Andy's Glasses

There are few things in life more scary than a serious and dull and even seriously dull Leader of the Opposition trying to look relaxed and cool and hip and groovy at the Pride march. And his worst crime: smiling. An act which requires the use of various muscle groups that in Kier Starmer’s face, have been inert for a long, long time. Resulting in looking like this. Like you’re constipated and have been for months but something might be about to happen.

Angela Rayner’s style advisers were right on the money when they told her: you look like shit, so the only way you can improve it is to stand next to something worse.

Do you really think me so superficial and nasty that I would mock the serious world of our politicians with jibes at their mere appearance? I hope you do. Then you’re learning how I think. No shot is a cheap shot.

Last night I met my own MP. Mike Freer. In keeping with Pride day, he’s gay. But I met him at our local ‘Proms’. Because I live in a very pretentious area, where everyone is cultured and bourgeoise, we have our own series of summer concert things in a big church which most people would never otherwise get the chance to visit on any kind of religious grounds. The concerts are jazz and light classical and we went to see a great gig by a Joni Mitchell type singer with her accompaniment. Which was, in all honesty, brilliant. And because it was ‘local’, and probably because the whole concert season is to raise money for a hospice, Little Mike came along as a doorman. Not in a: ‘if ya ain’t on da list ya ain’t gettin’ in!!!’, kind’a way, because diminutive gay men might struggle with that, but in a more ‘meet the voters’ because you never know when you’ll need them, way. I told him: ‘it’s nice to meet a Conservative MP NOT embroiled in a sleaze scandal this week’, to which he replied: ‘the week’s not over’. I like Mike Freer. Maybe its about time for a gay PM! Certainly could be no worse than our present incumbent. Nor, heaven forbid, the Leader of the Opposition.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

They say that ‘power is an aphrodisiac’ but it would appear that its ability to increase sexual desires and potency has no effect on those upon whom those desires are directed. Other than revulsion, possibly fear and disgust. Well, it does in the Conservative Party, where in this year alone, no less than 5 ministers have lost their jobs and/or parliamentary seats due to ‘sleaze’, generally, predatory sexual assault in the more specific. All men, obviously, and all abusing their relative position of power to intimidate, intoxicate and sexually harass. Whether they’re gay or straight (or anything else) is pretty irrelevant. The crime is the same. Being posh doesn’t render the crime either harmless or victimless. Being raped by someone with impeccable manners is not much consolation.

So we need to know whether these men, these all-powerful masters of the universe, those who RUN OUR COUNTRY, were predatory abusers before they joined the Conservative Party or whether there is something in the Tory constitution which seems to enable and empower such behaviour. Surely they are not driven by a leadership which implies all the time that ‘whatever you can get away with is fair game’, and that the only crime ever is to get caught. That’s the old ‘correlation, not causation’ effect, I feel. Because offences of this nature predate Boris. Thus there is either something inherent in the very DNA of a Conservative which is corrupt and evil or, once catalysed by a modicum of power, the seeds of perverted monster become manifest. Never womanifest. Must be chromosomal. But its a bit much when your elected representative, all suave and charm and compassion and insight, becomes the Yorkshire Ripper once seated on the blue side of Westminster.

Generally not a great day for England. We lost the rugby in Perth this morning to the Aussies, never a good start to a day. Then Katie Boulder lost at Wimbledon, followed by Liam Broady. All the great white (just their attire, obvs) hopes reduced to dust. Never mind, there’s always Heather Watson and Cameron Norrie. They’re tennis players, if ya don’t know. Bloody good ones. I played against Rachie this morning, she’s over for a bit from Berlin. And if she wins, she’s English, if she loses, she’s an honorary kraut. Look, I don’t make these rules. As we don’t score it always makes ruling ‘the winner’ a bit tricky anyway.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

We’re all used to cabinet ministers ‘resigning’. Normally it is done with a heavy heart and a massive Boris boot-print right in the small of their backs. And we’re also kind of inured to the ‘typical scandals’ which afflict Westminster on a regular basis. Cash for questions, dodgy accounting in the ‘expenses’ department, fathering illegitimate children with a transgender kangaroo from Putney South, its all a bit ‘been there, done that…’ But generally its done following a scandal, a scoop by a red-top newspaper, by someone with a long lens, and there’s excuses, mitigation (it was just a constituency meeting… in her house at 4am with no clothes on and half a pound of coke sitting on the table) and a standard format method of delaying the inevitable.

So last night’s announcement from Chris Pincher, the deputy chief whip, that he had ‘drank too much the night before, caused embarrassment and has to resign’ was a clear indication that this was something catastrophically bad. If the man’s leader can lie, cheat and break the fucking law and get away with it, what could he have done that required immediate retirement??? How bad could it possibly be???

And as the Sun revealed this morning; it was bad. Well, fairly bad. Mr Pincher was blind drunk, in a conservative ‘members only’ club and groped two men. Not one. That would have been bad. But two! I mean, what did the first one think when the dirty two-timer ran off to grope another? How demeaning for poor Number 1. Unworthy of further grope-age.

If this had been two women groped they’d be calling for his head. Even if it happened yesterday and not 25 years ago. There’d be uproar. But as usual, the rules and regulations around sexual harassment tend to follow the ‘norm’ and once things get a bit ‘gay’ then everyone tends to back off a bit anyway. Though doubtless, ‘details will follow’. I’m just not sure I want to read them.

Happy Friday,

A xxxx

Now here’s a picture to fill your heart. The world’s best tennis player (as of the taking of this pic the world rankings became totally irrelevant), and possibly the most gorgeous one, decked out in the livery of her beloved football team. My beloved football team. Your beloved football team (if you have sense, style, class and don’t worship the devil). Ironically, in her lifetime, she’s won more trophies than Spurs but that’s a different conversation. One we shan’t be having today.

There are some men (David Mellor) for whom nothing is more erotic than a woman clad in football kit. His preference was the Chelsea kit. He must really hate women. For most of us normal people, fantasy figures are generally wearing sheep-suits and there are swastikas involved, 6-inch heels, a cattle-prod and and a snare drum. But some men…

The best thing of all is that Emma Raducanu wore the Spurs kit for free. She was paid nothing to wear it. Possibly even bought it herself (!!!! Heaven forbid!!!) Which is true dedication and love as she has 10 million pounds a year to wear clothes, jewellery, drive a Porsche (terrible sacrifice for a 19 year old when she’d rather be like all her mates, riding round in a 1997 Nissan Micra, beaten to shit) and ‘endorse’ stuff. She turned down, allegedly, a further 35 million because she didn’t want to dedicate loads more days to prancing round in uncomfortable shoes, hideous dresses and over-the-top jewellery when she wants to be playing tennis. A decision I made decades ago. Though I do wear the hideous dresses when I get back from the courts.

Yet since winning the America Open last year Emma’s form has slumped. ‘Too many distractions’, they say, ‘sacking 7 coaches in 9 months is awful’, they cry, ‘too much, too soon’, the critics level at her. Well fuck ‘em all, she’s a Spurs fan and thus must be treated with the utmost respect and glorified at every step of the way.

Otherwise, its same old, same old at Wimbledon. We all love Rafa, we all hate Novak, Nikos Kyrgios has upped his game (not tennis, but petulant shit-headedness) by spitting at a fan and slagging of a line judge and Murray is moaning, only being slightly distracted by Scotland’s next attempt at independence. And I’m loving it. And loving Emma.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Is there life after football? One of the deep questions philosophers have pondered through the millennia. “I think therefore I don’t play for Chelsea” was Descartes’ early foray into punditry before he gave it up and invented graphs. Aristotle must have been a Liverpool fan to come up with “Happinessis is the whole purpose of life” because he never could have supported Spurs with that kind of attitude without risking suicide.

But as fans we have to endure the ‘close season’. Those arid, sterile, tragic months between May and August when there is no domestic football. And because the World Cup can’t be held until November because its in fucking Qatar, for whom Prince Charles apparently launders money, that tournament isn’t filling our lives now, as it should be.

So instead we have some cricket. And its good cricket. Against the New Zealanders. Who, for a nation with a tiny population, punch well above their weight in all sports. Not good at much else, but sport? Holy shit. The All Blacks are the best in the world at rugby, so are the All Whites great at cricket? Well not too bad, though hopefully, will lose the 3rd and final test at Headingly today if England can just…

And then there’s tennis. The sport I choose to play all year round but watch just once. Wimbledon. Starts today. Emma Raducanu is playing Andy Murray on Centre Court. I may have that wrong, not sure of either of their pronouns, but they’re both there today. In a ‘Brit-fest’ of our… only 2 stars. One of whom has rather faded a bit since we learned he’s actually Scottish.

Thus did we turn to Glastonbury for our temporary entertainment. Not actually go there, heaven forbid, but to watch in the sanitised comfort of my lounge. And I watched… well, just Paul McCartney really. Bit of Billy Eilish because she’s such a talent, a touch of Noel Gallagher because he opened for Sir Paul and as he’s the slightly least obnoxious of the Oasis Brothers, I can almost tolerate him for short periods.

Then Paul. His voice has gone. Well he’s 80 FFS, what d’ya expect. He can hit high notes like I can hit a cross-court, top-spin, backhand volley. Infrequently and not very well. But he is Paul McCartney!!! He’s a Beatle!!! And thus carries a musical statesmanship that few can match. And if they can almost match it, like Bruce Springsteen, they bloody fly over just to sing two songs with the man. And he brought Dave Grohl with him. And seeing fabulous Dave up there, wearing his fucking reading glasses, bless him, spoke volumes about the upwardly ageing profile of true musical stardom. That no-one born after 1970 can aspire to true greatness. Most (other than Adele) can’t even write a song you remember tomorrow, let alone in 60 years time.

Love, love me do.

A xxxx

In case you missed it, our Prime Minister has spent the last 18 months defending himself against accusations of various varieties of terrible behaviour, often that defence resulting in blatant lies. Lying to us (bad), lying to parliament (simply not done), lying to everyone, to the point where as well as his seemingly endless list of crimes and misdemeanours, the main accusation against him became ‘untrustworthy, dishonest’.

But no more! Now we’re in the post-partygate world, post-covid, (even though I personally know about 27 people who have it right now), post-inquiries, post-law-breaking, post-just-surviving-a-vote-of-no-confidence-by-the-skin-of-his-scrotum, era of Boris Nouveau. He’s reformed. No more scandals, no more lying, no more obfuscation so deep and spin so profound that they become just more lying. Hooray for Boris!!!

So its good that when he (pretty much personally) managed to lose the bye-election in Tiverton by the biggest margin any tosser has ever lost anything before, to the Lib-Dems, of all people, Boris stood up, like a man, well, stooped up, he’s never properly ‘upright’, and made his claim. Which was: people voted against the Tories because they’re fed up with everyone wasting time discussing the structure of the Conservative Party and a whole bunch of now boring allegations, when they want to hear about cost of living, the price of gas, the rail strikes and Spurs acquisitions in the transfer window. In no way was this any kind of indictment of Boris, his actions and his lies, nor any indication of any future voting patters. This immense loss was purely the voters telling Boris to stop defending himself, stop shredding his political party, stop the infighting and plotting, and run the effin country!

Which is ‘bollocks’ of such immensity, of such ostrich-like ignorance or delusion of a scale not witnessed since the ‘weapons of mass destruction’ debacle of Tony Blair.

Boris knows that result (and the other, but that one’s a bit irrelevant because its always been a labour seat previously and its up north so doesn’t really count) was down to him, totally, fundamentally, completely and all-consumingly. To say otherwise (because he’s not an idiot, nor THAT deluded) is just the lies once more.

Plus ca change, plus ca meme chose, as they say in Norwich.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

We need to clarify the rules on life in America, following the Supreme Court decision to overturn the infamous ‘Roe vs Wade’ case and allowing all the good ole boy, bible-bashin’, Dukes of Hazard, Trump-supportin’, Confederate flaggin’ states to immediately make abortion completely illegal. Praise the Lord. Once again we can render, in one simple ruling by a bunch of ultra-conservative, right wing Christians, the entire concept of ‘unwanted pregnancy’ completely invalid. As it says, or possibly implies, in The Holy Bible, even if your 14-year old daughter was gang-raped, even if your foetus is not viable, there are simply no circumstances where that ‘life’ can be terminated. Not legally. If those sinners wish to travel 567 miles to a Democrat state, where they will perish in the fires of eternal hell and damnation, then they can choose to MURDER THEIR UNBORN. Or they can do what they did before 1973 and visit the woman in the alley with the knitting needles and moonshine. HALLELUYAH FOR PROGRESS!!!

Of course, once that unborn gets hisself or herself born, then, obviously, they’re no longer protected by such laws and it is almost perfectly legal to murder them in schools in as vast numbers as a gun can fire.

Similarly, the ‘pro-life’ concept does not include any black men arrested by the police for jaywalking or dropping litter, where the instant, without-trial death penalty is almost mandatory.

And we have Donald Trump, the gift that keeps giving, to thank. Not only he divided America in a way not reached since the Civil War, he pushed the right wing beyond mere ‘conservative’ into the realms of the Taliban. Government is allowed to make concessions to religion in its laws. But if a nation is effectively ruled by religious interpretation you end up with Afghanistan. Iran. Saudi Arabi. And America. First go women’s rights. Then other ‘minority groups’ get worked upon. Like gays. Perhaps other religions. And that, you feel, is where this new, ramped up to the right Supreme Court is headed. And with 6 bible-bashers to just 3 normal people, it is pretty much unstoppable in turning the USA back to about 1958. Back to Ireland, where the right wing conservative Christians have similar views on abortion, same-sex marriage and human rights in general. Only a matter of time before slavery is reinstated.

I fear we’ll soon be fighting off 200 million American refugees all claiming asylum having taken a rubber dinghy across the Atlantic to avoid religious persecution. And no longer willing to live in what is becoming a third-world country.

‘Making America Great Again’. Yeah, right.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So we returned for the third and final time to the ice cream ‘parlour’ (fab term, not used since 1958, but delightful) and had my third and final flavour. In ‘Golda’ (the name of the store) they do ‘one scoop, half’n’half’. In fact they all do in Israel. Showing either the ultimate in civilisation, or the result of having a terribly indecisive population. Either way, I went ‘Belgium chocolate and coconut’ on the first night. Lit-er-ally, to DIEIEIE for, dahling. The next night I had Belgium chocolate and ‘chocolate almond caramel’ and it was even better, so whether that is to ‘die again for’, or perhaps, ‘to die in agony for’, possibly just ‘to die more for’, I don’t know. And the third night it was… some other combination of those 3 because why would you fuck with perfection?

Then we came home. Well, we gave it our best shot. Whether we arrive home together, with our luggage, with covid, within a week of taking off, or at all, depends on the flight crews, baggage handlers, air-side teams, unloaders, stackers, shifters and a whole host of other variables which remain seemingly out of the control of the airlines and the airports. At the time of writing this. Which is at 40,000 feet above sea-level, traveling at 560mph, approaching Munich from the south-east but in a strictly non-Top-Gun way.

Tel Aviv airport is a fabulous place, rebuilt 10, 15 years ago into a bright, airy, fabulous testament to feng shui, karma and wonderful stone. And I love it there and always get a great feeling arriving there. But in the years since my last visit, in this ‘post-Covid’ era, they seem to have had a new redesign, by Dante. Because all roads there now lead to HELL. Endless queues, seven levels of security, the eternal damnation of passport control, to spend all of forever having your bags scanned only to have to go back, remove your belt, take off your shoes, empty your fucking pockets and DO IT AGAINNNN…

Post Script.

We sailed through Heathrow. Never quicker. From touchdown to leaving, with ALL our bags, just under 30 minutes. Passport control was empty. We went to the baggage carousel, expecting to wait a few weeks, and three bags appeared 30 seconds later. 2 of them ours. I mean, WTF???

Very happy Thursday, good to be home. Where’s the fucking beach gone?

A xxxx

Following the resignation of Lord Geidt, Boris Johnson’s ‘ethics advisor’, they may need to replace him with three new people. Mainly because Boris has, evidently, apparently and certainly, no clue about the subject whatsoever. He remains a morality-free-zone. And personally I couldn’t think of a harder job to do. But I’m going to try.

Douglas Bader’s football coach.
Victoria Beckham’s singing instructor.
Kier Starmer’s personality consultant.
The fox in my garden’s toilet-trainer.
Kim Jong-Un’s style guru.
Liam Gallagher’s elecution teacher.

To name but a few. It does make you wonder how we ended up with a Prime Minister devoid of accountability, who lies, breaks the law and is generally such a moral vacuum that his own ethics advisor finds his own position untenable.

Meanwhile, back in the Promised Land, we revisited the kebab shop last night, with some friends, to spread the word, and the hummus. Then we went for ice creams. To finish off the complete ‘fine-dining’, ‘healthy-eating’ event which started with a bottle of red on the balcony with crisps and nibbles. The ice cream here is the ultimate. That’s where the real ‘fine dining’ comes in. Simply sensational. I’ll take a pic when we go back tonight. Because we will. It’s the last night of the holiday so calories count for even less than in the preceding days. And as we stopped counting at check-in at Heathrow, WHO GIVES A SHIT ANYWAY?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m thinking of joining the strike. I know, I’m not a union member, not part of a collective, some might say ‘barely even works at all’, but that’s not fair, even if slightly true. I’m only qualified to strike because I own a Che Guevara t-shirt. But my bruvvers in the RMT are striking tomorrow, as is their right, and now the nurses are joining in. Possibly doctors too, which is understandable, all public sector medics are tragically undervalued. Civil service might joint too. And, if I’m honest, that might be considered ‘taking the piss’ just a tad as the government is making 90,000 redundancies in the civil service already and if the remainders all left, would anyone really miss them? Though teachers, another underpaid sector, are deciding whether to join the walk-outs.

Tomorrow morning I will NOT walk on the beach for 2k. I will NOT swim 20 lengths of a beautiful, beach-side pool and I will eat no hummus. That’s what striking looks like round here. I won’t even put sun cream on! (Though if its really sunny, I may become a ‘scab’).

It’s back to the 70s. Summer of discontent. And cynicism aside the doctors, nurses and teachers, even the civil servants worked flat out in the pandemic, never stopped, changing their normal procedures and work practices, accommodating the needs of the rapidly changing world. The train people… didn’t. Most were furloughed and played golf for 6 months. And were bailed out by 27 billion quid by the government. So its nice to have a sense of fiscal responsibility.

People think Kier Starmer is boring! How rude. Ok, he’s duller than dishwater, could be replaced by a lamppost and it would take 3 weeks to notice and has been the single most ineffectual leader of the opposition since Reginald Tomlinson in 1858 who died on his first day on the job but remained in his parliamentary seat for 273 days until the smell caused problems and eventual realisation.

Power to the People!!!

A xxxx