Another Brick in the Wall

We’ve been renamed Andy’s Rants. Can’t imagine why but Trading Standards did call in and claim it was clearly a blatant mis-description, not a proper Blog. It was Gareth’s idea.

Blog – just what sort of word is that?? 21st Century tosh. Not a proper word in my day. Should the text be informative, useful, technical? Or is it a gurgling beast straight out of Tolkein or Twatty Potter?

Who cares? This is a proper disjointed rampage of a rant, so heads down……

Had a really irritating bloke in the shop this week. Talked bollocks for an hour and kept referring to his guitar as “She”. Pissed me off even more when I realize he’s named the fucking thing and had the temerity to call it after my daughter, well at least the name I gave her well before he even picked up a guitar. If BB King had managed to walk in to my humble abode, aside from a miracle, I’d have forgiven him over Lucille and I guess it’s ok with boats, but don’t ask me to explain.

Bleedin’ fruit loop. Down on his luck and wants to sell “Her”, some high end limited edition Martin acoustic. Doesn’t believe in filthy lucre or profit, but wants Her to go to a good home, as long as top dollar crosses his grubby palm.

My head’s yelling “Just fuck off and get a job” but my legendary people skills instantly kick in, like a well oiled machine. I nod benignly, like a scheming serial killer, agree on the difficulties of holding down a full time job while practicing the guitar 10 hours a day and trying to establish the true value of a luthier built guitar to the right person. And of course it must only go to the right person he labours.

Finally he leaves, having consumed a whole precious hour of my life that I can never get back, like some parasitic leach feeding off goodwill and bonhomie. We’ve just got fucking bags of that in here….. come and suck it up why don’t you while I try and earn a crust.

Apparently the older I get the less tolerant I become, yet we are all supposed to mellow with age. Why ?????? Don’t you just find you suddenly know loads of stuff, having maybe trudged the planet for nearly sixty years and then no fucker takes any notice of you what so ever! “Shut up Grandad you daft old get, get back in your box and put that bloody guitar down”.

Of course younger readers won’t have a clue what I’m on about. Bastards. Young people. Don’t even change their guitar strings these days.

I’m from the School of Realism. Don’t stand there bleating about your lot. Do something about it. If not for yourself do it for some one else, there’s lots of genuine people who need help.

I’m happy to help, but make an effort for fuck’s sake. I reckon my generation have shot it given a few more years. A new generation who can’t use a tin opener on the way up, in charge of us old codgers, sat in wing-back chairs, drooling. Brings me back round to Soylent Green, don’t need a tin opener for that stuff. We’ve covered that before in a previous rant, look it up & watch the movie.

We are evolving too quickly and becoming independent younger, but not in the true sense. Gone are the family values & support. I’m not talking all Thatcher’s loathsome bile here. There’s no inter-dependence, team work, symbiosis. Some cultures still have it. My local Postmaster, let’s call him Mr Singh, and his family, work their bloody socks off and always with a smile and pleasant quip. Six and a half days a week, 7 – 7 on a full day. Shipping Mastery Bridges for me. Shining examples of the work ethic and pulling together, not like us true Brit’s. Younger generations buried in digital trivia and trash, too busy to load the dishwasher, forging a solo career with a big bunch of electronic Friends in tow.

I watched Trainspotting 2 recently. The monologue, Choose Life, sums it all up brilliantly. Google that.

I reckon Danny Boyle knows the score. Hope I end up in my bath chair sat next to him.

Which brings me smartly round to Donald Trump – miss the connection? Don’t dwell on it. He has almost become a permanent headline, only out done by dreadful terrorist death and destruction. The man is fucking scary, like a shape shifter from hell. Taken over by some long dead loony alien and morphed in to human form with anatomical points of reference taken from The Simpsons, Zombie Flesh Eaters and one of those old Tango adverts (that’s the orange fizzy pop in case you forgot some nutter yelling “you’ve been Tangoed” on TV every night).

Except none of this is funny. Fucking giant head made out of orange putty. Plastic trophy hired bride, we all assume he’s not a great shag, so it must be something else….

What’s going to happen to all those Mexican Fenders when the wall is built ? Have I asked this before ? Will it be a brick wall ? It will need billions of bricks. Around sixty to the square metre. Just think of the ecological destruction, like Trump cares, digging out all that clay, energy for the kilns, huge concrete foundations, all the materials hauled 1000’s of miles.

To digress while we are on the subject of Mexican Fenders, I note all the really good old Fenders from the late 50’s – mid 60’s we have through the repair shop have Spanish names written inside them. Assembled by Mexicans even then one can conclude.

The USA will be completely overrun with itinerant bricklayers, a massive Auf Wiedersehen Pet, that should be a proper laugh. Buy shares in Spear & Jackson, nobody will ever meet the demand for trowels. I wonder who makes the ubiquitous green wheel barrow?

The Wall, potential for street art and self-expression is immense, miles of blank canvas. There’s a thought Mr Trump. Fortunately for you, you don’t get many Atlantic Crossings in a dinghy, sitting comfortably out of range. Here’s a short monologue for you –

Thousands of miles of dusty track, lorries, suffocation, thirst, fear, unknown, lost, desperate, hopeless terror, innocence, no turning back there’s a terrorist on my tail, blue green sea, freezing morass, deadly chocking embrace swallowing the spark of life in seconds. All for what?

If karma exists Donald Trump will be reincarnated as himself – like Ground Hog Day only forever.