Andy's Glasses

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

At present, in the UK (statistics may vary from nation to nation but the current number purely represents the ‘don’t care ‘bout no-one else’ attitude to which we all adhere), 28% of the population are classified as ‘obese’, whilst 34% are ‘healthy’. You don’t have to be Einstein to be seriously worried about the remaining 38% who are neither. Are they invisible? Too light to weigh? Too heavy to put on the scales?? I mean, we need to know.

Because the worry is that by 2027 one third of the population will remain ‘healthy’ whilst another third will be classified as ‘obese’. The third third, in case you’re worried, like I am, represents ‘overweight’, that nether world where you’re too fat to be healthy but not quite fat enough to be an official ‘fat bastard’. It’s the calorific equivalent of being an agnostic rather than an atheist. And those people really should learn to commit.

By 2040 70% of the population will be either ‘obese’ or ‘overweight’.

But then you have to remember that these are just statistics. Not even the crunching of meaningful data, but ‘projecting’, looking into the crystal ball of t-tests and normal distributions to try and predict the future. Like Nostradamus but with a veil of scientific validity. They can’t predict the weather for tomorrow but they know how much every single member of our 60 million population is going to eat forever.

There’s another interpretation. Just as valid. If you look at the numbers a slightly different way. Thinking outside of the box (of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes).

‘Fatness’ is going to increase by 6% by 2027. They’re assuming that’ll be 6% more people becoming ‘obese’. But I propose that it might just mean that the existing 28% obese ones of the population just increase their own intake by 6%!!! Meaning the fat get fatter, the rest stay the same. There is a precedent: the rich get richer. Same thing, different units of measurement.

My main worry, as a ‘healthy person’ who eats more than any fat bastard, is that they’ll take all the food. Leaving us ‘healthy’ ones with nothing but lettuce and broccoli. Or worse still, that the fat may just start eating the thin people. Big worry.

To combat this Mars bars have thought of the most brilliant thing ever. A Mars bar which is 24% lower in calories!! And so clever, they did this by… making it about 24% smaller. Almost as if ‘the less you eat the healthier you may become’!! We need to work on the statistics there before announcing it.

Happy HEALTHY Thursday

A xxxx

Jake Daniels (no relation), a 17 year old from somewhere up north, has ‘come out’ as gay. Nothing newsworthy there then. Plenty of gay people around, even up north. I met one in Watford once. But Jake is a professional footballer. Ooooohhhhh. So that is different. Very, very different. Because there is the ‘real world’, where people at least have to act in a decent, caring, sympathetic, understanding, compassionate and tolerant manner. And then there’s ‘football’, where none of that is even acceptable. To compare Jake to Tom Daly is a nonsense, possibly a nonce-ense, because diving is an individual sport which, for the purposes of this discussion, is fundamentally different. And in fact any sport is fundamentally different to football when it comes to the mentality of the players and more importantly, the fans. Which is why no footballer has ‘come out’ since Justin Fashanu. Who did so in 1990 and had killed himself by 1997. And you don’t kill yourself because of an excessive outpouring of communal support and love.

The social norms on acceptable behaviour end about half a mile from any football ground. Where the fighting starts. Ok, not as bad as it was, but there’s some for whom football and violence are synonymous. Similarly, the rules about sexism, racism, any-fucking-ism are suspended for the 90 minutes of play. And, more importantly, are lodged into the mindset of many fans as part of their value system. 100 million quid for Lukaku is ‘good value’ and so is cat-calling women, monkey-chanting at black players and calling your mate ‘gay’ because he’s only drinking 6 pints today.

Gareth Thomas, the wonderful Welsh rugby player, came out but just before his retirement from the game. He’d played 100 times for Wales, displayed levels of bravery and commitment beyond any call of duty and basically, proved himself more ‘manly’ than any man of any sexual preference. Possibly because he felt he had something to prove, but a man to be greatly admired.

When ‘Fash’ came out he suffered massively from the fans. And there was no social media back then. I sincerely hope young Jake is going to disconnect from Instagram, Twitter, all of it, for his own sake. Because it will be relentless. From opposing fans it will be constant. From his own fans, as Marcus Rashford will confirm, it’ll be worse if he has a bad day at the office. And he’ll be taunted mercilessly by opposing players trying to ‘wind him up’. Trying to get him to slap them.

I have nothing but admiration for this dude. I’m just not sure the whole world of ‘football’ is ready to accept its diversity quota in any meaningful way. Especially if Sharia law is the rule book at Newcastle. For whom I have nothing but thanks, admiration and love. Today.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Roy Keane once attacked the ‘hospitality freeloaders’ at football matches, just verbally, unusually for him, and referred to them as ‘prawn sandwich eaters’. As if eating a prawn sandwich represented the most decadent, upper-class, almost aristocratic act a man could do. Women can eat them too but Roy probably had even more abuse to hurl at them.

The ‘hospitality’ areas of any football ground are the seats and boxes that are bought annually by companies. For directors, partners, the odd, lucky staff member, to entertain their guests. Thus creating areas of the ground where there are loads of people ‘just there for the ride’. Who don’t support either team on view. Who don’t like football but enjoy free beer. Let’s just say ‘who are less committed’. To the extent that when the second half starts, there are vast swathes of empty seats, the eventual occupants of which are far more interested in one more beer and three more prawn sandwiches than in events pitch-side. Deals are being done. Important conversations (do want the prawn or roast beef?) So they return late. And it is horrible.

But unfortunately, for football clubs, ‘hospitality’ is their financial life-line. Normal punters, the ‘mere mortals’ just pay a virtual small fortune for their season tickets, whilst the corporates pay very big fortunes. Ok, they throw in free beers, offer dining facilities pre-and-post-match, have a bunch of ex-players strolling round chatting and having selfies taken, but the clubs charge. Even the toilets in those areas have hand soap!! Warm water, which works!! Dyson dryers!!! It’s almost civilised. Hardly any violence. Only if there’s just one prawn sandwich left.

And as a lifelong football purist who enjoys the ‘rough’ of match days, who likes walking down dark tunnels lined with fag-butts and half-drunk away fans pissing against the walls (all away fans do that; its a territorial thing), there’s a lot to be said for prawn sandwiches.

Although, as prawns aren’t kosher, they don’t do those at Spurs. We have smoked salmon instead.

The son-and-heir-in-law has a contact (who will be forever blessed and should live to a hundred, pth, pth, pth). Who has lots of hospitality seats he seldom uses. Thus they get offered to Tory Boy. And, by proxy, to me. And thus we leave the mere mortals at on the High Road and walk in through the front door!!! Into the Palace of Tottenham. Which is vast, spotlessly clean and has all the beauty and modernistic grandeur of a 6-star hotel in Dubai. We enter a glass lift and a uniformed geezer presses the button for you, in case you’re so rich you don’t know how to do something like that yourself. And its all splendid and wonderful and polite and genteel. People even hold doors open for each other!! At fucking football!!! They have trophies there. Old ones, obvs.

The seats are spectacular (photo taken at a previous match, hence the mask round my neck) the food and drink abundant and the experience, whilst a little bit ‘different’, is just brilliant. Even for someone who firstly likes football an also is an actual fan!

Match was ok. We won. And I can’t wait to go there again. Just to spite Roy Keane.

Happy Monday

A xxxx