Andy's Glasses

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

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