Andy's Glasses

I love it (read: ‘fucking HATE it’) when people of strong political leanings encompassing a whole manner of negativities, choose to conflate all their betes noires into one little package of out-of-context venom.

So I’d like you to introduce you to Sandrine Rousseau. Here’s the shocker, with such a name: she’s French. And she’s ‘green’. In fact a Green Party MP in Macronland because we’d never have such a person here. She’s an ardent feminist. Which is NOT saying she’s a lesbian at all. She’s ‘green’, obviously, but the entire package. Not just switching off lights when you go out and buying an electric vehicle for this lady. Oh no. She’s green to the core. And although its not actually a requirement for any ‘feminist’, I suppose its not unusual for them to hate men. Sometimes I hate men too. Because I’m a feminist too. Moi aussi.

The ‘storm’ currently unleashing its power in our neighbouring country is that Sandrine added all her pet hates together: that’d be men, deforestation for grazing, men, carbon emissions, men, the evils of meat, both personally and globally, and men. She divided that by the sum of her core values: don’t eat meat, don’t fuck up the planet, don’t be a man; and arrived at the answer to her equation. The sum total. The final symbol of all the evils on the planet.

Barbecues.

Arranged by men, done by men, for men, who eat all the meat. Far more than women do. Probably eat it more messily too.

Meat is definitely a problem. She’s a ‘green’, therefore probably eats how she votes: green. And apparently men do eat more meat than women, but banning barbecues? She feels that grilling a slab of entrecote is the ultimate insult to global warming, to women in general, to the entire planet and is on a par with waving your nob at a bus-load of nuns. Whilst slaughtering 12 chickens in front of a Golf Diesel.

I’d vote for her.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

The new, American super-space rocket was launched yesterday amid the usual fanfare. It’s the biggest rocket ever built, in true U.S. style, it has a 7-litre V8, supercharged… well, it has the rocket equivalent of ‘outrageous excess’ in that it is basically one rocket with two extra ones (‘boosters’) strapped to the sides for more power, more thrust, more ooomph, more fucking EVERYTHING!!!! It produces more carbon emissions than 92 million Greta Thunbergs all burning together.

But it didn’t take off. Oh. The crowds had been gathering around Cape Canaveral for days, in their rolling homes, ready for the long wait, eager for a good slot. Which, for people in Florida is not so much ‘with a view of the launch-pad’, but in fact ‘near the barbecue and beer stalls’. And they waited, and counted down, as ya do, and when it was just T minus 40 minutes… they abandoned. The rockets were leaking fuel. One leak was repaired but the others were a bigger problem, then they couldn’t cool the engines properly and they had to call it to a halt. You don’t send $xxxxx,000,000 of rocket to the moon and not get it back. They need to put it on eBay next week to recoup some of the cost.

And my first thought was ‘WTF???’

Because how do you do ‘leak’ in something that costs billions? Ok, as they said, ‘it’s new and we’re still snagging’, but holy shit, a fucking leak? They ran out of sealant? If Elon Musk had built it it wouldn’t leak. This is deeply embarrassing. A ‘Titanic moment’ was averted, but without the iceberg. But really? I mean, really??? Is that the best they can do? In 1969 they managed to put two men on the moon in a rocket built from washing up liquid bottles and sellotape. And this is what its come to.

Bournemouth lose 9-nil to Liverpool and sack their manager. Why would they do that?Ok, it was something of a ‘bad day at the office’ but to sack Scotty Parker? The man who just a few months ago had brought them the glory of a return to the Premiership. Loses a game, ok, rather catastrophically, but does that move actually do any good? The players will hate it, the fans will hate it and pretty well all neutrals hate it too. Sometimes… sometimes…

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

What a fabulous wedding we went to yesterday. My dearest oldest mate ‘gave away’ his daughter (no idea why, she’s gorgeous, he could have sold her for a fortune) in matrimonial betrothal to her lawfully wedded person of groom-like status in a ceremony dating back hundreds of years (the secular bit) and thousands of years (the Jewish bit). And it was in Middle Temple Hall in… The Temple. For those who don’t know it, that’s the mediaeval area where barristers keep their rooms. It’s virtually car-free, but what cars they do have are really really expensive ones, as barristers drive. The Temple sits between the River and Fleet Street and is simply beautiful. And in its centre sits Middle Temple Hall. Built in 1572 (it was) by Sir Leopold Artichoke (it wasn’t), the early neo-Tudor interior cleverly disguises the fact that it could have been built using loads of laminated MDF from Ikea and would look pretty much the same, and much cheaper. But it wasn’t. MDF wasn’t invented until Edward the 4th so they had to use real wood. With no consideration to deforestation or carbon footprint.

But despite being a very-un-Greta building, I decided to leave my eco-warrior suit outside and enter the wedding venue in my underwear. Metaphorically speaking.

The actual ceremony took place in the gardens which, again, are magnificent and gorgeous, but unlike most ‘gardens’, these are right in the heart of the City of London, which really resonates for me. And for all gathered. Particularly as the bride was raised in France and the groom is half-Israeli. Quite a big half too, because he’s really tall. The photo is of the ‘chupah’, or canopy, under which all Jewish weddings take place. It has to be open and it has to be temporary, nothing which can’t be carried away if a marauding band of Mesopotamians come riding in with swords waving, or a bunch of Cossacks having a Sunday afternoon pogrom. The imperative of the ‘temporary’ nature of the wedding structure in no way represents the contemporary custom of marriages being rather ‘temporary’. Jonny Depp and Amber Heard didn’t marry under a chupah.

And then inside into the Hall itself for dinner. I refuse to call it a wedding ‘breakfast’ unless it contains bacon, eggs, sausages and pancakes with maple syrup. Which it didn’t. But despite the apparent gravitas of the venue, the almost forbidding magnificence of one of the homes of the British legal system, you’re allowed to eat there, drink there and even dance. Perhaps even because of the seeming austerity of the surroundings it makes you want to have fun.

Fab wedding,

Happy first day of married life.

A xxxx

We have a problem with our utility companies. They’re not doing what we need them to do.

The energy companies have to provide us with energy. Electricity and gas. And as electricity can’t be grown on trees, but needs to be made, normally with gas, they are in fact supplying us with gas and more gas. And the price of gas has definitely gone up recently. We’re currently blaming Russia, but any nation will do. We buy it from Norway, we buy it from anyone. And it has definitely risen in price. Probably doubled.

But that does not mean our household energy costs need to double. Think of petrol. The price went up massively. Because ‘of the cost of crude oil’. But only about 10% of the cost of a litre of petrol (possible more in a gallon, cos its bigger?) is the oil. The rest is taxes, duty, surcharges, vat and profit for the oil companies and petrol stations. So when the price of oil rises, everyone else (including the fucking Chancellor) rubs their hands in glee. It’s pay-time. Whereas really, none of those other 90% of charges needs to rise at all. It explains why the oil giants all announced massive increases in profits. And I know they need to ‘explore green areas’ which costs a lot, and I hate the idea of a ‘windfall tax’ to claw the money back, but the whole thing is so cynically opaque that I might be prepared to accept a few bill. Just as a one off.

So should the energy companies announce immense profits next year, that will simply show what a fucking farce the whole business is. Gas prices rise, its a boom time for Bombay call centres.

Yet the water companies are the worst of all. They lose 25% of our water through leaks they can’t fix and dodgy old reservoirs that aren’t sealed properly and they moan like fuck when it hasn’t rained for 3 days and ban hosepipes if the ‘drought’ goes on for 6 days. Then as soon as it does rain, they empty the sewers into the sea. Well they have to open the ‘storm drains’ or heaven knows what might happen!! Because the empty reservoirs and dried up rivers will all burst!! Thus they ‘have no choice’ but to empty a few thousand tons of shit into the coastal regions where we swim. Even the French were complaining about it and you know what a generally filthy bunch they are.

Nationalise everything. Whatever it takes to stop ‘Mike’ from Delhi phoning me up 16 times a day trying to flog me gas.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I have no idea why I found myself thinking about this event, whilst soaking in the bath after tai chi last night, but, sometimes things just, ‘spring’ to mind. So I’m gonna share. Because that’s what I do.

It must have been the summer of 1974, possibly 75 and I found myself a job for the summer holidays. Driving vans round the country delivering consignments of watches to jewellery stores. My dad’s mate was a director of this importers in Clerkenwell and they needed help in the ‘despatch department’. What those pretentious fuckers would now call ‘logistics’. We spent all day posting shit around the country but then, every couple of weeks, there’d be ‘a run!!!!’ Like that. With exclamation marks. It meant that the sales people had sold sufficient quantities of stuff to justify getting someone into a big white van to deliver it all. And it would load up with maybe 15 or 20 big packages, in each being a load of watches, a stand, display stuff, all the paraphernalia. I can’t even remember the name of the watches. But they did work. I think.

So we’d map it out. ‘Ok, you leave home at 5.30, be in Manchester by 9.30 (it was a van, remember, and in 1975), first drop. Second in Stockport, then onto Liverpool, the Wirral, back up to Carlisle… and so it went. As near to a loop as you could arrange. Overnight in Burton-upon-Trent, then Derby, Nottingham… and so on. And I loved doing them. Despite the damage I managed to perpetrate on both the vans. It’s a contact sport, driving. But it allowed me to finally understand what ‘up north’ meant and also to add the word ‘squalid’ to my vocabulary.

We also used to send lots of things by ‘red star’. Ooooh. This was popular and meant taking a package to the station and, almost literally, putting it on a train. To be collected by the recipient at his train station. In the ‘red star office’ because all stations had them back then. And yeah, you had to go to a station but Amazon make all that fuss about NEXT DAY DELIVERY!!!! and we did it SAME DAY. So fuck you, Bezos.

One day my dad’s mate came rushing into our office. “You gotta get this to Waterloo red star for the 3.10 train to… somewhere!!!” It was 2.45 and we were in Clerkenwell. “Ok, Ivor, no problem (ever the optimist)”. “The van’s too slow”, take my car, he said, throwing me the keys to his BMW 2002 Tii, super-bollocks, mega-testosterone, ultra racer, penis-extension thing. “And take Eddie”.

Eddie had a cab-drivers head for roads and short-cuts, quite amazingly so. Thus, with images in my mind from ‘The Sweeney’ and ‘The Professionals’ of precisely how to ‘get a car somewhere really quickly, we fired up the Beemer. Following Eddie’s directions I was flying through Smithfield’s meat market (afternoon, so shut and pretty empty), at some ridiculous 1970s speed (45 on a 30mph road was NOT ‘fast’ in 1974) when there was a long and loud screech. A van. White. Just avoided hitting me. But like ‘just’. As I slowed I noticed the sign on the side said ‘POLICE’ at precisely the same time my mouth said FU-U-U-UCKKKKK.

I would never get out of prison. The twelve occupants of the van all came over to me. And in their lovely navy blue uniforms, they didn’t look particularly ‘happy’.

Basically, I’d gone through a ‘give way’ sign at a junction. They had right of way, I ignored that, at probably about 60. Holy shit. But… but…

There was no ‘give way’ sign. And, more importantly, the double lines at the junction to show me to do so were not there. Smithfield was old (still is) and too busy to maintain. So the dozen of the Met’s finest plodded over to investigate. And found, unanimously, that the give way lines had in fact disappeared completely. Probably about 1953 and no-one had re-drawn them. No signpost either. Thus, they let me go. I would not face the gallows. And they were actually nice about at that point. Something I’ve never understood, considering I was basically an obnoxious boy-racer in a flashy car.

But I learned a valuable lesson that day. Though, even with that delay, still made it to Waterloo in time to get the package on the train. Thanks to Steve McQueen in Bullit.

Happy Friday, drive carefully

A xxxx

Apparently we all have a doppelgänger. Mel definitely does because she’s an identical twin. Which is cheating. The point being how difficult it is to find your double, not phoning them 6 times every day to make sure you’re both wearing the same clothes. They’ve found some in a Spanish study. People who look probably more identical than identical twins (who always vary a bit). And they’ve also found a tendency for those seemingly duplicates, to share actual characteristics too. Like right/left handedness. Long/short sightedness. And whether they eat their peas first or save them to the end of the meal. Ok, I made that one up for interest and intrigue.

I want a good doppelgänger. I want Bradley Cooper. Paul Newman (not sure whether being dead for decades affects the doppelgänger standards). I used to think I had a striking resemblance to Arnold Schwarzeneger in Terminator. Then I started shrinking a bit so now I’m a bit more Danny DeVito. Hopefully not the version in ‘One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest’. I’d really like to be Jennifer Lawrence’s doppelgänger but that’s not really a conversation to be held in public. Though I reserve the right to ‘doppelgänger identity’ as I fucking choose!!! My mate Mark always thinks we look ‘identical’ even though I’m gorgeous and he’s dog ugly. The similarities end with ‘grey… lots of grey’ and glasses.

So I’ve searched and searched for this illusive double, my alternative lookalike and finally found him (safe presumption of gender in this case). And that’s his photo above. Could be twins.

And in my nightly (Mel’s bathtime) series of ‘watching tv programmes that everyone else ignored when they came out 5 years ago’, I’ve been doing a Sky Arts series (cos I’m very fuckin’ arty, ain’t I?) on movie directors. The Coen Brothers. Not doppelgängers but they do resemble each other and most other Jews in the world. And there were those movies. Blood Simple. Raising Arizona. Wonderful films, always different, always classy, always funny. Then, possibly… even though I hate to say it, its probably true, the best film of all time (!!!!!!!) Fargo. The movie which ‘got me’ when it first came out and has never let me go. Bit like William H Macy’s wife who they kidnapped. And then: The Big Lebowski. Possibly the coolest film ever, but I don’t know why, it just is. And now I want to see them all again. And again. And again.

Lucky Mel.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

Tonight Liverpool play Manchester United. At football. In the Premier League. This is a big game. Particularly for Manchester United who, for the past… well, since Alex Ferguson left really, have been shit. They’ve had different mangers, they’ve changed their playing staff, they even bought Harry Maguire!!!, but still can’t seem to win a match. And this morning languish at the foot of the table. Along with West Ham. And I really wish I could be sad for the Hammers too, for playing 3, losing 3 and failing to score a single goal in any. But I can’t. It’s just not in me. I’m a nice guy, but obviously not that nice that I can stop sniggering gleefully at their horrible plight.

Because football is a game of rivalries. And Spurs fans hate West Ham fans. Not really anything to do with football matches, more that they are a bunch of low-life scumbags worthy of any decent person’s contempt. You see? It’s intellectual hatred, not just the moronic kind.

Thus with Liverpool and Manchester United. A rivalry as fierce as any. On a world scale these are ‘the big two’. Ok, Real Madrid are big, Barcelona, maybe Bayern Munich, but none of those have a fan-base circling the globe in big numbers, as do Liverpool and United. And both sets of fans share a completely unreasonable sense of entitlement. Yet the wonderful ‘ups and downs’ of football dictate that currently Liverpool are on a very big ‘up’ and United are about as ‘down’ as down can be. So if the form book prevails, Liverpool will slaughter the hapless Mancs tonight and send them into further misery. Possibly to the point of sacking their new manager before he’s even finished unpacking his socks.

Spurs won on Saturday, to the relief and joy of the whole world (of DECENT people), even though it was a win somewhat lacking conviction. The only result of the rest of all the matches that wasn’t on my wish-list was Arsenal’s win at Bournemouth. The rest were all wonderful. Even Manchester City dropped points at Newcastle. But best of all was Chelsea’s dire performance at Leeds. It was punishment for being horrible to Spurs last weekend and making such a ridiculous fuss about hair-pulling. Just one little tug on the hairy weed’s barnet and you’d think we’d invaded Ukraine. Ok, it was done with sufficient force to almost break his neck, but ‘it’s a contact sport’, innit? You don’t get sent off for that!! Not in the ref’s eyes anyway. I think he must go to Specsavers.

So do we want Liverpool to stamp their authority in the Northwest as Man City’s only real challengers, or do we want United to start their fight back and gain some pride?

If the answer to that is ‘neither’, then you’re welcome to come watch with me tonight.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So to recap: ‘we’ have the biggest boat on the entire canal system. Because its built for Thames living, not Milton Keynes canal-ing. But we don’t mind that because narrow boaters, or even not so narrow boaters, are a ‘community’. And they’re welcoming and friendly and, well, nice. Sit on my little narrow deck and have a little narrow cup of tea, because wide cups won’t fit, they say. Then they find out that your boat lacks sufficient narrowness to be a true part of the community. You are, quite literally, a London wide-boy.

So Mel & I visited, which is like being press-ganged. “Loosen those ropes-grab that pole-untie the main-brace… do something else boatey, and quick!!!” The instructions/orders come thick and fast. Because in the four hours we were on board, we sailed about 5 miles. And that’s a good day. We also hit about 6 other boats. Or were hit by them. Most don’t have residents so… fuck ‘em. No damage is generally done anyway, boats have bumpers all the way round. But others get a bit pissed off and rightly so.

As you narrowly miss a narrow boat coming the other way, some disgruntled git mumbles about “… too big for the canal…” which is probably true. But as driving it down the M1 is not a real option, how the hell ya supposed to get it to London??? But the comments are all a little tinged with jealousy. Because narrow boaters all spend their days standing sideways, in case someone wants to pass you to put the kettle on or take a pee. On ‘our’ boat, we stand square on! Because we have loads of room. Acres.

Driving the boat, as I did because I just had to, was… different. You have to think where you want to be in about 10 minutes time and start getting ready. Ah, there’s a boat, want to avoid that (ya win some ya lose some) so you start steering then, 5 minutes before arrival so the boat can do its slow, leisurely drift into something like the right direction by the time you get there. Then you have to compensate for daring to move the rudder in that manner otherwise you’ll oversteer and so you may miss with the front of the boat but 22 minutes and 22 metres later as the rear swings by there may be a problem.

A day on a boat is definitely the most relaxing way you can ever totally stress out. It’s beautiful, peaceful (you forget the noise of a 4 litre Diesel engine after a while) and serene. But if you look away for one second, it is fatal. Pour your martinis before taking the wheel.

Happy Sailing

A xxxx

So what do you do when you get divorced and sell the family home? You can either be a limp-wristed, pussy-whipped ladyboy (if its possible to upset more people with so few words, let me know how) and get a nice little pied-a-terre in Tooting with your share of the sale (cos in and around Lundun, ya ain’t gonna get much more), ORRRRR… you can man-up, get in touch with naycha and live… on a BOAT!!! Yup, a boat. Wot floats. Hopefully. Because although you get a meagre bricks’n’mortar property for a shit-load of money, you can, quite literally, buy the best fucking boat you ever did saw, for about 25% of that money. Mooring is cheap, costs very low and you can either stay put in one place f’rever, or you can move around. Within limits.

And we worked out some of those limits on Thursday. Quite a few, in fact.

Because we went ‘up north’ to pay the Boatman a visit.

He’d picked up the boat in the Midlands, cos that’s where they made it, and it was in a marina on the canal system. The Grand Union system which comes all the way to London enabling you to have a Hammersmith/Kingston/Putney address for bargain money. And in the intervening 4 weeks he’d got as far south as… The Midlands. But a different part. More southerly. Ish. In fact he was in Milton Keynes. So up we went.

The first thing you notice is a distinct lack of concrete. They’ve completely ruined the area around the canal by making it all green and grassy and tree-lined and, what some would call ‘beautiful’ even though there’s not a multi-storey car park for miles.

And the boat. Wow. It is magnificent and inside is simply wonderful with bedrooms and bathrooms and showers and a fitted kitchen and a barge pole (see above) and absolutely everything you need, but probably nicer. And its spacious.

The downside of which is that all that ‘space’, when translated to the outside, makes it twice as wide as every other boat on the canal. And at 22 metres long, let’s just say that it doesn’t handle like a speedboat. In fact, it doesn’t really handle at all, it just kind’a drifts, very slowly but at 38 tonnes, rather brutally, through the water. Which would not be much of a problem. If there weren’t other boats around or if the bridges, at approximately every 200 yards, weren’t approximately 9 inches wider than this boat. And of course, when you own a boat which is about half the width of the canal, you’re never going to be the most popular man on the water. Though fortunately, The Boatman was never the most popular man anywhere and so remains oblivious to the abuse which would have Captain Ahab in tears.

To be continued…

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

I love Scandinavians. Ever since my mate had a Swedish au pair in 1971, I’ve been in love with the entire sub-continent. Basically because they’re all the same, Swedes, Norweiges, Finns, but also because they were always more ‘liberated’ than us crusty Brits. And for the 15 year-old me, ‘liberated’ meant (possibly still does): don’t wear a bra, walk around naked, be a total sexual fantasy for any teen who is blessed with more newly arrived hormones that he will ever know how to deal with. Oh, and gorgeous. Yet not necessarily blonde. As this pic of Sanna Marin shows. Unless she is so, but dyes her barnet.

And Sanna has done for Heads of State what ABBA did for satin pants. She has elevated the entire class to new heights. She’s highly intelligent, a great leader, 36 years old, and a total babe. I would vote for her any and every time.

Yet the Finns have issues, currently. Sanna was seen at a rock concert wearing denim shorts!!! and a leather jacket!!! (I’ve seen the pics, they’re good. But copyright protected, the bastards) And then she was filmed at a party. But a serious ‘party’. Not a standing round in suits sipping champagne, Covid-type party, more a drink til you fall over, dance like a dervish, type one.

So half the Finns are up in arms. How could she! Looks like they were taking drugs. Even though they allegedly weren’t. Irresponsible!! A Prime Minister having fun??? Disgusting! Enjoying herself like… like… like a 36 year-old woman!!! Preposterous!!! I’m guessing that’s the opposition half. The other half are all in favour, happy that they’re represented by a ‘normal person’, even one with friends. Unlike most, who have colleagues that are friendly but always poised to stab in the back.

Liz Truss has never been invited to a party, other than the Conservative one, and that was only after the Lib-Dems, her first choice, didn’t want her. Just sayin’…

And the a-level results out today make a bold statement that I’ve been saying for years now. That northern people are more stupid than those from the south. A massive divide in cleverness, to go with the innate smugness, has been revealed by yesterday’s results. So well done to all those in Surbiton, tough luck in Bradford. I simply cannot believe that this unequivocal statement has anything to do with any sort of advantage from which rich kids may benefit. It’s basically geography and IQ. We got the brains, they got funny accents. Perfectly fair.

Happy Friday

A xxxx