Andy's Glasses

So we returned for the third and final time to the ice cream ‘parlour’ (fab term, not used since 1958, but delightful) and had my third and final flavour. In ‘Golda’ (the name of the store) they do ‘one scoop, half’n’half’. In fact they all do in Israel. Showing either the ultimate in civilisation, or the result of having a terribly indecisive population. Either way, I went ‘Belgium chocolate and coconut’ on the first night. Lit-er-ally, to DIEIEIE for, dahling. The next night I had Belgium chocolate and ‘chocolate almond caramel’ and it was even better, so whether that is to ‘die again for’, or perhaps, ‘to die in agony for’, possibly just ‘to die more for’, I don’t know. And the third night it was… some other combination of those 3 because why would you fuck with perfection?

Then we came home. Well, we gave it our best shot. Whether we arrive home together, with our luggage, with covid, within a week of taking off, or at all, depends on the flight crews, baggage handlers, air-side teams, unloaders, stackers, shifters and a whole host of other variables which remain seemingly out of the control of the airlines and the airports. At the time of writing this. Which is at 40,000 feet above sea-level, traveling at 560mph, approaching Munich from the south-east but in a strictly non-Top-Gun way.

Tel Aviv airport is a fabulous place, rebuilt 10, 15 years ago into a bright, airy, fabulous testament to feng shui, karma and wonderful stone. And I love it there and always get a great feeling arriving there. But in the years since my last visit, in this ‘post-Covid’ era, they seem to have had a new redesign, by Dante. Because all roads there now lead to HELL. Endless queues, seven levels of security, the eternal damnation of passport control, to spend all of forever having your bags scanned only to have to go back, remove your belt, take off your shoes, empty your fucking pockets and DO IT AGAINNNN…

Post Script.

We sailed through Heathrow. Never quicker. From touchdown to leaving, with ALL our bags, just under 30 minutes. Passport control was empty. We went to the baggage carousel, expecting to wait a few weeks, and three bags appeared 30 seconds later. 2 of them ours. I mean, WTF???

Very happy Thursday, good to be home. Where’s the fucking beach gone?

A xxxx

Following the resignation of Lord Geidt, Boris Johnson’s ‘ethics advisor’, they may need to replace him with three new people. Mainly because Boris has, evidently, apparently and certainly, no clue about the subject whatsoever. He remains a morality-free-zone. And personally I couldn’t think of a harder job to do. But I’m going to try.

Douglas Bader’s football coach.
Victoria Beckham’s singing instructor.
Kier Starmer’s personality consultant.
The fox in my garden’s toilet-trainer.
Kim Jong-Un’s style guru.
Liam Gallagher’s elecution teacher.

To name but a few. It does make you wonder how we ended up with a Prime Minister devoid of accountability, who lies, breaks the law and is generally such a moral vacuum that his own ethics advisor finds his own position untenable.

Meanwhile, back in the Promised Land, we revisited the kebab shop last night, with some friends, to spread the word, and the hummus. Then we went for ice creams. To finish off the complete ‘fine-dining’, ‘healthy-eating’ event which started with a bottle of red on the balcony with crisps and nibbles. The ice cream here is the ultimate. That’s where the real ‘fine dining’ comes in. Simply sensational. I’ll take a pic when we go back tonight. Because we will. It’s the last night of the holiday so calories count for even less than in the preceding days. And as we stopped counting at check-in at Heathrow, WHO GIVES A SHIT ANYWAY?

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

I’m thinking of joining the strike. I know, I’m not a union member, not part of a collective, some might say ‘barely even works at all’, but that’s not fair, even if slightly true. I’m only qualified to strike because I own a Che Guevara t-shirt. But my bruvvers in the RMT are striking tomorrow, as is their right, and now the nurses are joining in. Possibly doctors too, which is understandable, all public sector medics are tragically undervalued. Civil service might joint too. And, if I’m honest, that might be considered ‘taking the piss’ just a tad as the government is making 90,000 redundancies in the civil service already and if the remainders all left, would anyone really miss them? Though teachers, another underpaid sector, are deciding whether to join the walk-outs.

Tomorrow morning I will NOT walk on the beach for 2k. I will NOT swim 20 lengths of a beautiful, beach-side pool and I will eat no hummus. That’s what striking looks like round here. I won’t even put sun cream on! (Though if its really sunny, I may become a ‘scab’).

It’s back to the 70s. Summer of discontent. And cynicism aside the doctors, nurses and teachers, even the civil servants worked flat out in the pandemic, never stopped, changing their normal procedures and work practices, accommodating the needs of the rapidly changing world. The train people… didn’t. Most were furloughed and played golf for 6 months. And were bailed out by 27 billion quid by the government. So its nice to have a sense of fiscal responsibility.

People think Kier Starmer is boring! How rude. Ok, he’s duller than dishwater, could be replaced by a lamppost and it would take 3 weeks to notice and has been the single most ineffectual leader of the opposition since Reginald Tomlinson in 1858 who died on his first day on the job but remained in his parliamentary seat for 273 days until the smell caused problems and eventual realisation.

Power to the People!!!

A xxxx

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