Andy's Glasses

Ok, the heatwave’s over, but its not so much the heat that bothered me as the endless fucking conversations about the heat. Even as an avid collector of trivial, useless information, I’ve learned enough about ‘record temperatures’ and trends in temperature rises and fires and global warming to last… til the next heatwave. Then they won’t need to repeat any of it because we all know. And carbon emissions are to blame, there’s very little doubt, so, according to Mr Evangelical News Carbon Dude, ‘we’ must do all ‘we’ can to reduce ‘our’ emissions, end the reliance on fossil fuels and generally act responsibly in the best interests of the planet.

And I get that. It’s the ‘we’ that causes me slight concern. I’ll heat the house less, I’ll insulate, I’ll drive an electric car, if it ever arrives, which all helps. In the same way that spitting every weekend into the reservoir will help the water supply. Because there’s industry. And there’s cows (massive producers of methane gas, the worst of the greenhouse ones). And there’s planes. And…

And there’s China. India. America. The ‘producers’. The abusers. The Problem. The 3 biggest industrial nations on the planet, other than Russia who also put out a CO2 or two, have no intention of any immediate or even long-term strategy for carbon emission reduction. China alone produces 30% of the world’s emissions. Who’s going to stop that? India is poor and completely reliant on coal, which is a massive resource over there. And America… well, they adopt the same attitude to fossil fuels as they do to gun control. It’s the way its always been, it ain’t gonna change. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, blah, blah, John Wayne, Donald Trump, blah.

Maybe our little heatwave was a warning of things to come, to spur us into action. Because, even for a heat-loving sun-worshipper, the last 2 days were fucking awful. So I’ll turn off my gas boiler if China turns off its one. Or two. Or…

Happy mercifully a little cooler Wednesday

A xxxx

We’re almost becoming used to living in disasters. We’ve (nearly… almost… possibly) survived covid, we’re on the brink of war with Russia (the first tank to extend its turret anywhere near Estonia, Poland, Lithuania…), the petrol required to get to the Fat Duck now costs more than the meal you eat when you get there, because the electric car you ordered last November won’t be ready til May, sorry, make that July, oh, no, now its September… probably, and although no-one is heating their homes today, by January half the nation will be bankrupt for doing it then. And bathing their children in frigid rivers.

But today I learned of the ultimate of disasters, about to descend on a vulnerable, limping world. Hummus-gate!!!

There is a world shortage of chick peas. Which is a shame because half the third world uses them as a staple. But this isn’t about them. This is about ME. And hummus. Which is made of chick peas. Which, sod’s bloody law, come from… Russia. Who, in a normal year, would export 250,000 tons of them but not this year. I would approach the Prime Minister to make chick peas an exception to the sanctions, but we don’t have a Prime Minister currently. And I’m not sure my hummus supply (quarter of a pot, Waitrose Reduced Fat) will last til September. Nor would those unfeeling tossers vying for the top job give Hummus a consideration when there’s so many, non-edible, alternative issues to consider. Important ones. Like how trans people choose to identify. That’s much more important than feeding half the starving world!!

There’s felafel to consider too, you know, more chick peas. There’s more to life than just hummus. It’s just that hummus is so much more important than almost everything else. Including peace in Ukraine and which dirty no-good low-life occupies 10 Downing Street. This is something worth fighting for!

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I just hung a wash out on the spinny washing line thingy in the garden. Because I’m a good boy. In fact, because I’m a bad boy generally so sometimes I’m prepared to score a few points, get them in the bank, for when they’re needed. Which is most of the time. And it was an interesting study. As I realised that I don’t wear any clothes. Mel wears loads. I hung up four dresses (hers, mine are different colours), yet only 3 of my t-shirts, all white. I did hang up lots of my underpants because in the hot weather I can wear up to 3 pairs a day. Though I do find that uncomfortable under jeans and generally stick to the one. Mel wears sleep-shirts and I wear nothing. There was lots of her underwear too, obviously, as we both wear that. I stood back and calculated that of that wash, about 15% was ‘my shit’, the rest hers. Which made me so upset, I took it all down again for her to do when she gets back from swimming.

And a little plea, as the heatwave is right upon us. Please, but PLEASE don’t drink too much water. Because if you do then water levels will plummet, as they always do when its even warm, and there’ll be a hose-pipe ban and I won’t be able to water my lawn. Which will then go all brown and horrible and completely upset the aesthetic. So please, as you go for the tap because you’re chronically dehydrated, the world’s spinning, your skin’s cracking up, you’re burning like a barbecue, have a thought for my grass. And drink a bit less. Don’t be so selfish.

To compensate for losing the rugby series against England, they let an Aussie win the golf, which was played somewhere in Scotland, I’m guessing. And such an Aussie. They found a guy, probably in a trailer park in Queensland, who actually still has a mullet hair-do, and taught him to play golf so he could be ‘an ambassador’ for the sport, a representative of the country in the quality of Sir Les Patterson. This guy looks like the semi-moronic brother of Paul Hogan in his comedy show. Though even I have to admit, he knows how to hit a golf ball.

More pre-Prime-Minister-bollocks last night and, as expected, its getting dark and dirty in there. I missed the debate. I was pouring 3000 gallons of water onto my back garden.

Happy VERY HOT Monday

A xxxx

It’s hot. So hot that I played tennis at 9 this morning, rather than 10. These are not normally considerations. Play early because rain is coming. Play late so the frost can melt. Play at 12.32 because Hurricane Rishi will have passed. But heat? We love heat. And sunshine? Travel round the world chasing the stuff. Well, Mel does, I just go for the ice creams. So why all the fuss?

Because sunshine, as well as making you feel great, infuse you with vitamin D, put a colour on your face and increase well-being, will kill you. I heard yesterday that even sitting in the shade in 40 degrees of Celsius (as we’re predicted to have by Tuesday), you can just die. Like that. One minute you’re alive and the next you’ve dehydrated, your organs have shut down and the paramedics aren’t allowed out because their tyres have melted.

The solution, as to everything, is water, of course. Preferably, getting in it. But if you can’t, like… on the tube f’rinstance, then try drinking some. I know, its the least drinkable stuff on the planet, the most uninteresting, dull, horrible drink to imbibe, lacking in sugar, alcohol, coffee and all the other things that improve it 9000%, but that’s what you have to do. To stay alive.

On our world tour of Australia, back in 2011, we went to Oluru. Ayers Rock was shut. And we decided to walk round it. Well its a great big fucking rock, you weren’t allowed to climb it because it was too hot and your options are a bit limited. You can’t just look at it for 3 hours. It is a 6-mile trek and it was 39 degrees of Celsius. With not the slimmest, slightest sliver of shade available. Because its in the middle of a desert and stands alone. And our friends made us carry water. Lots of water. Like trekking 6 miles in 120 degrees (change to Farenheits to hit the big numbers) isn’t hard enough, strap gallon sacks of water on your backs just for fun. Which was quite frankly ridiculous because water is heavy (1 litre weighs precisely 1Kg which everyone knows unless they’re American) so gallons of the stuff weighs tons. Which makes you exert more, sweat more and is generally counterproductive to staying alive.

So here’s the rules, to keep you safe in the heatwave.

1. Avoid the shade, according to that guy, you can die there.
2. Don’t carry water, the added weight is unnecessary exertion.
3. Use nothing stronger than factor 15 otherwise your tan might be blotchy.
4. Leave small children in the car when you go shopping to avoid sun exposure. And make sure the windows are closed so they don’t crawl out.

Otherwise, good luck amigos, see you on the other side. Which is Wednesday.

Happy heatwave

A xxxx

Last night was the first televised debate, giving the public the opportunity to see the 5 Prime Ministerial candidates that they won’t be able to vote for. But we need to see them anyway. It’s important. So we can understand the fundamentals of their core political stances and underlying philosophy. If it was up to me, I’d strap a hunting knife to one hand, give them a club in the other and put them in the ring all together. Unfortunately I don’t get a vote in that either. Thus, we let them speak. And speak they did.

They spoke about tax. And Rishi Sunak won that, as he would, being the Chancellor until a couple of weeks ago. (Those ‘long time in politics’ weeks.) But Rishi’s economical pragmatism, delivered with slick confidence, could also be his greatest flaw. Because by thinking of the all-important long-term financial goals, his fiscal prudence for ‘the nation’ at this moment ignores the fact that a growing proportion of that nation are struggling to feed their kids right now. And while Nero fiddled while Rome burned, Rishi is building a new swimming pool in one of his houses as England starves. Thus affecting his vote-worthiness once the time comes when we plebs DO get to vote.

Liz Truss was at a dinner party she couldn’t cancel (you know how sensitive some people are) so she sent a wooden replica instead. Which was just like Liz Truss, but stiffer.

Kenny Badenoch (yes, I KNOW its not her real name but its one I like) impressed, but then got hung up on a ‘woke’ issue with Penny Mordaunt. And I’d just like to point out that the trans vote currently sits at 0.0034% of the population and, safe to say, NONE of them are Tory voters. So can we per-lease move on. Talking about the quality of toilet paper in hospital toilets is also important, but its not for NOW, not for HERE.

Penny was fluent but a bit stumbling. Though is massively popular with the Conservative Party members. Or she was until they learned she’d approved self identification for trans people. Otherwise not a great deal of substance.

And Tommy Tugendhat. He was in the army, ya know? If you didn’t before, you certainly know it now as it was mentioned 78 times in 23 minutes of air time. Other than that he seems like a nice boy. But not one sufficiently… anything to represent our fine nation.

The next debate is on Sunday. We will learn more. From what I can see, its Rishi’s to lose but I’m sure as you’re reading this there is an army of researchers and diggers looking at his bank records over the last 20 years, how much he spends on Champagne and the cost of the cheapest mug in his kitchen. Because its going to get dirty. It must do. I sincerely hope so, anyway.

Happy hot Saturday

A xxxx

Our house guests have left. After a relaxing and quiet 5 days, Lila and Joey have returned to their other house. The one where their parents generally live when they’re not holidaying around the globe. And when I say ‘relaxing and quiet’, I mean… I mean… I mean, imagine you live in Eastern Ukraine and Putin decides to systematically destroy your living space, your peace of mind, your sleep patterns and everything else you hold holy. Don’t get me wrong, I loved having them here and re-writing their rule book (which neither can read, so no big loss there) but the peace that followed their departure this afternoon was physically tangible.

Every grandparent thinks their own grandchildren to be ‘unique’, ‘brilliant’, ‘exceptionally bright’, ‘charming’, ‘delightful’, etc etc until the listener rudely falls asleep. But they only think that because they haven’t met MY grandchildren. If they had they would describe their own as miserable dullards with diminished mental capacity and all the charm of Tom Tugendhat. And I say that with all impartiality.

Then Joey ‘took ill’. Not his fault, poor babe, but Saturday night he was fine, Sunday morning he simply wasn’t. Doing the sums, at precisely the time his parents took off, his temperature rose upwards with them. No other symptoms, just burning hot, listless and devoid of the usual energy and mania. When Joey doesn’t want to water the garden with the hose, you know there’s issues.

Lila was absolutely fine. Her usual super-enthusiastic, rule-the-roost, 320-words a minute delightful loveliness. Until bedtime. When she turns into that girl from The Exorcist whose head rotated 360 degrees, swore like… most of my friends and vomited green slime over the priest. Something changes in her, something profound. But only EVERY SINGLE NIGHT!!!!, so its no big deal.

Then yesterday morning, after a logistically nightmarish week when Joey couldn’t attend nursery, even though 12 kids there have the same thing, he woke up noticeably nothing like as hot, more chatty, more energy, almost back to his old self. Just in time for his parents to fly home and reap the rewards. He asked me if mummy was coming over to pick him up. ‘Awwww, I thought, he misses his mum, sweet’. Because he wants her to bring his present with her so he can carry it home. Cynical? Mercenary? No, but a deal’s a deal. You go on holiday, I GET A PRESENT. Or don’t bother coming for me.

NOOOOOOO…

Happy Friday

A xxxx

So the race for ‘new Boris’ has started in earnest. And in just one day, the field reduced from 11 starters to just 8 remaining to the next round. The problem for the other three was that they needed just 20 MPs to back them and show support but Sajid David, Grant Shapps and some other infinitely easily-forgotten face simply don’t have that many mates. And so we’re left with the ‘hot favourites’ who now have all released videos. Yes, because of the structure of British politics, we don’t have a culture of personality. We vote for ideals, philosophy, policy and tax. So to present the candidates as would-be rock stars kind of goes against the low-key Westminster ethos. Hiring Ridley Scott to direct the video is possibly taking it too far. And a complete waste of money.

The runners and riders remaining are as follows:

1. Rishi Rich.
Ex-chancellor, very popular with everyone except those who really hate him.

2.Liz Truss.
So good they named her after a surgical appliance. And retains the theme of ‘blonds in number 10’ and thus immediately garners the support of suck-up half-wits, Jacob Rees-Mog and Nadine Dorries.

3. Kenny Badenoch.
As the diversity minister she ticks every single box available. Is charming, very clever and down to earth. And would thus make a perfect leader for the Labour Party. The Tories elected a woman as leader once, and look what happened.

4. Nadine Zahawi.
The Chancellor. Not sure I trust him. For any number of reasons, none of them good.

5. Tom Dis’n’dhat.
The ‘we don’t do personality politics’ candidate.

6. Penny Morbid.
Remember her vaguely from the Theresa May years. Faded fast from memory and probably not returning any time soon.

7. Suella de Ville.
Attorney General. Hard right. But made a fantastic speech hi-lighting the stupidity of gender issues in schools.

8. Jeremy C-.
It’s not that I can’t think of anything notable to say about this man, who makes John Major look positively ‘rainbow’, but every rhyme I try just ends there.

Why are they all talking about tax when the public aren’t even voting?
Why is it relevant whether candidates were ‘Brexiteers’ or not? When that boat sailed years ago?

More voting today, more exiting than Wimbledon.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

We have guests.

Lila and Joey moved in Saturday afternoon and they ain’t goin’ nowhere. Their mummy and daddy have gone to Corsica. No particular reason, just GET AWAYYYYY!!!! And why not. They deserve it. So they say. And its educational for the children to spend time with grandparents. To learn the consequences of sugar overload. To realise that if you make enough fuss, you NEVER have to go to bed. That doing ‘grown up’ jigsaw puzzles til 11.30 at night is cool (Lila) and that breaking things gets results (Jo-jo). That there are places in the world where the word ‘NO’ simply doesn’t exist. Where anything goes, and you’ll get all the help you need doing it. And so for 5 days, we are a unit. Just the four of us. With all the help we can get.

And yet the kids are good. They’ve been trained in the same school of no-nonsense strictness that I attended. My daughter’s. Though we do offer a degree of ‘flexibility’ that is possibly lacking in their house. Like the other day when Joey offered to drive Mel’s car from the driveway to the street so the gardener could cut the hedges. I had no problem with that; its not my car. And there’s plenty of states in America where you’re allowed to drive at 3. Well, 15, 16, 3, what’s the difference? I did help him. Mainly because he can’t reach the peddles. And his steering was a bit erratic. Though Mel’s car’s used to that.

So five days of ‘full-on’ is upon us. And its wonderful. Exhausting, but wonderful.

Nick Kyrgios battled valiantly against Novak Djokovic in yesterday’s final, but alas, in the battle of the ‘most hateds’, Novak once again showed that he can win that battle against anyone. Particularly as I learned only the other day that petulant, aggressive, rude, vile, spitting, swearing, nasty-man Kyrgios is a ‘life long Spurs fan’. And as I learned that a virtual halo appeared upon his ‘in my head’ image and will stay there forevermore. The man is to be respected. He’s a brother.

Ok, we’re in an ‘early to bed, ridiculously early to rise’ routine at present, so if you see me out anywhere, just wake me up, I’ll be fine.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

So its started, the battle for the ultimate prize of running a nation devastated by a pandemic, riddled with industrial action, impoverished by the greatest cost of living crisis of all time coupled with massive inflation, on the verge of going to war with Russia and… did I miss anything?

Though on the plus side, its the Wimbledon finals this weekend and the sun’s shining. So its not all bad for the incoming new Prime Minister, once we’ve worked out the ‘least of evils’.

And they are evil. Most of them had already organised their campaigns and social media messages whilst still overtly supporting Boris ‘to the end’. So all of them are two-faced. We get that. That’s politics. So you need other criteria to separate the bastards from the self-servers from the megalomaniacs from the no-hopers (Jeremy Hunt).

So we listen to their tales.

Nadhim Zahawi was an Iraqi refugee, arrived penniless, ate gravel, paper bags for shoes, usual story, and amassed a ‘fortune’ in property before going into politics. And that’s where his own dilemma lies, the one which will probably kill him. As a ‘fortune builder’ registering holding companies in offshore tax havens is seen as ‘shrewd’ and ‘clever’ and ‘canny’. Then, as soon as you are in government, those terms all change to ‘conniving’, ‘cheating’, ‘tax-dodging’ and will be the end of unquestionably the mostest, biggest, ultimatest two-faced of them all.

Rishi has a rags to riches story too. These stories are important. They tell us ‘anyone can do it!!! Regardless of upbringing, social status, anything!!!’ Unfortunately, Rishi tells his mum’s story. Came over from Kenya, ate gravel, paper bags for shoes, etc, but became a pharmacist and ‘rose above her humble beginnings’. Alas, she rose so far above them that Rishi’s own story is one of abject privilege. Winchester school, Oxford, Harvard, marry a billionare’s daughter. So although the people of Rochdale may admire Rishi’s mum, as we all now do, they’re gonna fucking hate Rishi, possibly even more than they do simply for being a rich bastard.

And as far as I can see, the only good thing to come out of this ‘race’ will be the levels of nastiness all the candidates will use upon their ‘friends’ and ‘colleagues’, all the character assassinations, the insinuations of impropriety, the outright gossip… just to show us what nice, discerning people they themselves really are.

My Joey’s a nice person. He’s a fireman. So he went yesterday to what he calls the ‘Armayref Museum’ to help out. We call it the RAF museum, but whose to say whose right?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

He’s going, going, gone. It’s quite unbelievable to think that someone who has had such a massive influence on my life has resigned. As the words of his parting speech washed over my ears, I was at times moved, I was gladdened, upset, devastated and relieved. But after our doubts and our anxieties, yesterday it finally happened and he actually resigned. I feel for him in many ways. Because not playing in the semi-finals with the hope of winning his 23rd Grand Slam is indeed a massive sacrifice.

Oh, what, you thought I meant Boris? BORIS??? Couldn’t give a toss about that fat fuck. I’m talking Rafa!!! After watching him win his quarter final, obviously troubled by his injury was a thing of heroic, painful beauty and commitment. For him to pull out of the tournament now does NOT in any way make him a ‘bloody Spanish wimp’, nor anything like. Just because some of us play through agony and turmoil and arthritic shoulders and even dandruff doesn’t mean others are honour-bound to follow. Rafa could have pain-killered it out in the semi, maybe, but at a massive cost to himself and his playing future. He did the right thing. I’m sure Nick Kyrios doesn’t share our pain.

So I went to the doctor yesterday, actually, to see the nurse. Because I like nurses. And she wanted to see The Amazing Shrinking Man!!!, because Mel mentioned I’d lost height (I’m currently 2 foot 7”), and she thought she should check me out. Which meant draining me of blood, as they always do. And then she asked if I wanted a ‘pneumonia vaccine’. I said ‘yes’ before asking what it was because I simply cannot resist any vaccine for anything, ever. I wish I could have been vaccinated against Boris in 2016, just before the Brexit bollocks, but she wasn’t asking about that. And then she ‘sold’ it to me. Even though I was already rolling up my sleeve. She said: ‘no-one in the world ever died from Covid’. Because Covid can’t kill. What it does is fuck up your respiratory system until your heart gives up or you contract pneumonia and die from that.

HO-LEEEE SHI-IIIIIIIT!!!!! That’s so true and logical and, I would say ‘nice’, but obviously its not. That’s why it was always how many people died WITH Covid. Ahhhhhh. Jab me right NOW!!!!

I think they only give it to the seriously aged. Mel (only a BIT younger) wasn’t offered it. But now I’m SUPERMAN. Next week I’m being vaccinated against green Kryptonite and I’m sorted.

Happy Friday

A xxxx