardback… owwwwww… that’s 18 quid a download… owwwwwww… but if we wait its only gonna be a tenner… owwwwwwww. Then Mel went into our local charity shop to drop off some old stuff. And saw: The Ink Black Heart, sitting there, hardback, perfect condition. And it was… four quid. WE ARE SORTED!!!!

And then I picked it up to read it. In fact it took both of us. 890 pages of… probably paper. Its a brick. And weighs… ever such a lot. So much that I don’t wish to hold it on the tube, have no desire to shlep it round in my ruck-sack, and have to rest it on a pillow when I read it in bed. If I want to move it downstairs I’ll fix up a pulley.

Yeah, I love ‘books’, but just not necessarily in the physical sense any longer.

Happy Reading

A xxxx

The sales of electric cars have rocketed. In 2020 they accounted for 10.7% of all car sales. Last year (not including ours cos WE STILL HAVEN’T GO IT!!!) it was up to 23% of total car sales. During the same period, the number of public charging points has grown by 6. But 2 of those don’t actually work. So its nice to see that the government, who tell us we MUST buy electric cars, who are going to ban new petrol cars by 2030, really getting behind their own plans for greener, healthier, less polluted cities and motorways.

Electric car drivers suffer from ‘range anxiety’. It can be treated with drugs but they can only be used to send you high as a kite once you’ve actually run completely out of charge, down a back lane with no streetlights, somewhere in Hertfordshire. Might as well take a couple’a these and then you won’t give a shit. Whilst you wait for help. Though what that ‘help’ will look like I don’t know. Possibly a man with a charger on a 14 mile long cable plugged in on the Essex border? A lorry with a 20 foot high battery on the back? Who knows. You’re certainly without a paddle.

On Sunday we went to Leeds for a funeral. My brother-in-law drove up too. In a petrol car. Even though he has a brand new, all-electric, super-plug-in, green-flagged Volvo Thunberg in his garage. But why?? Ecology aside, you save a hundred quid taking the ‘lectric. Its silent. Its fab. Its green. Its everything. But that’s only if you venture out less than about 270 miles from your home charger. If the round trip is 400 miles then ya have to think about it. Worry about it. Get anxiety attacks about it. Suffer… range anxiety!!!!!

His car is quoted as 270 miles on a full charge. But that is because car manufacturers are as economical with the truth regarding electric car range as they were with ‘fuel consumption’ (see: everyone vs Volkswagen, 2016, 17, 18, 19…) on diesel ones. So 270 miles, once you add the ‘reality factor’ becomes 220 miles. Turn on the heater (it was -3 on Sunday) and that drops to 165 miles. Should it rain and the wipers get deployed, that comes down to 92 miles. Don’t use the radio, just sing. So he might make it one way, to Leeds, but then what? Public chargers few, far-between and working at about 40% of them actually working. Though there is a new charger, somewhere in Yorkshire, but that’s scant benefit.

Whilst I’m waiting for my new electric motor car, I’m in training. I keep the old petrol car with the fuel light on. Red and flashing. And that’s when I go on my journeys. To learn what that ‘range anxiety’ is going to feel like.

So all praise the government. Those not currently under some inquiry or other.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

Before we dismiss Nadhim Zahawi as ‘just another money-grabbin’, tax-evadin’, in-it-f’rimself, stinkin’ rich Tory bastard’, I think we need to know more about ‘the man behind the bastard’, where he’s from, what he’s done. Only then can we judge the shit out of him based on scant information and lack of background. So I researched him thoroughly. Being the convicted Wikipedophile that I am.

Unfortunately, due to a computing error, the information received was superimposed upon the next entry in Wikipedia, which may have confused a lesser being but I managed to sort out quite easily, being clever and brilliant and, most importantly, not being particularly bothered about ‘facts’ or ‘truth’ or rubbish like that.

So Nadhim Zahawi-Ratcliffe was born in Iraq. As a little girl she grew up in Iran before marrying Jim Ratcliffe, the guy who wants to own Manchester United, possibly changing her name to Nazanin during this phase of obvious gender ambiguity. The blurred images weren’t clear at that point. She went to prison in Iran because she was dependant on Liz Truss and Boris Johnson for freedom and justice and as those two couldn’t organise a hymn in a church, she languished there for years. Then came over here and formed YouGov, the polling company, and although he was back as Nadhim, and a man, he chose to have his share of the company registered to Balshore Investments in Gibraltar. Which was a bit ‘taxy’ whichever gender he/she was at that time. Balshore Investments had nothing to do with the Zahawi-Ratcliffs other than full ownership of it. He was reunited with his daughter when he returned from Iran and the rest, as they say, is history. Except for him being the Chancellor, in charge of all the nation’s tax affairs, whilst dodging his own personal taxes. Nothing of any ‘conflict of interest’ in that.

I hope that clears up the entire matter, if not his reputation. Or her’s, perhaps.

Happy not at all confused Tuesday

A xxxx

Leeds is precisely 200 miles from London. I know. I just counted every single one of them. Twice. Once there, once back. And all because somebody died. A real ‘somebody’, not just ‘the death of Spurs’ dreams’, the end of all hope for football fans in N17, not even the day civilisation died (when Arsenal won 2-nil last week). Nope, this was a real person. Laid to rest in Leeds. And we went. Because sometimes, you just need to.

It was a remarkably unremarkable journey up there. Which is the absolute best you can ever hope for on the first motorway in the land, designed for 1955 levels of traffic and butchered by the 2020s obsessions of slowing everyone down, speed fucking cameras and worst of all… emissions! I kid you not. As you approach Sheffield (in your 40-ton, 8-litre diesel spewing monster lorry, or even Mini Countryman) you see a sign saying ‘slow down to 60!!! For reduction of emissions!)

Sheffield. Where they used to make steel. Where two monster chimneys adjacent to the motorway spewed out 24-hour a day shit for 60 years. Where all the inhabitants smoke 60-a-day. Most importantly: where we really don’t give a shit about Sheffieldies and we’re in a hurryyyyyy!!! So I sped up to 80. I’m that kind’a guy.

So we buried poor old Mike, God rest his soul, had some lunch and set off home.

My wife has so many attributes. She’s organised, she’s really together… errrrr… she’s gorgeous (I really do have to say that), a fantastic swimmer… errrrr… she’s just FAB! But she can’t navigate for shit. Give her control of Waze and she’ll have me turning into Tesco’s car park or the driveway of number 7 Shakespeare Drive, Bradford, before you can say ‘turn the car around… turn the car around… turn the car…’ Its just not her thing. I’m ok with that.

So for the way home she called up the satnav of choice and plugged in ‘home’ and off we went, back to the M1. Or so I thought. Waze decided that in fact, the A1 was a better bet. But it didn’t tell us. It certainly didn’t tell my navigator. So we trekked about 25 miles across West Yorkshire to find it.

I didn’t mind. I didn’t know, in fact until about half a mile down this funny-looking ‘M1’, when it announced ‘end of motorway’. Ahhhhh, its the A1M. Oh. Oh well, all roads point south. Eventually.

And as it happens that was also a nice, easy, clear run home. Just 9 hours after we left that morning. The only bad thing was that we made it home with sufficient time for me to see Arsenal score the winner against Man. United. Is one little traffic jam too much to ask for when you need it???

Happy Monday

A xxxx