Andy's Glasses

I love the State of Israel. I know that’s not a very woke position to adopt, but I don’t fucking care. I’m here and I just love it. Call me an old Zionist, call me ‘a supporter of an apartheit state!!!’, call me Doris for all I care, I still love it. When people hear of ‘going to Israel on holiday’ they say ‘ooooh, is it safe there?’ The answer to which is, where the hell is ‘safe’? What; ‘safe’ like going to school in Texas safe? When you walk the streets here, day or night, you feel totally, completely safe and secure. Women walk alone at night, young kids too. And the fact that its a tiny nation surrounded by terrorists and enemies is offset by the felafel and hummus which are world-leading. You can’t have everything.

Israel is a ‘Jewish State’ but not in the way that ‘Iran is a Muslim State’. Israel is full of Jews but not ruled by biblical, Old Testament laws. It is secular in government and fiercely democratic. And is occupied by Jews, Muslims and Christians. There is no ‘apartheit’ in Israel. Only Gaza is ‘cut off’ because when its not terrorism activity increases by 90%.

But, like Sunday is the ‘day of rest’ in the UK, well, it was before the Premiership started, so Saturday is that for Israel. The Jewish sabbath. Shabbas. Where the observant can’t ‘work’. And defining work has always had issues. Going to work is work. I get that. Turning on a light is ‘work’, as is writing or pushing a buggy. Sitting in the dark trying to read is not ‘work’ then, just challenging. Carrying a child in arms isn’t work for the first 260 yards, then might feel particularly toilsome. Driving is ‘strictly’ forbidden as ‘causing a spark’ is classified as work so internal combustion, or obviously electric, engines are totally taking the piss, spark-wise.

That’s the religious interpretations. The seculars don’t give a shit and do what they want. So many shops and restaurants, praise the Lord, are open on Saturday. In contravention of religious laws, in the same way as buying a pint of milk from Waitrose on Sunday morning.

The religious do what they choose, the rest may choose to ignore.

Except lifts. Elevators. There’s a problem.

You’re in a ‘kosher’ hotel (which can only claim such if they do everything properly, its not just about buying the right meat). And you’re on the 12th floor. And its Saturday morning. So the lift won’t work. And you’re 80 years old, with a long beard and very heavy black coat and a big fur hat, even though its 85 degrees outside. And you’re knees ain’t so great. So those very clever men (I’m assuming they’re clever, they fucking study for about 19 hours a day, six days a week) came up with a wonderful loophole. It’s called a ‘Shabbas lift’. And it stops at every floor, going up, then coming down, and none of the buttons work. So you don’t have to press one and ‘make a spark’, which you can’t, because it is the Sabbath. And thus Old Rebbe Shlomo (beard, black coat, etc) can just step into an open door and be whisked upwards to his 12 floor room without pressing a button, causing a spark, doing nuffink. He won’t mind that the journey takes about 17 minutes. Brilliant.

So why can’t I go in a car on a Saturday? If someone else opened the door for me, drove the car, its the same process as standing in a lift which is using electricity, the world’s most sparky thing?

Shabbas lifts are a very minor inconvenience to the non-observant. But a seriously irritating concept in terms of the hypocrisy involved in re-writing certain laws for convenience. Just ignore them, like I do, or adhere. Don’t change the rules so you can break them legally. I wish more people here were religious, it would keep the beach quieter on Saturdays.

Happy Sabbath Day,

A xxxx

Sent from my iPad

So you’re on holiday and get the chance to hook up with some really good friends for dinner as they’re staying fairly nearby. And it happens to be your wedding anniversary too! So when they send the restaurant booking over, you google it to find the address and it comes up as “Restaurant Bla Bla: FINE DINING!!!…” you know you’re in trouble. You know it’ll cost more than a Big Mac and chips, probably even with a nuclear-heated apple pie too. And you also know there’s a fair chance that you will leave your ‘fine dining experience’ still hungry and possibly in need of a Big Mac and chips. But you also know it will be, or should be, ‘an experience’. A wonder of service and charm and delightful surroundings, amazing tastes, possibly see Elvis there, Elton John or any A-listers, probably not the ones who’ve boycotted Israel like Roger Walters and tossers like him. And you know there’s a cost attached. But heh, you’re only 66-th-next-day once and its holiday when budgetary considerations become a bit more Labour with high expenditure and low income.

The following evening we walked to our local ‘Turkish’. Ok, our local ‘Israeli’ because the Turks didn’t invent grilled meat. As a statement of solidarity against Vegans and Vegetarians. Yeah, you can get hummus there, and aubergines, they even give you a salad, but basically, its carnivore-central and unashamedly so. We’ve been to the same place for about 15 years and it is truly wonderful. Abundant. Amazing. All the chilli you need. And cost about a quarter of the Fine Dining.

I get that there are vast differences in restaurants that any intelligent person would appreciate and thus render comparisons both meaningless and pointless. But I never claimed to be intelligent. And I also appreciate that to ‘create’ a sautéed chicken pieces, deeply marinated and basted in the jus of crushed olives whilst hand-turned by Shlomo the chef, is different from ‘shish kebab’. Because they have to employ someone to write all those words. And I know that the kebab shop won’t offer a fillet of sea bass lovingly drizzled in the essence of aardvark snout, covered with cheese made from hamster milk and sprinkled with green-tea leaves picked from the remotest forest in Madagascar. And that taste will either blow me away with WOW!!! or leave me thinking ‘we’ll that was a waste of effort for a starter’.

Fine dining is a gamble. The often quite ridiculous combinations they put together either stun you with wonder and you give the Jew who made the jus his due. Or they leave you craving something substantial that comes wrapped in pitta and drips chilli sauce all over your shirt.

I make no judgments. The quest for something ‘different’ or the desire for guaranteed satisfaction? The Fine Dining had a staff (cast? Maybe) of hundreds, all beautiful. The kebab place has just one waitress. But possibly the most stunning of them all. That’s gotta be worth the price of indigestion tablets, surely.

Happy Eating

A xxxx

36 years ago today Mel took me to be her lawfully wedded liability. To have and to handcuff, in replacement surgery and in health, for poorer or more poorer, in sanity and insanity, from that day forth, etc, etc, etc. And here we are.

This is what she looks like today. Barely a day older than she looked yesterday. It’s amazing. Though to be fair, she’s never going to look happier than in 75 degrees of beach. And what a beach.

This is Netanya, about 20 minutes north of Tel Aviv. Where my bestest, oldest mate and his own dearly beloved took it upon themselves to host the two of us for a few days of all-you-can-eat, giyyus-yer-car-keys, when’s-tea-time, sorry-about-the-mess-in-the-bathroom and wonderful relaxation. They’ll think twice next time. But the beach there is just… well, just like the picture, really. In the other direction is a beach bar. Israel does beach bars brilliantly, hundreds of sofas, great food, booze and, our own particular addiction: iced coffee. All delivered by dozens of Gal Gadots rushing round in sports gear. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

The iced coffee is special because its virtually calorie free. Except for the calories. But we’re on holiday!!!! They don’t count!!

However, to the great relief of our dear friends, who have pre-booked some intensive therapy, we left Netanya for a little place called Hertzliya, half way between Netanya and Tel Aviv. So we can recover from them!!! And to chill out on different beaches and look forward to the massive national event occurring tomorrow. My birthday. In fact, by being here, its become an international celebration of oldness. And the day I become an official old age pensioner. OMG.

Happy Anniversary

A xxxx

I want to talk shoes. I know, its not one of my normal obsessions, passions nor moans. Shoes are just… shoes. Sorry, Imelda, and sorry, Mel, I’ve never bought into that particular obsession. Until… the sandal scandal of 2021!!

I was in Greece, by a pool, wearing flip-flops. No problem. Walked round to the supermarket for ‘supplies’, 500 yards away, limped back on bleeding feet. Hobbled. Crippled. By my own flip-flops. A Julius Caesar moment. Though I’d worn for them for years. So I bought a new pair. Ahhhh, that’s better. Right. And they were. For absolutely everything. Up to 14 yards. Then more foot-fuckage. Ahhhh. Or Agggghhhhh, as it was quite painful.

So I can’t wear flip-flops, but I can survive, I’m in England most of my life where its not an issue. But for those other times, those beach-pooly times, when I can’t be wearing trainers, Doc Martins, ballet shoes. So I bought some ‘sliders’. No horrible post between my toes, no hard straps digging in, just one, soft strap across the front. And they were lovely. So I set off for the beach. And managed to get more than 93 metres before the blood flowed. Walked home barefoot. In pain.

And then I saw ‘the light’. The solution. The answer to one of life’s biggest questions: WHAT CAN I WEAR ON MY FUCKING FEET IN THE SUNSHINE WHICH WON’T LEAVE ME IN PAIN AND SUFFERING, FFS????

It was these. My mate had a pair and told me of their wonder. Wear these and you can walk on water. Possibly just ‘in water’, but same difference. You can dance like Fonteyn, play football like Pele, run like Mo Farrah and, most importantly, walk more than 100 yards without lacerated feet. It is the modern day miracle. The feeding of the 5000, the burning bush, Andy’s new strange-looking biblical type sandals. Jesus would have worn similar, I’m sure. Not with socks, I’m building up to that.

Israel is hot. Really, really, too-hot-for-normal-shoes hot. And wonderful.

Yom Tov

A xxxx

The late, great Alan Coren wrote a book, about nothing in particular. He asked his publishers what to call it and about the cover. As we know, everyone judges books by their covers. The publishers told him that the best selling books are always about cats or golf or nazis. So he called his book ‘golfing for cats’ and had a swastika across the entire front cover.

And now there’s almost a sequel: golfing for Saudi, with an immense, full-page dollar sign on the cover.

I’d like to state my place in this argument clearly and plainly and as ambiguity-free as a statement by Boris Johnson, in the interest of ‘transparency’ and openness. I’m not a golfer. Nor do I particularly like cats. Or nazis. But I’m not opposed to others playing it. If they have to. Which many seem to do. I don’t watch it, read about it, buy half pairs of gloves, gingham trousers or Pringle sweaters. Me and golf… nothing. But morality? Human Rights??? Those are of peripheral interest, but its the big concepts of throwing enough money at something to make any problems go away, of financial steam-rollering and of ‘buying respectability’. Sportswashing, to give it a name

The ‘Liv’ Golf Tournament started this week… somewhere. And its… golf. But its most emphatically NOT a PGA tournament. That’s golf’s governing body, the ones who put on all the ‘proper’ tournaments. So the Liv event is effectively golf’s version of the Footballing European Superleague, and every bit as popular. And the icing on the ethical cake: Liv is a Saudi Arabian brand. Owned by a sister/brother/niece/nephew/3rd-wife company of that which bought Newcastle United last year.

And let’s face it, everyone fucking hates the Saudis. We’ve never forgiven them for Osama bin Laden. We hate their money and the price of their oil, we hate their homophobic, xenophobic, women-abusing, robber-maiming ways. We hate their war in Yemen and the fact that their ‘crown Prince’ is a known murderer. Plus, they dress funny.

So therefore, playing in the Liv tournament is like playing your cricket or rugby in South Africa during the Apartheit years. It’s bad. Though you kind of get the feeling that the PGA are so scared of the challenge to their monopolistic control of a massive money sport, they’re invoking human rights abuses to invite the support that can never be denied.

Then you learn that some golfers (I’m guessing ‘good ones’, probably) are being paid $120million just to turn up. Winning not required. Pitch up, hit a few balls into the trees, car park, lake, and then retire. So much money that it is very hard to resist. One such person, already rich beyond rich from his career, spoke up how he would never condone ANY abuse of human rights. Then trousered a nine-figured wodge of wonga from the torturing, stoning-to-death warmongers.

It is a moral dilemma. I’m being offered shed-loads of cash to play golf, but the money is filthy dirty. The dilemma: do I tell my wife?

Happy Holidays, boarding now

A xxxx

It’s my birthday next week. And a highly significant one. Not in mere numeric terms where we obsess about numbers with a zero at the end or possibly a 5, but more in statutory terms.

I’m to be 66. The birthday marking the becoming of two thirds of a devil. I am the Anti-Chr-
And it is very significant, governmentally speaking.

Firstly I received an email a few months ago telling me that as of my birthday, Her Majesty (God bless all of her 70 years of Queendom), are going to pay me a monthly salary for being alive. It’s called a ‘pension’ and the only work required is to breathe and be very old. I am to be a fucking pensioner. But then I’m fairly sure that as such I’m entitled to all sorts of other shit too. Good shit. When you youngsters (phah!) get money towards your electric and gas bills later in the year, I get more. Because I’m older, colder, more shivery, and generally at more risk of… whatever.

Then I had another message. My (totally brilliant) ‘60-plus Oyster Card’ which gives me free travel on all public transport in London, is due to ‘expire’. Nooooooo… you can’t take that away. How could you??? Am I no longer ‘60-plus’? Do you go from 65 back to 59 just for governmental purposes?? No, I’m to receive a ‘Freedom Pass’. Ahhhh, a Freedom Pass. Which will take me, free of charge, all the way to Reading on the Elizabeth Line. I’ve never been to Reading. Had no real plans to change that status, if I’m honest, but now I have to go. It’s what you do when you’re 66. Mel, with her mere 60-plus card, will have to wait at Heathrow (last stop allowed) whilst I’m enjoying all that Reading has to offer. I don’t think she’ll have to wait long.

Before you all rush round here with gifts and wonderful presents (I like my single malt ‘peaty’, by the way), we will be away. If the gods (baggage handlers) and omens (security checkers) are positive, we shall be in Tel Aviv on Saturday. Possibly Sunday, depending on the new super-randomness of massed flight cancellations, or maybe, I will be at home with a nice new ‘voucher’ from British Airways in lieu of the beach.

I’ll keep you posted of all airport matters and any further birthday presents from Boris. I’m voting for him after all that lot coming my way.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

A win’s a win, right? In football you can ‘win dirty’, you can ‘win ugly’, you can do it any way you can, because then, to the victor the spoils. 3 points, job done, move on to the next match.

Politics is different. I know that’s a shocker, but it is. Football is about fighting for the badge, politics more… fighting for yourself. Shouldn’t be, but that’s the way it is. How bizarre that in many respects there is more honour, dignity and integrity in our national sport than in our national government. Particularly when one considers the participants of both activities. And yet I would trust a half-tattooed, pony-tailed, semi-literate Northern half-wit more willingly than any plummy, suited-up Oxbridge ponce from the Cabinet office. (I mean no offence to Northern half-wits in any way shape or form and wish to apologise to approximately 3/4s of the country for implying their dimness in my analogy. But facts are facts).

And so to victory. Boris’s, last night. Hooray, cheered The Blonde, I won!! They love me!! The ultimate plummy Oxbridge ponce, Jacob Rees-Mog, immediately stood up, in his father’s 1945 de-mob suit, to proclaim, “you only need to win by a majority of 1”. Which either shows his total ignorance of the reality of Boris’s catastrophic ‘victory’ in his ‘vote of confidence’, or demonstrates that when it comes to sucking up to his PM, JR-M knows no bounds, and metaphorically spends his time on his knees like Monica Lewinsky.

Over 40% of his own MPs, his own parliamentary party, have no confidence in him. Their own leader, FFS, and, like the rest of us, they’d trust him as far as they could throw him. And Boris needs those 40%, without whom he can’t pass laws, he can’t win votes in parliament, he is the ‘lame duck’ of whom we hear spoken about in such circumstances. Minister-without-Mates is the new portfolio being set up now. And historically, leaders who win no confidence votes do not last long. Would the Tories even want him to lead them to the next election when no-one trusts the man? Labour would like that. Though they too may be leaderless if Sir Kier gets fined for eating his curry in Durham. So party divisions will destroy the government and the opposition is lead by a plonker who may need to be replaced with a different plonker.

It’s all a shit storm.

Happy birthday to Lila’s mummy

A xxxx

There’s a tube strike today. Possibly run a bit over to tomorrow, so the Unions can get maximum disruption from minimal loss of income. Shrewd. And we, the commuters, the would-be travellers, the poor working masses of London, become just pawns in the ludicrous power struggle between Transport for London and the unions. And the disconnect between these two opposing parties is as vast as it is tragic.

The Unions insisted that they called for talks. TFL said the Unions refused to talk. The Unions claim ‘600 jobs are at risk, plus the terms and conditions for every worker, their pension rights AND their work/life balance’. TFL claim that ‘our proposals cause no job losses, no affect on pensions and no changes to their working methods’. I wonder if they’ve even had a conversation with, like, each other? To work out that there is absolutely nothing to complain, worry, moan or STRIKE about.

So fuck ‘em all, I’m going by bike. But not just any bike, not even my bike, I going in on a ‘lectric bike!!! Ooooohhhh. That’s… errr… lazy? Princessy? Actually, its just brilliant. Don’t know why I have managed to avoid this so far (other than the traffic, the accidents, bike-blind van drivers and the deaths). But I borrowed the bike from a friend. Who, let’s just say is unlikely to have worn the tyres out in the year he’s owned it. Most of where the bike spends its time is actually carpeted. And warm.

The bad thing is that you have to spend time around heaps of jammed up cars, all of which absolutely hate you, to wheedle a way round so you can speed off again whilst they’re left enjoying their jams. The good bit is that on an electric bike, you just have to pedal. But strainlessly, effortlessly, easily, regardless of hills, inclines, mountains, anything. You don’t exert. At all. The bike exerts for you. So you can concentrate on the vans, pot-holes, manhole covers, drains and cracks in the road. You can set the bike for ‘level of electric assistance’, from 1 (hard work) to 5 (no work). And being an eager fitness freak, I set it straight to 5, which I will never move.

When I planned my route, google maps told me it would take 59 minutes by car, but only 39 by bike. And, as always, google was right. And I’m sooooo looking forward to the ride home. Especially because its virtually all uphill. A journey for ‘real men’, or in my case, ‘real batteries’.

Happy Strike Day

A xxxx

Let me tell you about Larry. He’s our martial arts leader, guru, god (small ‘g’… very small) and Grand Master. He was a black belt before he could walk. He had his 5th dan before his barmitzvah (only Rabbi Shlomo ben Zvi ever achieved higher, in 1846), is an expert in Tai Chi, karate, jujitsu, aikido, kung fu, boxing, stabbing, head-butting and absolutely anything violent. A true expert with swords, both Japanese and Chinese, knives, bats, bricks, bottles, chairs and anything he can lay his hands on. He also has an advanced degree (suma cum laude) in swearing. And he teaches us unarmed combat. Any situation, however dangerous or seemingly impossible, however many guns, knives, swords or grenades are faced; we can overcome. There is no man we ever need to fear. Though you are allowed to cry.

But a cat is not a man. They’re much smaller (good thing), more furry (no relevance) and lick their own arses 50 times a day (really bad thing). And on Wednesday, Larry, ever the peacemaker (I know, ironic, huh?) whilst breaking up a fight between his cat and neighbour’s, suffered a teeth-sinking incident. The cat’s teeth, his left hand. He’s now in hospital on IV antibiotics as his hand looks like this pic. In fact it is this pic. There’s no room in the pic for anything else.

Today we had a ‘substitute Grand Master’ and it was a good class. Even without the boss, we shall continue. We are fucking warriors!!! Cleverly disguised as a bunch of feeble old men.

The moral of this story is: if faced with 3 armed masked Commandos coming one way, and a sweet little pussy-cat coming the other way; go for the Commandos. Or kill the cat.

Today is the third day of the wonderful celebrations of The Jubilee. The Queen’s not comin’, she’s ‘uncomfortable’. Which is a shame. I actually think the discomfort comes from forcing a smile under the blaze of a million cameras and lights, for 8 hours at a stretch. And that’s a stretch of the facial muscles around the mouth.

I’m celebrating by… errrr… ignoring it altogether and concentrating on tennis tomorrow.

Get well, Larry,

A xxxx

Her majesty, Queen Elizabeth the Second is 70 years old TODAY!!!! Oh, actually she’s not, she’s well over a hundred, depending on which of the many ‘birthdays’ royals have, you choose.

Buckingham Palace is 70 years old TODAY!!! No, its much older, built when the Romans were here, which you can tell because The Mall is so such a straight road. If Christopher Wren had built it you’d only have access via a web of alleyways.

Today we’re celebrating having 70 working Royals, all gathered together. Although many (republicans) view the term ‘working Royal’ as a contradiction in terms, those ‘unworking’ ones were the most noticeable on The Balcony yesterday. No Andrew, who was seen with Johnnie Depp giving an Open University lecture entitled ‘There are many ways to abuse women; don’t miss out! And how to fight for these rights in court’. Also present (at the Palace) but turfed off The Balcony for their non-working status were Harry & Meg. Although they appeared to be working yesterday, as babysitters for the children of those ‘workers’ who had to go out and wave. As a guide for the rest of this celebratory weekend, working Royals are the ones with a chest full of medals.

Oh, so the Queen has been the Queen for 70 years TODAY!!! Or nearabouts. What was she before then? As only 15% of the population is over 70, and half of them can’t remember their own phone number (the other half can’t remember where their phone is so it doesn’t really matter) there’s very few who recall a time before Elizabeth.

The question for me is not so much about how she’s reigned so long, but why? Rather than the homely and loveable old granny she would appear to be, perhaps she’s a total control freak narcissist, refusing to relinquish any control of her domain. Even though she can hardly walk now, looked incredibly frail yesterday and is taking a pass on the St Pauls service today as a consequence. Most people don’t ‘work’ at 96. And for good reason. They’re past it. Ok, she let’s Charlie do the bits on horseback, even let him ‘open Parliament’ the other week. But he’s not that bad, surely? A bit dim, but he’s a royal; they all are.

God Bless the Queen, but it must be time, surely.

Happy Platinum Jubilee

A xxxx