Andy's Glasses

Exercise is good for you. Can’t play football? Don’t like tennis?? Running jars the knees, back, hips, groin…??? Then swim. Mel does it, she loves it. And although I’m loathe to admit it, she’s very good at it. Hardly ever drowns. So people say to her ‘oh, you must try open-water swimming’, or ‘well go to Hampstead Ponds, they’re marvellous’. But my wife is that oddity among swimmers. She likes to immerse herself in water which is relatively clean. The famous Hampstead Ponds (check out the little feature series on Netflix, offering the ultimate definition of ‘eccentric’, its quite brilliant) are a truly wonderful feature where those who really enjoy hypothermia can thrill themselves all winter and summer. Mel won’t go there because they sometimes have a dead rat floating on the surface. Maybe sharks lurk there too. And the water temperature varies from 2 degrees in winter, to about 3 in summer. Ok, maybe a touch more but holy shit, that’s cold.

Others take to the sea. Or to rivers, reservoirs and lakes for the ultimate ‘open water’ experience. Yet of those ‘others’, we learn in the paper today, 55% become ‘ill’ as a consequence. Sickness, diarrhoea, ear and eye infections mainly. Oh well, the other 45% are fine, whassa problem? The problem is sewage, that’s the problem. In times of heavy rainfall, flooding, when the drains struggle to cope, the sewage companies are allowed to dump… stuff, into rivers, lakes and reservoirs. Eeeuuuuwwww. Even into the sea. Even though there are a hundred organisations and committees dedicated to improving the water quality around our shores and in our rivers. Think of the fish, FFS!!!

It’s not a problem for me, particularly, because on the odd occasion we venture into the sea, its not around Britain. And in the time it takes Mel to enter the water, swim 2k and return to the shore, I’ve just gone in up to my knees, wincing and shrieking as I go, with every inch the water rises up my body. I just hate walking into water. I’m not Jesus, never claimed to be. I’m a different Jew. One who hates cold water. Even when its really not that cold. Swimming pools are different. I can dive in, however cool it may be. It’s just the sea and the morbid fear of frostbite on my testicles. Even when the water’s relatively warm.

Which is why I play tennis.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m back. On the tennis court. Where I belong. Where I can’t do much damage. Other than to myself, obvs.

Because its happened. Precisely 3 months and 3 days after having my shoulder replaced with a shiny (literally) new one, I was back on court. Fitter, faster, keener and about 3 months and 3 days older. But bionic. Cyborg. Living tissue over titanium parts. And I can’t tell you what a wonderful pleasure it was to play yesterday almost painlessly. So I won’t bother trying. The lingering ‘aches’ and twinges are post-surgical therefore aren’t proper ‘pain’ like swinging round a shoulder jammed up with Osteo-arthritis, as I’ve been doing for years. This is ‘happy pain’. The pain of healing.

Because I’ve been religiously doing my physiotherapy every day.

I started out, in front of the mirror (not a vanity thing but fuck me, I am gorgeous!), because you need to address your posture before and during each kvetch), doing Heil Hitlers. Just raise the right arm vertically to just past the horizontal. Heil Hitler. Then do it again. And again. Until you feel either better or ready to invade Poland. From there we progressed to other forms of semi-torture whilst the shoulder tried to heal. Then we added weights to the equation. As if my natural resistance wasn’t sufficient. And now I’ve been promoted from light weights to stretch bands. So I can lie on the floor, shoulder down, head up, arm pressed to the floor, strangling myself with a six foot elastic band until Mel comes and unties me. And repeat. Yet ridiculously, it seems to work! Who’d’a thought that?

But Liverpool. Ahhhhh, Liverpool. It would appear that were there a league table of football teams involved in public inquiries, Liverpool would have been long crowned ‘undisputed champions’. Of the world. Of all known worlds. Unknowns too. Yet on Saturday night we had Paris-gate. Actually, Paris-gate-gate, as the problem was that no-one opened the gates at the Stade de France to let the fans in. Understandable, you may think, who the fuck would let in 20,000 drunken, shouting, singing Scousers? But this lot had tickets. So actually had a right to be let in. But they weren’t. And because French authorities have only two modes: overly-aggressive or SURRENDER!, they went for the former and sprayed tear gas, indiscriminately, at children, old people, quiet people, peaceful people, everyone. For complaining that the ticket they’d paid a lot of money for was not allowing them entry into the ground. Because they didn’t open the gates.

Fortunately, no-one was seriously injured. No thanks to Monsieur fucking Gendarme. Who maintains that ‘there were thousands of people with fake tickets’. How did they know? No-one got as far as having their tickets checked. No stewards were around, insufficient police, it was a shambles only the French could be proud of. Which robbed thousands of innocent supporters of their right to watch their team lose. Ok, the result is really not the point.

You do have to just think the obvious question: why is it ALWAYS Liverpool?

Happy Monday

A xxxx

There’s a new… a new bad thing. Legislative. Not a crime but something you don’t want. Like a sin, but not as much fun. Not criminal but something you wouldn’t want appearing against your Linkdin file. It’s called a(n) ‘NCIH’. And its pronounced “nekiyyehhh”. Ok, its an acronym so you don’t really need to pronounce it at all. ‘Non-Crime Hate Incident’. And its purpose is to make life a million times more miserable than you think it already is. Because virtually anything funny is an NCIH. Comedy is now dead. The open mike nights in the clubs will now feature Woke Warriors giving 2 hour lectures on the meanings behind LGBTQIAPK+. And if you want to know, or even need to ask, what you could possibly ‘+’ onto such an extensive list of atypicals, then they’ll spend the remainder of the lecture expounding on the 100 available ‘gender options’. All use of the word ‘penis’ is officially banned as it upsets trans men, evokes fond memories in trans women and causes mental illness in at least half of the remaining -QIAPKs.

An NCIH protects ‘everyone’ from hate crimes. Unfortunately, it would appear to use a rather militant definition of ‘hate’. The one used by ‘cancel culture’ so freely. Basically, everything Ricky Gervais has ever said, is saying or will say, is a non-crime hate incident. One of his shows should earn him about 258 in one go. Whereas I’d have to write 32 of these postings to reach such a figure. (Must work harder).

And it relates to the new crime of ‘pronoun abuse’ in which some fucking MORON (ie a straight, cis, non-minority, able-bodied heterosexual) gets someone’s pronouns wrong by making stupid, ignorant assumptions, normally ludicrously relating to body parts or facial hair. Imbeciles!!!

And the thing is, I don’t hate anybody. I have nothing but sincere compassion and sympathy for gender dysphorics, I don’t care who you wish to have sex with, meet in a car-park in Stoke after dark or insert small mammals into. I just don’t care. Enjoy. With my blessing. What I hate is the dogmatic insistence of adherence to a set of stupid definitions and protocols by people who are prepared to sacrifice so many of life’s enjoyments and amusements on the alter of political correctness. And its them that I really hate. The radicals. The humourless sheep who will hear no argument, enter no debate and adhere to the most rigorous form of wokeness which even most LGBTQI…s find ludicrous, offensive and detrimental to their cause.

I think they should all watch Gervais’s ‘Supernature’ on Netflix and try to understand that his ‘hate’ (their description, not his) is for them, not for the gender unusuals.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Ironically, Texas is possibly the easiest place to acquire guns in the world. You just walk into a shop, buy as many as you like and they apply for a ‘license’ for you. A process which looks very much like ‘taking your payment on a credit card’ but apparently ‘checks are done’. A week later you get your license but you can take the guns now anyway. If you’re shown to have a history of violence or mental health issues, your license arrives within 3 days. Well, you’re probably going to need the weapons sooner if you’re a nutter. And if you think ‘guns’ means, like a pistol, or a hunting rifle, then think again if you’re in Texas. You can buy virtually anything short of a nuclear warhead in the Lone Star State. Assault rifles, rocket launchers, grenade firers, flame throwers. Because you never know how ‘pesky’ those li’l critters like raccoons can be. Some farm pests are actually armed themselves. And you may need AND HAVE A RIGHT!!!!, to defend your home against invaders. So prepare for Putin, that’s the rationale.

I blame John Wayne. He presented a fictional representation of the classic ‘tough guy’, never backed down, stood his ground, always with a gun in hand or at his hip. True Grit. Fill yer hands ya sons of bitches. The role model for an entire nation’s consciousness. Or, in the case of Texas, unconsciousness. Over here we just had Charles Hawtrey, David Niven and Terry Thomas as role models. Rarely with guns.

So Americans are programmed from birth to be heroes. Armed. Fearless. Back down from NOTHING!.

Why did it take the police nearly an hour to ‘take the gunman down’ at the school then? What were they doing, playing bridge? Due to the massive and increasing popularity of lunatics killing children in schools, I am 100% certain that every police department in every single tiny one-horse village across all 50 states have ‘a protocol’. Police departments live and die for protocols. And most situations will be covered. They’ll have trained, rehearsed, practiced, precisely what to do in each and every possible shoot-em-up situation. But in Uvalde, the 19 police who were at the school for over 45 minutes, decided to ‘wait for more resources’ (what they call ‘people’ over there). They thought ‘there was no immediate risk to children’. Well they go that fucking wrong. They waited for a master key to get in. What, they don’t know how to ‘force entry’???

So we’re confronted with something of a ‘disconnect’ between the heroic ideal and the reality. Which cost the lives of 20 gorgeous little kids, forever destroying 20 families.

Bruce Willis would have been in there in 20 seconds, armed only with a can of beans and wife-beater vest. Jack Reacher wouldn’t have waited for a sodding key. Steven Segal would have only had to try and smile to make the gunman surrender.

It also addresses the ridiculous NRA definition of ‘security’ which is ‘if the baddies have guns, the good guys need bigger guns’, because the police have all the guns in the world. They just chose to wait til the dust had settled before using them.

I despair.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

No, not Depp vs Amber, nor Amber vs Depp, or even WAG vs Slag, but we need to discuss the Sue Gray report into Boris Johnson, dirty deeds at Number 10, partygate and whether our Prime Minister is fit to govern! Which, to be honest, you don’t need an independent report to tell you, he patently isn’t. You only have to look at the slob; he can barely dress himself properly, never mind run a democracy. And Sue Gray found…

That everything’s fine. No problem. No worries. No need for any further action, they were just… well, they were just LIKE parties, but not parties. In that people were dancing round, doing karaoke, drinking, throwing up, dancing, even fighting, oh such fun and hi-jinks, but in fact not a party at all. No. Parties are totally different.

She did criticise ‘failures of leadership’, which is a fantastic way for describing the way a Prime Minister breaks his own laws, as in acting illegally. Ms Gray didn’t want to go over any ground covered in the inquiry by the police, much as the police didn’t want to do anything contradicting her. So we waste a few quid on not one but two inquiries which say that Boris is a tosser, unfit to run a peanut stall, let alone a country. Like we didn’t know that. And although Ms Gray spoke in very strong terms about the horrendous culture of entitlement, both of government and the civil service, she failed to request the death penalty for any of them. Shame on her.

And following the latest, in such a long line, of ‘mass shootings’, this time in Texas, its good to hear that, according to Republican gun lobbyists ‘this has nothing to do with gun laws’. Reassuring. Phew, that’s a relief. I was beginning to get worried about sending kids to school in America but now I know that shootings have nothing to do with guns I’m happy.

If they never sold another gun in America there’s still 250 million guns out there. And ironically, in Texas, you can buy almost any gun you like. Not ‘fully automatic’ but so close you couldn’t tell the difference. If you were in a classroom and some unbalanced sociopath had his finger on the trigger.

20 more dead kids; you wanna buy some ammo for that assault rifle, Sir?

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So yesterday morning at 4.47 I left home and walked to my nearest Elizabeth Line station, which is Farringdon, just 9 miles away, so I could be the first plonker with nothing better to do, to ride the brand new, Crossrail train line. Yet its quite amazing how many others had the same idea. I thought I’d be the only one but in fact had to queue for 6 hours along Clerkenwell Road just to get in the station.

I had been instrumental in getting this brand new rail line organised. By writing to Crossrail and saying it should be called ‘The Jubilee Line’ as its the Queen’s jubilee year. “We’ve already got a Jubilee Line” they told me, which is true. So I suggested, ‘how about “Another Jubilee Line”, or “Jubilee Line 2: PLATINUM!!”, like a Tom Cruise movie. Also, because its 3 years late, it would only be a reminder that it should have been the ‘3 years before the platinum jubilee Line’ but failed. And it was only 10 billion quid over budget, which is brilliant. Though its not actually finished yet. They only opened part of it yesterday because they figured it best to get the Elizabeth Line open while she’s still alive and who knows how long that will last, or how long the rest will take to cobble together.

So there I was with all the other ‘trainos’ and Royalty-parasites; like-minded souls who just love to queue for anything, especially things with Royal implications. Memorial books, I queued for 19 days to sign Diana’s, Will & Kate’s wedding, I slept on the pavement in Windsor for 6 months beforehand only to find they’d moved the route, but I had a fantastic view of the hot-dog stand, for the whole day! I queued to see when Harry and Meghan left the country, only to learn they weren’t taking the EasyJet from Luton, when it was too late.

But the Elizabeth Line. I’d never seen anything worth £25 billion, other than Elon Musk. Though the new train line is seriously beautiful. Fabulous stations, wonderful technology, state-of-the-art everything. Except workers. They’re in a different state. Possibly Russia. So they’re planning a strike on June 6th. Just after the Jubilee weekend. I wonder if there’ll be a queue to join the picket line…

Happy Birthday Joey!!!! 3 today

A xxxx

A new restaurant has opened. In London. Something which would normally fill me with the same level of excitement as Volvo introducing a new 30-ton truck. Or Manchester City buying another player. Stella McCartney’s summer collection. There’s loads of restaurants and the whole ‘fine dining’ thing was a move to liberate the pretentious from as much of their cash as possible. Here’s some beans on toast. But they are yellow edamame beans, sautéed in an organic, Tuscan tomato jus, served on gluten-free, sugar-free, salt-free, fat-free, probably taste-free, ciabatta. £72.90. Oh, fuck off.

Yet I love food. And man cannot live on curry alone. Well, woman cannot live on curry alone. I absolutely could. So now and again we like to try ‘variety’. And we had an email offering 25% off all food in a new restaurant. Ooooooh, free food. Can you just bring me the 25%, quarter portion then, please?

The place is called Chotto Matte and its their second. The original is in Soho and is, quite frankly wonderful. Not totally ‘fine dining’ but quite amazing. We been there. This is the new one in Marylebone. Their USP is that they are ‘Japanese-Peruvian Fusion’. That’s a helluva fuse, you may think, but trust me, it works. Guinea pig sushi is to die for. Well, it would be for the guinea pig. Teriyaki Llama was… not on the menu. I made those up just to invoke stupid stereotypes.

The food is more ‘asian’ than ‘fusion’ but the tastes are wonderful, original and (hateful word alert:) delicious. The place is totally fab, the atmosphere perfect and the staff suitably cool in black.

But it didn’t quite work at the kitchen end. Delays. More delays. Then, our third ‘sharing plate’ arrived about 40 minutes after our second and they got it wrong. They put the chilli ON it, instead of with it, as we had stressed. Mel hates chilli almost as much as I love it. She can’t eat it. So this amazing chicken, smothered in chilli, was kind’a, sort’a… my dream, her inedible nightmare.

We waited a long time for its replacement. They woke us up when it arrived. Meanwhile the forth and final dish still hadn’t come. Like, couldn’t they have sneaked it in while we were waiting for the chicken redu? The manageress came and grovelled apologies, gushing, humbling, almost sobbing, offering drinks (I was driving), deserts (didn’t want), her children, a new car, ANYTHING!!! The lovely waitress was telling about a few ‘teething troubles’ in the kitchen, and I’m thinking Fawlty Towers and the drunk chef.

We didn’t have wine. I was driving, a bottle would be wasted, and the cheapest (by miles) was 50 quid. In the description it said ‘cheap shit, probably from Romania or somewhere dodgy’. The next was s£85. So we had beer. Their own ‘Chotto Matte pale ale’, brought to us by bus-boy-number 3, and just dumped on the table. In cans. Not even opened. I’m no princess (even though I often dress like one, as does Lila) but I mean… I mean…

However, the bill ended up, including service (15%, which I didn’t mind because the waiting staff were lovely, except ‘beer boy’), at £47. So if you’re going to Chotto Matte, go now, before they sort out the service, get it right and have to charge you properly.

Great night out.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Yesterday was the final day of the 2021/22 Premier League Season. In case you missed that. Or weren’t aware. And it was, in the final matches, all played together at 4 o’clock, even for those who’ve been forced to watch in excess of 14,572 games so far this year, it was spectacular. Down to the wire. Nail-biting. Touch and go. Everything to play for. You pick your cliche, pick your metaphor, double it and that’s how exciting it was.

Particularly as, for Spurs fans, and Arsenal fans too, one of the ‘big questions’ which was to be answered on this most holy of days, was ‘which of those 2 would make it to the Champions League, and which would rot in Thursday night mediocrity, forever labelled as LOSERS!!!’ And that question was mercifully answered early on. As Spurs were knocking in the goals at Norwich, it became meaningless what events unfolded at the Emirates. The only fortunate thing for Arsenal is that Spurs fans are notoriously kind, gentle, sympathetic and not prone to gloating, sarcasm or piss-taking.

So we could all relax and concentrate on the massive turmoil being played out at the very top and very bottom of the league. And all four of the matches concerned were as wild and unpredictable as matches could be. Man plans, God laughs. That possibly summed up the situation as Liverpool went 1-0 down in 3 minutes of their ‘must win’ match, equalising a bit later before Man City went 1-0 down in theirs. Spoiler alert: Man City won the league. With amazing difficulty, for the first 65 minutes but win they did.

At the other end, Burnley did what they do best and Leeds didn’t. Which is to lose matches. Though Leeds, with their 90th minute relegation-avoiding goal, they have scored 8 times this season so late in the game. Their prize is that they can go down next year.

So the season’s over, its all decided. But just like ‘the king is dead; long live the king!!!’, we’re already into next season. The buying, the selling, the promises, the lies, the excitement and, as ever, that damnable hope.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So what do you do in a heatwave? You play tennis. Oh, can’t do that. Well, I can soon, as the doc informed me. Gently (what the fuck does that even mean? If you’re ‘gentle’ then its not ‘sport’, but I shall try) and progressively, but I could be back within weeks. Its been so easy I might get the other shoulder replaced too. Even though its perfectly fine and healthy. Just because then I’d be just a little bit more ‘Terminator’ but without the constant, heads-up, digital display, because it would get in the way when I’m watching football.

And this is an English ‘heatwave’ where temperatures reached almost 20 degrees of Celsius for several minutes at a time!

So we went and picked up the very very old’uns and brought them back here for tea. With the very very young-uns. Who don’t drink tea but they make a massive mess anyway. And as ‘the dads’ both live in the same care home, which is about 5 minutes away, it sounds ‘easy’. And it is. Ish. I go to the home where both are waiting in reception, normally asleep. Its what you do when you in your late 90s. They zimmer-up and accompany me to the car, which is 7 yards from their door. That takes ten minutes, plus another ten to ‘fold’ them into their seats and get them belted. Then comes the major task of the day. Getting two zimmer frames into a car. I don’t think they build cars to accommodate such things, even when folded. Cos ‘folding’ normally implies improved ergonomics, whereas we all know that with zimmers it just shifts the lumps, bumps and legs elsewhere with no space saving whatsoever. I think it actually makes them bigger.

Then they’re here, in the garden, in the sunshine, with Lila and Joey running round ignoring them completely. Because children are attracted to bright colours and things that move, same as animals. And old people lack the brightness and mobility to hold their great-grandchildren’s attention for… well, at all really. And my dad likes my ‘tea’. Which is indeed tea but also what we call ‘the full Ashkenazi’. Because it contains every major food-group which will probably be banned next year. But my dad, at about 8 stone in his shoes and including his Zimmer, is not really an obesity-risk. And smoked salmon is ‘oily fish’, innit? Which is really healthy. Itself something rare and unusual in the world of East European Jewish food.

And to have four generations together is magical. Even if one generation spends about 2 hours watering the garden with the hose to the point of flooding.

Spurs have played relegated teams 5 times on the last day of the season. And lost 3 of those games. I intend to sue the Sunday Times for telling me that and causing me stress.

Happy Final Day Sunday

A xxxx

Just had to post this photo today. Not just because this 1955 Mercedes 300 SLR has just become the most expensive car ever, at £114million, not even because Mercedes only ever made two of them, one for racing and this one, not EVENNNNN because it had a straight-8 engine, giving it a bonnet the length of a swimming pool. But because, being known as the ‘Mona Lisa of cars’, it is quite simply exquisite. A thing of almost infinite beauty. Like Audrey Hepburn. Like a Cruyff turn. Like my rhododendron bush now in full bloom. Like Garry Sobers hitting six 6s in an over. Like me. Just perfection.

But my brothers in the RMT (Rail Maritime and Transport workers union) are going on strike! Because… well, because we can. Led by our esteemed leader, Mick Lynch (£124 grand a year, plus ‘benefits’), we are all (probably… possibly) in agreement that the only way to secure… whatever is insecure, whatever is unfair or pretty much, to give us all a bit more of everything, is to hold a strike. Talking is for tossers. For London-based rich people who like words instead of actions because they confuse thick people like me. So rather than enter ‘discussions’ and ‘talks’ and ‘neg-oh-shiashans’ and shit, we just gonna cut to the chase and bring the entire fucking country to its knees for a few days, so they know who they’re dealing with!

It’s a simple matter really. The rail operators, those bastard fascists and fat-cats wot own the trains, were bailed out during the pandemic. 16 billion quid’s worth of bailout. But its not, like, ‘real’ money because they borrowed it from the government. Ok, from you. Same difference. And our guv’nor, Mick, is worried that to pay this almost impossible sum back, they might either try to make redundancies or, worse still, change our working pay and/or conditions. And that’s why we love our union. Because any company, faced with an immense, unsustainable level of debt, will try to make cuts somewhere. Well NOT ON MY WATCH, THEY WON’T!! Well, Mick Lynch’s watch, anyway. He not only wants security for jobs and pay, but also a GUARANTEE that there will be ‘no detrimental change to working practices’. Which means if I’m off sick for 3 months, injured, on full pay, I can still go skiing with the kids, windsurf with the wife and climb the north face of Annapurna. My mate Jim is an operator of a piece of equipment which hasn’t been used since the First World War. He drinks a lot of tea for his £75 grand a year, and we need to ensure that not just his job, but THAT job is maintained for generations to come to ensure fairness and equality for lazy bastards who do absolutely nothing. We must support our union and agree to the strike.

Happy Militant Saturday

A xxxx