Andy's Glasses

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

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