Andy's Glasses

“Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you”.

That phrase was invented by Black Sabbath in nineteen-seventy-whenever after the release of their only ever single: Paranoid. It’s a brilliant song. All their songs were brilliant. Really ‘dark’, fucking LOUD and totally brilliant. They had to be played loud. If you turned the volume down below ‘9’ they turned off. No point listening to Iron Man or War Pigs at a whisper. Ossie Osbourne didn’t do ‘whisper’.

But Black Sabbath had a right to be paranoid because everyone was out to get them. To try and ban them. For being ‘dark’, ‘satanic’, ‘demonic’, obviously. But also, following the suicide of a young woman who’d was playing their album at the time of her death, the accusations of evil against the band went exponential. Not only were they subversive, not only were they really long-haired and rebellious, not only, if you played their records backwards Bealzibub would enter the room, but worst of all: they were working class.

Four scumbag factory workers from Birmingham who changed music forever. Of course once those accusations started flying and calls for having their music banned got under way, their fame and fortune similarly skyrocketed. No such thing as bad publicity. And the more ‘from the devil’ they were accused, the more kids wanted to embrace that, to stand out, be different.

I was watching a rockumentary about ‘the birth of Metal’. No shit. I know, with the World Cup on how do I find the time? But I make time. For what’s important. And once I’d enjoyed the exquisite moment when Ronaldo came on as a substitute, that match could never get any better, however many Portugal scored. So I went in search of the sound of my youth. Played at volume ’11’ in my brother’s room. But what separates Black Sabbath from all the other bands of that ilk, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Nazareth, was that Ossie and his merry men always seemed to be laughing. Mainly at themselves, but not exclusively. And I love that they never took anything too seriously.

Happy listenin’

A xxxx

Who’s your hero? Batman? Einstein? Weinstein? Churchill? Primrose Hill? Gary Linneker? Gary Neville? Gary Glitter? Emiline Pankhurst? Bob Dylan? Bob Hope? Nelson Mandela? Lord Nelson? Donald Trump? Donald Duck? So many worthies to elevate to the very top of one’s personal list. Mine is Pele. No competition, no-one even close.

I was 10 in 1966, when England won the World Cup. Brazil were fab but I didn’t really notice them much. But by 1970, I was… errr… (plus 3, add one, take away 7, divide by…) 14 and I did take notice. Of the team which, to this day, was the absolute best ever. The heart and soul of which was Edson Arantes do Nascimento. Pele. Then 30 years old and at the total peak of… everything. You should just binge on all the Brazil matches from 1970 one day (and night, and another day) rather than wasting time with Peaky Blinders or Desperate Housewives. To learn the sheer majesty of the man. It wasn’t just the goals. Not even the amazing things he did which no-one else could or would or has ever done since. It was the poise. The balance. The sheer nonchalance of The Ultimate Footballer. As exemplified by his pass in the final that year to Carlos Alberto to score the best goal ever scored. And he was always smiling.

He was beyond ‘good’ and so far above ‘special’ that His name must be revered. And as he lays dying in a hospital in São Paulo, I’m with him in spirit.

But whilst he’s there, he’s got fuck all else to do but watch football. And last night, he’d have been proud of his legacy. Because I’m sure Brazil had great footballers before Pele and they’ve definitely had more than a few since. But he infused that nation’s football psyche with an enjoyment and joy which endures to this day. No Brazil team is ever ‘pragmatic’. They all play because they simply love to play. Ok, they showboat a bit, at times, no names. Although Neymar springs to mind. But they only do that because they’re so good and they’re enjoying themselves so much.

And how much would Pele appreciate Richarlison’s goal last night? A goal almost obscene with cheek, with guile, with style, with flow and precision. The fact that the scorer is a Spurs player is (almost) irrelevant here.

I want Brazil to win the World Cup. For Him. And for Me. And for football. Which, with the corruption and politics and all the shit surrounding it currently, has become a little too cynical. But not for Brazilians. Like me.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Well, the excitement in our house last night was positively palpable. Pulsating. Possibly psychologically psychedelic (I know, but I ran out of ‘p’-words which sound like ‘p’-words). It was pspectacular. Even Mel, not the world’s keenest football fan, was so moved by the occasion that she actually looked up from our latest jigsaw puzzle for seconds on end. During the second half. And the last 5 minutes of the first half. Before that there was quite literally nothing to distract her from sorting those little pieces. It was horrible.

Because Senegal started like men possessed. Almost as if they were a World Cup team intent on winning a round-of-16 knockout match! I mean; who does that? At one point during the (what felt like) 3rd hour of the first half, the daughter messaged me ‘this is like watching Spurs’, as England knocked the ball around, quite comfortably between the back 4, never venturing anywhere near the half way line. That was after Senegal had inevitably decided that ‘high press’ might be a good idea but if you’re knackered after 10 minutes, the rest of the game might become a problem. But still England looked like a team without a plan.

Then something happened. It was called ‘Jude Bellingham’ and he just sort of burst into life. A 19 year old kid running like a veteran, bouncing off tackles and he set up the game’s most unlikely scorer, Jordan Henderson, for a goal just before the 40 minute mark. Hooray. Nerves were settled (except for Spurs fans, ours never settle) we had a lead to take in at half time.

But the first half wasn’t over. Not by a long way. Bellingham again, powering his way upfield as England broke out of defence. Pass to Phil Foden on the left, first time to Harry Kane, powering up from the right and if you want an emphatic finish, Harry delivered. So we had a 2-nil lead to take in at half time.

We scored one more, Foden again, this time assisting Saka for a very classy goal.

And being a football fan, thus able to make a definitive judgment based on 5 minutes of play, but relying completely on hyperbole, the blinkering effects of national pride and alcohol, wishful thinking and a blind spot 6 miles wide, I would say Jude Bellingham is the best player in the world.

Because I just don’t get the hype about Kylian Mbappe. What’s all the fuss about? He’s French, FFS. Just because he’s explosively talented, unbelievably skilful, scores for fun, is fast as fuck-on-steroids and quite possibly the inheritor of Messi’s crown for brilliance, why is everyone making such a big deal?

Maybe he’ll get Covid before Saturday.

Happy “it’s comin’ ‘ome” Monday

A xxxx

Everyone has their ‘ambulance’ story. My aunt had a heart attack and waited 73 hours for an ambulance. The undertaker only took 42 minutes. My grandma fell over and broke her hip. She died of starvation waiting for paramedics. Even us, when Joey banged a big hole in his head, his dad said to call an ambulance but we decided that we love Joey and didn’t want him bleeding out for 36 hours so took matters into own hands.

And the problem is not with the ambulance drivers. Nor strictly with there being a vast number of sick people. The problem starts with people being well and healthy.

They go to hospital, get treated, sewed up, repaired and then they’re better and should go home. But they can’t. They might have a leg in plaster and need care but live alone. They might be all sorts of things requiring constant assistance but don’t have such support at home. And the ‘care system’ can’t cope and offer help. So they have to stay in hospital until something can be arranged.

But until they leave they can’t put sick people in their beds. So the afflicted lie on stretchers in the A&E until that’s full. Then they put them in the corridors, waiting for beds. Waiting for a well person to finally go home or a sick one to die. Same difference.

Because until they do The ambulances can’t bring anyone new into the hospital. There’s simply no-where to put them. So the patients lie in the back of the ambulance waiting for space. And that can take hours. During which the ambulance obviously can’t go and gather up more afflicted. So those who’ve fallen, got sick, had a heart attack or just don’t feel well, sit at home and wait for someone healthy to go home, for hours and hours as the ambulances all sit outside the hospitals waiting interminably to unload their wounded to allow them to go out again a’gathering.

The obvious solution is that as soon as people are better you make them leave their bed. No help? Tough shit. Need assistance? Your problem. We need the fucking bed!!! Alternatively, as soon as people are well, you kill them. But that’s an ironic loop too far. Possibly too surreal for Dali. But the alternative is at the other end of the cycle, with the ill dying in ambulances, or waiting for them. Effectively, the current situation.

None of it the fault of the ambulance teams. Yet they’re the ones who have to live with it and suffer the massive mental consequences of their collective, institutionally-created impotence.

And all this when England are playing tonight, when it all gets a bit more ‘real’.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So here we are, on our favourite subjects of the Royal family and prejudice. Brilliant. Love both of them. And then they combine, so sweetly, coincide, so perfectly… in Meghan.

Very few people ever admit to being racist. And the ones who do generally belong to Combat 88, the Not-very-nice-Nazi-ish Party, UKIP or other right-wing type organisations. The rest of us claim no racism whatsoever, no prejudice for colour, creed, gender (other than the really confusing ones, everyone hates them), religion or class. And on a conscious level we may be completely correct.

But there is always a degree of stereotyping, when hearing stories on the news. ‘Oh, that’s typical’, kind of internal, visceral almost, reactions that everyone has in certain circumstances. And that is how we define ‘racism’ or ‘sexism’, by the views no-one says or states, but are inherently there. We all have such thoughts. It’s not a perfect world.

And thus my own personal prejudice. And Meghan Markle/Windsor/Sussex. Oh no, its nothing to do with her (mixed) race, nothing at all. But its all to do with her being a ‘babe’.

You see, I just can’t help but unconsciously wanting to find good in her. Because she looks so fab, I can’t see the bad. Or I see it and try to justify it, without even realising. I’m prejudiced towards her, rather than against, like everyone else in the world seems to be. Me and Harry; her sole defenders. Piers Morgan would have her strung up and pilloried. Another good reason to love her. Maybe I have a thing for Canadians? I am married to one. Who knows? But being a fair, decent and never prejudiced kind of uber-mensch, I will always love Meg. Until she gets really fat, old and ugly, obviously.

But after all, I’m just a man.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

“So where are you from, exactly?”, asked Lady Susan Hussey, 82 year old former something-or-other to the Queen, to Ngozi Fulani.

“Hackney”, came the honest reply from the dreadlocked black lady.

“No, but what’s your nationality??”, pressed her Ladyship.

“British. I was born in Hackney”.

“Yes, but before that? Your people? Are you African?”

And so it went on. The question was basically: ‘why are you that colour?’ But you’re not allowed to ask that. In fact, you’re not really allowed to ask any of it. It’s, apparently, ‘racist’. That’s what the accusation is all about. As is the consequent resignation of Prince William’s Godmother. She didn’t resign as Godmother, not sure you can do that, you’d need to ask God, but resigned from her post of… something for an 82 year-old to do in Buckingham Palace to keep her out of the rain.

Prince William immediately issued a statement saying there is no racism in the Royal anything and we’re all about inclusivity and diversity, blah, blah, blah, which you can actually see if you look at his family history and the portraits of monarchs past, how wonderfully ‘diverse’ they really are. Of course, there is but one person of ‘mixed race’, cropping up about 2018 but they managed to make her a hate figure and exiled her to America.

The problem is that people are too fucking sensitive, too sodding literal and too bleedin’ defensive for anything meaningful to ever be said. If someone were to approach me and ask me, as a Jew, ‘where I came from’, I too would say ‘Hackney’, cos its where I was born. But if pushed (as above) I would only be too pleased to bore them to tears with tales of Poland, pogroms, boats to England, 10 people living in 1-bedroom flats in Petticoat Lane, with the diaspora, the Holocaust, world anti-semitism, safe havens, for fucking hours on end.

What her Ladyship said certainly lacked any kind of woke sensibility. But she’s eighty-fucking-two. She’s from another time. Another era. Her grandfather was probably a slaver. Everyone who knew the Queen for 60 years had a grandfather with dirty hands. So cut her some slack. Rather than getting upset and offended at every clumsy question, why didn’t Ngozi, a highly intelligent woman, simply see the question that was really being asked, something like: ‘tell me of your heritage’. The question we all quite like answering. The interesting bit. Rather than being ultra-pedantic about an old lady’s grammatical lack of accuracy.

I don’t think any real fight against racism is enhanced by ‘crying wolf’. Whatever colour the wolf may be.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

England beat Wales last night. In case you missed that. Or in case you live in China. In which case you’d have heard the result which most aligns with Communist Party narrative of the moment. And if President Xi is feeling more pleasantly disposed to the Welsh, because of England’s ‘hard line’ and Rishi’s ‘robust pragmatism’ against the horrible dictator, then what’s the Chinese for ‘WELL DONE WALES!!!!’?

And that, really, is my issue with not just Xi, but the Ayatollah, with Kim Jong Un, with all horrible, oppressive dictators. The poor people under their control really know absolutely nothing about what is going on. Either in their home country or, especially, in the outside world. And for China, the latter is the scapegoat for all the evils that happen in the former. Blame England, blame America, how will the people know any different? And now, also, blame social media. Because even someone as ruthless as Xi can’t completely control that stream of information. Even he can see that there would be absolute rebellion if the 1.6 billion people in China were not able to see what Kim Kardashian ate for brunch on Tuesday.

It’s always about the people. Russia, China, North Korea, Iran, the ordinary citizens are fed news from state-run, politicised ‘news’ channels, with no other sources of information available. They get the party story and nothing else.

I remember when we had our last dictator, Boris Johnson, who was eventually sacked because no-one could believe a word he said. Ok, he did loads of stupid things. They were forgivable. But the lying about them, the fictional and feeble attempts to cover them up, that was the true crime. Because we couldn’t trust him to tell us the truth. And I hated that. Because if you can’t trust the man at the top, (I would de-genderise that and say ‘or woman at the top’ but there are no dictators who are either women or even who identify as women. At the moment. And ‘in their own homes’ doesn’t count), then you feel very uneasy and helpless.

Your either buy into the story or you question it, but without information that’s difficult. Which is why so many older generation Russians support the war in Ukraine. And the prevailing ethos of ‘don’t upset the apple cart’ reinforces the desire to believe the state’s narrative.

The people of China watch the World Cup edited so that you can’t see the faces of the crowds and realise they’re not wearing masks. Because of their president’s obsession with ‘zero Covid’ they’re locked up for months, brutally, tested randomly and regularly, and have been living March 2020 for nearly 3 years. But with armed enforcement. Because of this, they’ve never reached ‘heard immunity’ and with a pathetic vaccination programme with a third rate vaccine, their ‘Covid rate’ creates a much higher death rate than anywhere else.

So there is rebellion, of sorts, in China. By extremely brave people. Most of whom will never be seen again.

Boycott China. Stop buying glasses at Specsavers. And bury Alexa at the back of the garden.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Tonight’s match between England and Wales is simply massive. The consequences and repercussions will be simply immeasurable. Possibly because a lot of people simply ‘don’t care’ and its very hard to measure that in a quantitatively significant manner. But lots of us DO care. Greatly, deeply, passionately and… errrrr… big. …ly.

What will Prince William do? That’s the biggest question. He’s an Englishman and also the Prince of Wales. I have similar dilemma: I’m English but have visited Wales. Twice. Got a speeding ticket crossing the fucking bridge. But I bear them no grudges. Hmmm…

If Wales win, will that create a rush for ‘stick-on man-buns’? We’ll all be ‘going Bale’ and opting for the most unfashionable hair-cut ever imagined? Will we ‘do a Ramsey’ and dye our barnets blonde?

Here’s the situation, in case you’re not following all the details and statistical probabilities.

If England win, we win the group. Possibly the whole World Cup, but that’s next week’s discussion.

If Wales beat England by four goals or more (yeah, right) they go through automatically and England have to wait for other match between America and Iran to decide if we’re still involved. If America win that then Joe Biden becomes the new Ayatollah. If Iran win they get to send their Morality Police to Las Vegas. But if Cameroon beat Serbia then we get to send all our Albanians home. Unless Argentina lose to Qatar in which case all the Argentinians will be retiring to their new homes in Dubai.

So you can see; there’s a lot hanging on this result this evening.

But its the World Cup and anything can happen!!! I’ll be riveted to the screen. Hoping England don’t play like they did on Friday because I’ll fall asleep. And its before my bedtime.

Great article today by John Barnes, in the Times. Which shows that total tosser, Infantino, how to actually make the point about all countries doing things other nations may find unacceptable, in a way that is measured, intelligent and well put together. I vote Barnes for head of FIFA. Then take photos of Infantino kissing Sepp Blatter and leave him to the Qataris.

Happy Big Match Day

A xxxx

I went to a wedding yesterday. Awww, that’s nice. Always nice. But there’s weddings, and then there’s WEDDDINGGGGSSS!!!! This was the latter. Definitely the latter. It was so big you could sell your invitation on Stub-Hub. It was so grand I wore something around my neck. Not a noose, but a bow tie!! And it was so splendid and wonderful that there was hour after hour of wonderful things happening.

So we did the service. Which was magnificently magnificent in a really magnificent way. Brides, grooms, rabbis, singers, parents, rings, songs, dancing, all surrounded by the entire rose department of New Covent Garden market.

And then we breezed along into the reception area. (You do a lot of ‘breezing’ at the Dorchester, its that kind of place). Because that’s where they kept the booze hidden. But we found it. Lots of it. In a whole variety of colours and sizes. But wait… I smelt food… hmmmm…

The purpose of the ‘reception’ is to kill time before dinner and allow the newlyweds to be photographed with each and every combination and permutation of the guest pool. With the bride’s family, with the groom’s. With the extended families, with the cousins, with the ‘friends’ (because relatives do NOT fall into that category as most are hated by someone or other). The bride with the groom’s friends, the groom groping the bride’s friends, those cousins on the groom’s side who support Chelsea filmed with the friends of the bride’s who vote for the Greens. And so it goes on.

But there’s only so much you can drink whilst all this is going on. So they send round nibbles. Which, for a natural pig like me, are always the high point of any event. And they were good. Sensational. Little duck and hoi-sin pancakes, fish’n’chips in a little cone, hummus and flat-bread, smoked salmon roll-things, and more. But as I stumbled back to the bar I found a little ‘food station’. Like a train station but no-one was on strike. And instead of trains they had those tiny little burgers, ‘sliders’ and… drum roll… sausages! Both little real sausages and little ‘Vienna’, hot-dog type sausages. Ketchup. Mustard. Everything a man could wish for, all on one little table. From which I was never, ever going to leave. These are MY sausages and burgers, FUCK OFF AND GET YOUR OWN ELSEWHERE!!! If you touch them I will kill you.

But after just a few short hours they took them away!!!! Even though I was standing there with a carrier bag. And a glass of whisky. Just in case. But no, I was forced, dragged screaming, into dinner. Which took hours and hours because someone decided that the best way to digest course number 1 is to dance and leap around violently for half an hour to prepare you for course number 2. You’d think doctors would know better (both bride and groom) but no. I kept checking but they never brought the sausages back.

Which, as disappointments go, was not really the biggest of my life, it just felt like it at the time. Nothing compared to, f’rinstance, Belgium’s disappointment over their result. I bet Kevin de Bruyne wished he’d come to the wedding too.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

I’ve been trying to save the planet for year now. Like, really saving it. If I see a cow farting I go and tell it how bad that is for the environment. I turn off lights. Then turn them back on because I can’t read the paper in the dark. I plant flowers. Because trees are too big for our flower beds and begonias are the next best thing. Well, they photosynthesise, don’t they?

But a year ago we made the nearly conscious decision to get an electric car. We did the due diligence, investigated the ‘ranges’ of all available models. Deduct 60 miles from it because no car manufacturer is any more honest about the range of their batteries than they were about the economy of their petrol engines. We wanted a car that didn’t employ child labour, but unfortunately that happens with the mining of the Lithium so its a bit of a problem. We wanted a car that wasn’t about 6 times more carbon releasing than an equivalent petrol one, during its manufacture. But such a car doesn’t exist. So we forgot all that shit because to adopt a truly holier-than-thou stance in the motoring world no-one really cares about any of that. Only that it is, in some way, electric.

The problem is: we’re still waiting for it to arrive. And until it does we’re not allowed to be smug. We can’t say to people: ‘oh, you’re still driving a PETROL car, are you?’ Unless its a McLaren because even Greta Thunberg stops being a pain in the ass to admire those. And after 12 months of waiting, I’ve reached the point where I’m actually in favour of using the whip on those kids down the Lithium mines, abusing the slave labour to get more silicon chips to produce more processors, anything. Just get our fucking car. So we can let everyone know how morally superior we are compared to them.

And in that vein, I’m just a little curious how the ‘greenest World Cup ever!!!’, which in fact is nothing of the sort anyway, reconciles the air conditioning of open air stadia in 30 degree temperatures, to reducing carbon footprints? Just curious. No accusations, just… idle interest.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx