Andy's Glasses

There’s a new tv show coming out. Next week. It’s along the lines of ‘Strictly’ or ‘Bake Off’, where loads of contestants are eliminated week by week until there is a winner who becomes…

Chancellor of the Exchequer!!!

But for real. Moves into Number 11 that very night as all contestants have to take their pyjamas with them. You don’t have to be clever or anything, as most of the last 4 chancellors we’ve had in the last 3 months have shown. You just need a nice voice and good line in apologetic u-turns.

The initial weeks deal with the simple stuff. Basic questions like:

If GDP increases by 0.72% what will be the expected tax increase and how will it be divided between health, education, housing, defence and Andy’s pension? Or:

If the Prime Minister comes up with a get-rich-quick plan for the country which will lead to short term financial disaster, ruination coupled with loss of international status and zero credibility with anyone in the world, at what point in the ensuing shit-storm do you resign? And in which country should you do it?

It’s all pretty basic at first. Then it gets trickier. Apparently Diane Abbott was beaten in one of the earliest rounds which was ‘count up to 10; with NO FINGERS!!!’ Joey made it to the next round, even though there were three ‘8s’ in his 10. On the grounds that he’s never been publicly humiliated nor ludicrously hypocritical.

Jeremy Hunt was the ‘Star Bean-counter’ this week but there’s a lot of competition.

You only needed to count as far as 2 to really enjoy yesterday’s match between Spurs and Everton. And we looked solid. And tidy. And in control. And much better than we have in previous matches. Yet its all very ‘un-Spurs-like’. It’s all rather pragmatic. Which is fine if you just want to win loads and loads of games and be up at the top of the league table. But is it good to watch? Does it dilute the very values that have rendered Spurs fans happy yet suicidal for decades? Do we still crave the spirit of David Ginola in which the game is played beautifully or I’ll just stand around doing nothing?

But spare a thought for poor Mason Greenwood, the Manchester United player-who’s-not-currently-playing. Because he’s been arrested for rape, coercion and a whole raft of other bad things. Hasn’t played since January but because you are innocent until proven guilty, he’s still getting 75,000 quid a fucking week from his club. As he should. I feel the ‘presumption of innocence’ needs to be suspended when footballers are involved, because whatever the charges, they’re always guilty. Unless they’re our players, obviously…

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

I remain really positive about our new Prime Minister and her team. She’s kweative, kwedible and opposed to kwonyism. And she had absolutely no choice in the sacking of her chancellor yesterday. Because, according to her, he shared her vision, expressed her thoughts and did everything she hoped and wished him to do. Leaving his position totally untenable, obviously. How can the man stay in his job when him and the boss were (conceptually) joined at the hip? And therefore the only reason she could have for sacking him was because he was her proxy. She should have sacked herself but lacks the authority and legislature to do that. Ok, she could resign but that would leave her party in possibly a bigger mess than its in now. Itself almost an impossible thought. And just a pause to consider the seemingly understandable indignation of the Conservative Party ‘members’ as to how badly she has fucked up. Because she told them precisely what she intended to do. And they were sufficiently on-board to vote her in, not in spite of those intentions but because of them. Thus it is safe to assume that those same ‘members’ are in fact totally ‘unfit for purpose’. For the purpose of choosing a Prime Minister, that is. Yet that’s how her replacement, should that be necessary, and it pretty much is assured to be necessary, will be selected.

It’s all such a mess that they need to call in the big guys. The A team. The big guns. And this is how that works.

The problem for the government is that they have no credibility whatsoever, having taken a mere 3 weeks to destroy the nation’s economy and worsen the cost of living crisis by hundreds of percent. And that creates hysteria and excitement and panic. So what is needed is the dullest, drabbest, most sleep-inducing person imaginable to calm things down and send the nation into a deep slumber state to stop it complaining. Someone so wet that he is that polar opposite of anything worth waking up for.

In steps, Jeremy Hunt. Perfect. In every way. Nominally, he’s the ‘chancellor’ but in reality he becomes the de facto Prime Minister and Liz Truss will not just answer to him but not say another fucking word without his consent, approval and very bland agreement. Because every word Liz does say seems to cost us 20 cents off the dollar and 2 grand on the mortgage. Plus whatever international credibility still tenuously remains.

For all his faults (errrr… being rich… being brown…) Rishi Sunak told Liz what her plans would do to the economy and to our international status. The economists all worked out that massive borrowing to fund tax cuts, mainly aimed at the higher earners and businesses, would result in high interest rates. But he was four chancellors ago, so no-one listened.

Queen Liz is dead, long live King Jeremy

And God help us all

A xxxx

Wednesday night was European Champions League night at White Hart Lane. In no way wishing to be smug, nasty, arrogant or in any way obnoxious, Arsenal fans can google ‘champions league’ to see what that’s all about. And such a night it really was. European football is always fairly magical, night matches that bit more special and in our new stadium, the whole thing is quite heavenly. If you accept they probably swear a lot in heaven.

And the swearing started when Eintracht Frankfurt scored after 13 minutes. After a defensive howler by Eric Dier. Had we lost the match I’d already written the headline for the Sun’s match report, inspired by Tory Boy’s comment: ‘DIER-BOLICAL!!!’ But we needn’t have worried. Of course, we did, because its the nature of the Spurs fan to do so. When Sonny scored a few minutes later the hair-pulling and chest-beating was temporarily halted. Harry scored his penalty a bit later and then not too long after came the goal of the night. Sonny again, hitting the most superb left-foot volley from a long and looping cross. Easy goal. I could’a done that, no problem. Yep, the magic of our Korean; makes it all look so easy.

The second half was goalless until the 90th minute when Frankfurt got a ‘late consolation’ goal, which caused stress, panic and a vast intake of anti-depressants in the home crowd faithful. But never mind, even later we won another penalty. Never have to worry with Harry on the ball for a pen. But… never mind. 3-2, a great result, fantastic game, brilliant night.

And just a mention of my new favourite company in the entire world!

Following ‘shower-door-gate’ last Friday morning when it spontaneously exploded into a million pieces in the middle of the night, there is an update. Not on the cause, no-one knows that, but the aftermath.

I found the name of the door from an old receipt, 2015-old to be precise, and googled it to find it is still made. Then I could order a replacement… part? Door? Whatever. And I noticed that the door comes with a ‘lifetime guarantee’. Though whether the explosion signalled its definite death and thus invalidated this was a question. I emailed Lakes with the gruesome tale of broken glass. An hour later I was phoned by the nicest man ever and told the new door would be with us the next day. No charge. As per guarantee. No hoops, no assessments, just the photos I sent him and its done. And as the door (purchased for £442) is now £1500, I call that a result. And I call Lakes Shower-shit (can’t remember their full title) the company to which all others should aspire for customer service. Bless ‘em.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

When you’re a tyrant, you make up the rules as you go along. That’s one of the privileges. You say; people do. The downside is that generally you’re hated. And can trust no-one. So I’m not going to apply for that job today. Though you do get to adopt the most astounding double standards and when questioned about it, you only have to lie, which most tyrants seem to find ridiculously easy to do, however transparent those lies may be.

We spoke of Iran, run by a tyrannical regime which has morality police who murder. That’s funny enough (unless you’re the one getting murdered) but pails into insignificance compared to the Big Boss. The Tyrant’s Tyrant. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. The only person alive who would send in 200,000 troops, call up the reserve, send thousands of tanks and heavy artillery and run an endless missile and bomb campaign for 6 months but deny that ‘its a war’. “It is a special action to protect Russian people”. Particularly those Russian people who’ve invaded Ukraine in a decidedly warlike manner. And this weekend was the ultimate statement, after Ukrainians bombed out the bridge connecting Russia to Crimea, across which come all of Russias supplies and munitions. Although Ukraine, as yet, have not accepted responsibility for the bombing, but really, who else would do it? The Welsh?? In a war you cut supply lines, if you can, and they did.

Yet to Putin, this was ‘an act of terrorism’. Which, obviously, must be punished, blah, blah, blah. Damaging a bridge is ‘terrorism’ whilst bombing schools and hospitals, sending missiles into residential areas and levelling entire cities is what, exactly?

Yet somehow the man retains the support of a ridiculously high number of Russians. When, really, 5 would be too high a number considering Ukraine and Russia were and are brethren peoples. You have to assume, correctly, that ‘the news they read ain’t the same as wot we do’.

And Putin’s entire modus is to portray Russia as the persecuted underdog. Hence no declarations of war whilst declaring war. He is ‘responding’, ‘acts of terrorism’, persecution by the West, by NATO, Europe, America. It all feeds the narrative which, if the shit really does hit the fan, would enable him to fire a nuke. With the support of the Russian people who he is ‘protecting’. He’s threatened it numerous times and now Ukraine has a real upper hand and Russia is amazingly running out of missiles (though not soldiers, they’ve always been good at sending kids to die for the cause), the time may be approaching when that is Putin’s only option to save face. And saving that horrible, ugly face is his number one concern.

Never mind, Spurs are playing in the Champions League tomorrow and, if London’s still standing, I’m going!!!

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

The death of Mahsa Amini has started a (mini) revolution. The 22 year old was seemingly murdered by the ‘morality police’ after not wearing her hijab sufficiently… errrr… well, she was wearing it but… simply not wearing it ENOUGH. So they beat her to death in a van. Seems fair. Just to summarise: wearing the correct headscarf but in an incorrect way is an arrestable moral crime in Iran whereas murdering a lovely young woman is presumably morally acceptable. It’s like the ‘fashion police’ on steroids and with guns.

But Mahsa’s death really is just a catalyst, just ‘the last straw’ for particularly young women who, in Iran, have no freedom, virtually no future and pretty much no life. I read of one woman who managed to escape Iran permanently, for her children. And the first thing she did upon arrival was to run through Heathrow airport. Because running is not allowed for women in Iran. I didn’t know that. They can probably run indoors. Isn’t that enough?

I know that Iranians are not allowed to listen to any kind of ‘pop’ or ‘western’ music of any kind, the inspiration for the Clash’s iconic ‘Rock the Casbah’ song, released in 1982. The Iranians wouldn’t know Will Young! Would never have heard Victoria Beckham sing (like the rest of us), missed all of Girls Aloud. You could never get that back.

So the murder has polarised the youth, particularly the female youth, into a cry for some ‘freedoms’ which we simply take for granted. Wearing a t-shirt. Sunbathing. Jogging. Driving. Going out without ‘permission’ from a man. Getting a proper education (they’re only allowed to study arts and humanities because they are ‘cognitively and physically weaker than men’. Have they never watched women’s rugby?

The problem is that they operate on a different value system. Which we may find deeply offensive from the lofty perspective of our liberal democratic society. Many Iranians are happy with their world. I’m guessing that’s the men. And people who don’t dig rock’n’roll. But for the young to see images in film and on social media of true freedom must be soul-destroying. And the Ayatollah is there to save souls, not destroy them, surely?

But without democracy you can’t have change, so they’re stuck. Unless they have another revolution. And currently, a bunch of schoolgirls burning hijabs is, though brave and bold and praiseworthy, insufficient to bring change. But good luck to them anyway.

“The Sandwich” has evolved from its humble origins during the pandemic. It has grown. In stature, in taste and in wonderfulness. But because it originated in a desperate time, it still is virtually calorie free.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

If you look at today’s league table, of the top four teams, 3 are from London. And if you accept that although Manchester City are nominally a ‘northern’ team, they are in fact just the fantasy play toy of an Emirate billionaire who could just as easily be Napoli, Nantes or Nantwich Town for all the resemblance they have to anything from Manchester, then you must accept that the league is now dominated by London clubs. As it should be.

Yet the reason is really a new take on the old ‘north-south divide’ which we’re all bored to shit with and Boris single-handedly eliminated with one almighty slash of his sword called ‘Brexit!’ He managed to realign the mentally challenged of the entire nation with their inner xenophobia and unite them in their small minded insular desires.

This new version is cultural more than financial. Thus perhaps is an extension of the original because when you can’t feed your kids, like 97% of those in the North, you’re less likely to go to galleries and concerts and eat croissants al fresco which cost more than the dinner you’re making for 6 people.

And in steps Sara Arfaoui. Who da f-???? She is the Italian wife of Manchester City captain, Ilkay Gundogan. Who publicly (online, I presume) offended and upset pretty much everyone in Manchester by saying that the food there (restaurant food) is shit. You can’t get a decent sushi there, apparently, though who the fuck would go to Manchester for sushi anyway? If my husband earned so many hundred grand a week, I’d jump on a plane and eat in Kyoto. But I don’t like sushi and unless you like your fish and chips raw, don’t order that in Japan. And she bemoaned that restaurant food is always ‘frozen’, never fresh. She might have a language problem, or even difficulty with the accent, but I don’t call Burger King a ‘restaurant’ and if she’d gone to Greggs, its all fresh (baked) there.

I’ve been to Italy many times. And unless you find a plate of mozzarella, tomato and basil leaves (no salt, no seasoning, but all really fresh) appealing, its not a place to set taste buds alight. All the restaurants there are Italian. No curry, no kebabs, just lumps of the world’s most tasteless cheese.

But its all about the WAGS. They are refusing to accompany their superstar husbands to Manchester and instead convince them instead to play for London clubs, where the sushi is really good and the tomatoes all grown and picked every day off Tower Bridge.

And thus London clubs attract all the best players.

I’m off to speak to Kevin de Bruyne’s wife and take her for a kebab in Tottenham. She’ll never return.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

So its 3.45 am and I’m asleep. Who’d’a thought? And then I’m awake. Because of a bang. Big enough to wake me. And Mel. She ‘heard’ the bang because she was only half asleep from a potty stop 10 minutes earlier. But I didn’t hear it because it was the agent of my awakening, so logically, I wasn’t awake and thus not conscious, at the time of banging. Then I was, suddenly, ‘rewound the tape’ and thought ‘bang!’ We got up, walked into our shower room to find one of the shower doors had simply ‘exploded’. There it was, in its constituent blobs of glass, all over the fucking floor. In the toilet. Over the sinks. Safety glass. Or, not very safe glass. Oh well, never mind, at least we know what the noise was, back to sleep…

Though accelerated heart-rates are not the best aides to slumber, we eventually managed. Never mind, it was only a shower door. So how did it break? Why? The door has no frame, so there’s no stress. Its not, like ‘wedged’ against a wall or in any kind of tightness situation. Its just a fucking door. Or it was.

What if I’d been in the shower? Like, at the time of explosion? What broke the door? Mel told a work colleague who said: ‘oh yeah, that happened to us’. It’s the new pandemic. Exploding shower door syndrome. Wear a mask.

So I googled it. As ya do. And under ‘exploding shower doors’ there’s (obviously) thousands of articles, comments, explanations, support groups, organisations for the rights of shower doors, just tons of it. Because it can happen. Doh. And it does happen. Its a function of toughened glass. Because the way glass is toughened is to cause stress patterns in which the glass is effectively ‘pushing out’ from the inside. So when something hits it, its meeting a force pushing out. But any flaw or penetration and those forces get released, all pushing out together, causing an explosion. And long-term chemical activity in the glass can do it, or any possible movement against a hinge or handle. As the doors are heavy. I know. Even when in a bin bag in crumbly little bits, it still weighs a lot.

I’m just glad we don’t have toughened walls in the house. Or they might explode too.

Be careful out there. Or in here.

A xxxx

‘The camera never lies’, as they say. So forget all the cutesy-wootsy posing and posturing which you’re used to from the world’s bestest granddaughter, because underneath all that facade of sweetness and compliance and good-girlish goo-goo, there lurks… a woman in waiting! This one. Unless she chooses to change how she identifies, later in life, like when she’s 7, and then she’ll be a ‘thing-in-waiting’, defying definition or labelling by anyone. And being a woman in my life, she may choose that very path, just for the obstructive value. Because although my family does a good line in well-behaved, compliant, docile men, like me, (though we also have Joey who can’t tick any of those, nor any other really, boxes), the women are strong. Opinionated. Argumentative. Even with men! And the funny thing is that we then adopt the new version of sexism. Because if a woman, or woman-to-be, is stroppy and self-possessed and headstrong and defiant (no names, LILAAA!), she is referred to as ‘sassy’. If a man acts in that way, he is referred to as a tosser and gets punched. Is that fair? Is that this new egalitarianism we’ve been promised??? Or do I have to dress as a woman pretending to be a man before I’m entitled to this illusion of ‘equality’??? Like I usually do, really.

Went out to a ‘dinner’ yesterday, provided by a contact lens manufacturer. Still breaking my fast. But as it became the nearest thing to a ‘free lunch’ you could get, we went along. And normally, at such ‘professional’ events, they adhere to the protocol of getting the technical stuff out of the way whilst everyone’s sober, offering no more than a mango punch or an elderflower consommé (pretentious fuckers) until you’ve been educated and indoctrinated, then you get pissed afterwards. If there’s time. But last night was different. Cocktails/aperitifs on arrival. Or, JD-an’-coke, as they’re known. Followed by… pretty much anything, everything, and loads more where that came from. The meal was withheld until after the ‘presentation’ but everyone was so drunk by then, no-one cared.

I think all professional events should now follow along this model. You don’t remember quite so much information… in fact, none. But WTF?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I don’t know if angels say that, when they’re being angelic. I’m not sure they say anything really, especially if they’re Jewish angels, because then if there were two of them, they’d have 3 different opinions about the same thing and they’d end up arguing. Which is not just ‘not very angelic’ but defeats the entire point of angels altogether. So best if they don’t say anything. Because they are spirits and NOT humans. Hence they are pure in a way that only me and… well, just me really, can be whilst still retaining humanity. Because to err is human, as we all know, because we do it every day. Pretty much all day every day.

Except today. Yom Kippur. Misnomeringly (another day, another new word invented; well, bastardised to shit, at least) translated as ‘the day of atonement’ in English because English is a Christian language and goes straight for the extreme version involving heaven, hell, atonement, redemption and Forgiveness. Judaism is all about compromise. Negotiation. Coming to an accord. Everyone walking away happy. Unless you’re an angel, then you don’t walk so much as ‘float’. And you don’t ‘atone’ for your sins because they’re done, its over, move on. What you do is accept that you have sinned and, here’s the important, Yom Kippurish bit, try and make fewer sins next year.

So the aspiration of the day is just ‘improvement’ in a moral, decent, humanitarian way. And you do that by trying to feel like an angel, just for a fleeting glimpse… ok, done that, now we can say: well I’m ‘here’ now, lying, cheating, conning, robbing, mugging, swearing (iss’a sin, innit? FFS?), personising, (depending on whether you womanise or manise, or something in between), fighting, aggressive dipshit. And where I’m heading for (other than ‘hell’ or ‘jail’) is Angel! So I need to make just a small move in that direction. Anything is an improvement. HE will take that for this year, then we can improve again.

And you do that by sitting in a synagogue for 25 hours mumbling in a language you don’t really understand, whilst fasting. OR, like me, you can achieve spiritual ‘one-ness’, that holiest of states, by standing on a street corner wearing a stab-vest and walkie-talkie protecting your flock by looking out for terrorists, jihadis and pizza delivery men.

Almost done now, then we can eat!!!!

A xxxx

This is how it works. If you earn 25,000 quid a year and pay 20% tax, you are contributing £5k to the economy. Ok, that is sooooo simplistic, but iss just for illustration, innit. If you earn 250,000 a year and paid tax at 20% (in what world?), your contribution would be £50k. However, due to the fucking communists in our government, Billy Rich will actuallly be taxed at 40% (45 really, but that’s currently in debate), so he’ll be giving £100k. That I hope will put paid to the imbecilic “the rich gotta pay more tax, innit?” rubbish as quoted from some dozy bimbo on the News last night. The ‘rich’ do pay more tax. Shitloads of it. Many other dozy bimbos use this as their mantra too. Take note, Angela Rayner.

But then there’s the other dozy bimbo, the one currently running the country. Because she needs to get this too. Her and her big mate from the Chancellory. That if you reduce the highest of upper-rate tax bands, you are only giving money to the rich people in that band. Money you’re going to borrow, the repayment for which will be down to everyone, both rich and poor. Effectively robbing the (future) poor to pay the rich now. And for a Conservative government its not only spectacularly stupid but also is playing directly into the Labour party’s grubby little, coal-stained, calloused hands. So they’d have us believe. Kier Starmer is a lawyer so safe to say, he’s never done a day’s work in his life. 73-hour weeks at his desk sorting out prosecutions, by his own definitions, did not make him a ‘working man’, however many curries he ate out of the take away cartons in his office.

Thus, after a weekend of Liz and Kwasi assuring us that ‘the plans are the plans and will not change, none of them, not even a little bit, nothing’, by 7 o’clock Monday morning they had changed. Once eternal snake-in-the-grass/pain-in-the-ass Michael Gove and annoying little bad loser Grant Schapps had basically told their leaders that these proposals would never get voted into law, Kwasi realised finally what good sense would have told him 10 days ago (20cents on the pound ago; 1500 quid a year on the mortgage ago; 60 billion in the Bank of England ago) that the ‘rich’ don’t need a tax break funded by debt. They have their own offshore funds and avoidance tactics and hedges in place already, thank you very much.

Next is the OBR report on the tax proposals. The ‘Office for Budget (Ir)Responsiblity were supposed to pass judgment at the end of November but now its moved forward to later this month. Whether we still have a government by the next day remains to be seen.

Message for Liz: it can ONLY get better.

Happy Tuesday, fast well

A xxxx