afewwordsjan2011

A few words on the subject

A few words on January 2011

Good wotcha to all and everybody who joins me.

How the bejeezus was your January 2011? It’s Sunday afternoon where I am and there are but 35 short short hours until we hit February. This will be of little interest to anyone apart from

People who have given something up for January

That’s it

It’s a popular thing, the “I’m giving it up for January” habit. Folks normally do it with booze and/or fags. It’s a health thing I suppose, a detoxy whatnot after the excesses of the holiday season. Which really should be called The Christmas Season, but, as in all things, America has got their first and we can’t possibly upset those who don’t believe in the sweet baby Jesus. People like me, I suppose. Hmn.

Anyway, to those who can see the numbing dull-witted woozy boozy stained teeth headachey joys of wine and beer on the horizon after a long January, I salute you. And I hope you get the screaming timpani of a hangover you crave and deserve on Wednesday morning.

Been a quiet week here at Lake Wobegone to be honest. I did however want to bore you with a brief yet pedantically tedious observation about the cast of “Friends” which, 10 o’clock Live Satire Fans, you will note is precisely 17 years after it was topical. Oh yes. The cuttingest of cutting edginess. Nurse, an Elastoplast.

Okay here it is. The show is called “Friends”, right? Not, you’ll notice “Colleagues.” The reason for this is clear to me. The only folk who will put up with this spoilt, insufferable bunch of self-obsessed scheming, status-craving, whiny egotists are the 5 people who orbit around them. They are almost all disliked by their bosses and workmates– be they chefs, office workers, buyers, actors or masseurs. I don’t think any of them have EVER been invited for a drink after work. Or if they have been, they are the bunch of suspicious and creepy types who go for one, and then get their coat to go and spend their Fridays with their “real” friends. Freaks.

The reason for this is clear, if you have ever spent valuable time you don’t have pouring over the evidence. Like, uhm, I have. The explanation lies within a close look at the “hidden” lyrics of the 6 twitknuckled gurning shriekers anthem. To whit: I’ll Be There For You, by The Rembrants.

(Aside: okay, my spell check has underlined this because I’ve clearly not spelled it right. So now I’m off to Wikipedia to find out where I’ve gone wrong...)

Fuckinell, the song’s got its own Wikipedia page. Jesus. *

Okay, so The Rembrandts. Fuck it.

Now we all are achingly familiar with the short “TV” version of the song, but those foolish enough to:

Optimistically purchase The Rembrandts album “LP”

Purchase the CD - Songs from “Friends”

Not turn off the Single Version played on summery drive-time listen-at-work fm radio by arsewits of the “Mark & Lard” variety.

will know there is an EXTRA verse. Oh yes. It occurs on the single version at 0:47secs.

Oh, a quick note to the millions who, inspired by the plaid-shirt harmony college-rock boxy-snare garage sound of the Friends theme, went out and spent hard earned quids on the Rembrandts platinum-selling album “LP:” Rubbish, eh?

A longer note: Bar none, everyone who got this from Our Price and hurriedly scuttled home to bung it on a Saisho CD player was crashingly disappointed that – “IBTFY” aside – the rest of the album is unadulterated crapsticks from track 1 “End Of The Beginning” to track 14 “The Other Side Of Night.”

How did this happen? Well, you twerps, it’s because the song you all bought it for was not a solo Rembrandts effort. It was in fact, trivia bunnies, written by Friends producers David Crane and Marta Kauffman, Kauffman's husband, composer Michael Skloff, and songwriter Allee Willis, with Rembrandts alumi Phil Sōlem and Danny Wilde as a mere jobbing co-writing credit. In fact The Rembrandts only recorded after it was turned down by similar plaid-shirt harmony college-rock boxy-snare garage soundalikes They Might Be Giants and R.E.M.

So there.

Oooh, that reminds me. R.E.M. Wanted to talk about them in a minute. Will get to that.

So, this hidden single-version non-telly verse that some of you might know, starts thiswize:

“You’re still in bed at ten, and work began at eight.

You’ve burned your breakfast – so far, things are going great...”

Right. So, okay, at first glance we have more of the same “jeez, ain’t life as a mid-twenties spoilt independently wealthy sexually alluring Jewish New Yorker a real fucking ditzy struggle.” Okay. I know that if I’m going to gripe about this, then I’ve sort of missed the point of the show. I’m not. The show has had highlights and genuinely funny moments. Almost all exclusively Ross. I’m thinking:

The Leather Pants: “It’s making a paste!”

The Holiday Armadillo: “The Maccabees!”

His failed nickname: “The Rossatron!”

Everything he does on his keyboard.

I could go on.

But the evidence I put before the court is what these lyrics mean. Let’s look at them:

“You’re still in bed at ten, and work began at eight.”

Right. So you’ve overslept. Probably something to do with the 9 double espressos and the four pints of latte plus double choc muffins you had at midnight, idiot. But okay, not too loathsome. Hell, we’ve all done it.

The problem arises at the next key point in the sketch:

“You’ve burned your breakfast – so far, things are going great...”

I’m sorry? What the fuck?

You were due in at work at 8. Let’s say it takes you a hurried 10 mins to get ready and 20 mins to get to work. You should have been up at 7.30, at the fucking latest.

But it’s 10am, and you’re still in bed. Your colleagues have been covering your ass, doing your work, sitting about in meeting rooms, awaiting instructions, rehearsals, WEENUS inputtage, lectures and massages for 2 hours.

So you’ve got up and – what – grabbed a cab and arrived, sweaty, unkempt and understandably apologetic?

No. No, you selfish fuckers, you’ve got up at 10 and started making a COOKED BREAKFAST.

Get the FUCK out of your flat and get to work, you cunts. Enough with the coffee perculators and eggs Benedict.

GO TO FUCKING WORK.

It’s no wonder everyone but their cosy clique loathes them.

Okay, so I got that off my chest.

I’ve kept you long enough. But as I said, a quick mention of REM whom my dear brother has pointed out are frankly rather kings of the “Backing Vocal” anthems we discussed last week. Now I am willing to concede that this might just be a male Asplin thing, and I’m sure you’ll correct me, but Stipe, Berry, Buck and Mills are responsible for some of the best harmony-lines, descants (or “high bits” to the uneducated) of the last 20 years. Need I give a better example than:

Stipe: “If you belieeeve, they put a ma-hann on the –

You: “Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaan, oh-hon the moooooooo, (man-on, man-on, hweerrr-herrrr...)”

Ahhh, marvellous.

Also thanks to Helen’s addition of Abba’s Super-Trooper for the tracklist.

ABBA: Soo-hoo-per, troo-hoo-per, lights are gonna find you, shining like the –

You: Soo-pah-pahhh, troo-pah-pahhh.

Excellent. Still looking for more of these, people. Stick them in the guest book.

Okay, that’s it for today. Get back to work. You were meant to start at 8, and look, it’s 10 already. And you haven’t even had pancakes.

Love to all

*But then so does – for Chrissakes people – Rachel Green’s fucking HAIRCUT. Oh I’ve been a bit sick in my mouth.

A few words on August 2009

A few words on September 2009

A few words on October 2009

A few words on November 2009

A few words on December 2009

A few words on January 2010

A few words on February 2010

A few words on March 2010

A few words on April 2010

A few words on May 2010

A few words on June 2010

A few words on July 2010

A few words on August 2010

A few words on cannibalism, yale locks and 2010

Sat 15th Jan 2011

A few words on Sept-Dec 2010

Hello.

Right, so I’m standing outside my workplace in Her Majesty’s Borough of Kinsgton Uponst Thames, or wherever the hell it is. And I’m having a cigarette. Can’t imagine why. I expect it’s a combination of the following:

There is exactly 1 Camel-Lights worth of time between now and an appointment I have.

I’m avoiding doing a crashingly dull piece of admin work, like typing something up or compiling a list of staff objectives. Something using the word “strategies” anyway.

I’m addicted to nicotine.

One of those. So there I am. Loitering in the smoking area (an area exactly the same as every area around the building, apart from the addition of a flimsy, buckled and rusty stained ashtray bolted to the wall. Always jammed with bent cigarette boxes and folded up crisp packets. Often belching out smoke from an unstubbed Richmond Superking – popular brand, Kingstonway).

God this story is taking longer than planned. Happy New Year, by the way.

So picture me, if your feeble stomach can manage it: black brogues, black suit, white shirt, black tie, silver tie-clip and a particularly shiny quiff, courtesy of a good wash and a slick application of Black & White hair pomade. Yes, pomade. Fuck off.

Outside with me, as I freeze my knuckles off attempting to enjoy a methodically slow death via tar poisoning, are two other chaps, also lying to themselves about the soothing power of tobacco. Europeans of some description. We have many varied a colourful cultural rainbows in our firm. Spanish, Portuguese, German, French, Finnish, Danish – you name it, if the popular sitcom “Mind Your Language” offended them, we hire ‘em. One of these chappies turns to me and is prompted to say something along the lines of:

“I like your look. Your style. I like it.”

Now I do get this from time to time, a by product of spending longer in the bathroom than a Brett Easton Ellis character in the mid 1980s, and taking a certain foolish care over affecting a certain whatnot. “Thank you, that’s very kind,” I say with a respectful nod and odd sort of “cheers” motion with my cigarette. People don’t clink cigarettes and say “cheers” enough. Or, indeed, at all. In fact. Hmn.

Which is fine. Until the chap then adds. “ It’s great. Fine Young Cannibals.”

I mean what? I insert a link to a photo of said 1980s pop funk outfit, hit including (and pretty much not including anything else) “Johnny, Won’t You Come On Home” or some such “NOW album” bothering drivel.

Twerp.

Anyway, how ya been? I haven’t bothered your inbox for a month or so, I know, and I have had numerous (two) enquiries about my absence. I have no explanation for my quietitude (Mircosoft gives me no spelling suggestions for that one), beyond Christmas parties and hangovers and starting a new and much better novel. More news on that another time.

But, you’re itching to know what the hell David Gedge is banging on about in his Wedding Present hit “Nobody’s Twisting Your Arm” I expect, so it’s a good thing I came along.

The never popular Sean W Keavney stuck on this bit of 1980s plattered gold on his BBC 6 Music breakfast show a morning or two ago. As ever I had the choice of getting up and going to work or listening to it for 3 and a half minutes, which is no choice at all when it comes to such a “grapper” filled noisy guitar single. (Joke for one person, there. Hope he enjoys it).

And as I lay there, pondering the lyrics, something occurred to me. Here is the lyric in question, see if you can spot what stopped me mid yawn-duvet moment and had my face all screwed up like a half finished Wether’s Original:

“Oh well that's fine

I don't care anymore

Nobody's twisting your arm.

Here's the key

There's the door

I don't love you anymore”

That’s the final chorus. A bitterbitter song about the end of a teenage relationship – the sort of loud guitar angst filled rant that made up most of my musical tastes at the age of 16 or so. And if you don't believe me, you can ask all the girlfriends I had back then. Which are none. Which rather eruditely proves my point I’d say.

I’m saying this. He doesn’t love her anymore? He’s saying she can leave. And, the point he’s making is, nobody’s twisting her arm. Right? Really David? You don’t care? You’re not putting her under any pressure?

Then let me ask you this: Why does she need the key in order to leave?

Hmm?

Yes, she need the key because you’ve locked her in your house, you creepy stalking Fritzl-based mentalist.

Not twisting her arm? Oh contraire, David dear.

Which of course, not in the least bit neatly, brings us to my much lauded (hmm, Microsoft suggests: Ignored; belittled, pointless, derivative, ill-informed) Review Of The Year.

Yes, you won’t recall, for you live happy, fulfilled and busy friend-filled lives, but about this time last year I gave you my predictions for 2010. I expect you’re fascinated to know my hit rate – how many came true and how much were wayyyy, wayyyyyy off. Hell, I might even bung in some thoughts about this year. Or I might get bored and not do that. It’s 6:10pm on Saturday and I’m peckish. So we’ll see what happens. Righto, eyes down, here we go...

POLITICS

“Is it so terribly defeatist to say that I believe James Cameron, or whatever his name is, will be the new Prime Minister.”

Ker-ching! One for one. He did it. Granted with the help of Jake The Clegg and his ever malleable position on student fees. But he’s in. And we already want him out. Don’t we? Or is it me? Well it is me, obviously. But I think you also. Not that I’m craving Milliband action. It’s just that, as I read in an excellent book last week, British politics offers 2 choices every 4 years. Same or different? Who wants the same? Different is better. So we get that. And then? Well, you get the idea.

FASHION

“Some sort of new women’s shoe contraption (part shoe, part flip flop / part shoe, part dress) will rear it’s head... and then they’ll become the must-have item in Top Shop this summer.”

Yep, I’ll have that one. Someone wore a heel-less high heel this year. Here’s a picture.

“That page in the Guardian magazine where they claim to have a style for all ages will continue to only look good on the 19 year old size 6 model and the two grannies will continue to look fucking ridiculous.”

You gonna argue with me here?

“No new men’s ideas will arrive.”

Yep. Thanks for that, people of Milan. And don’t try and give me longjohns underwear. You never seen Back To The Future Back III? Another arid year of accessories. Here’s to another 365 days of shirts and ties.

“The 90s will make a comeback.”

Ha. Did it again. This is getting a bit frightening, isn’t it? It’s like the last moments of a Derren Brown stage show. Can’t move for plaid shirts and boots. This year? No idea frankly.

MONEY

“The novelty of the recession will wear off. The idea of being poor and unemployed and in debt and pension-less in a value-less house will get thoroughly boring by February.”

Erm, okay. Although, I didn’t actually say it would be over. Just we’d be bored of it. Which we are. So half a point I think. Hardly a Kreskin-level bit of foresight (look it up), agreed. I do predict a horrid year this year, inspired by something I heard a Conservative economics spokesman say on the news about the VAT increase. “You will still be seeing regular pricing on the high street. £4.99, £5.99, £6.50. The increase won’t lead to prices like £5.17 or £9.21.” No, of course it won’t, Mr Spokesman. No shop is going to change a £4.99 price to £5.17. Fuckers will just round it up to £5.99. Tch.

SCIENCE

“Don’t hold you breath for any of the following as, yet again, we ain’t getting them: hover-boards; a colony on the moon; flying cars; jet-packs; meals in a small capsule; silvery all-in-one suits; hologram televisions; teleporting machines; memory implants of foreign holidays; robot butlers; printer errors that are easy to fix.”

Tah-dahh! Did you see any of these on Amazon? Of course not. Thanks boffins. I supposed we have 3D TV, now. Which is great, if you want to watch “Clash Of The Titans” twice a day. Which I don’t. Still gotta wear the big black framed over-sized tinted ridiculous looking specs though. It’s going to be a while until that’s how I want to spend an evening. Unlike Tim Burton and Bono presumably.

SPORT

“The World Cup will take over every TV channel, ad break, product, radio station, pop song and torso and will be won by a country that isn’t this one and will bore intelligent people to tears - see also, The Winter Olympics, Formula 1 and cricket.”

Ooh, six and a half out of seven so far. It was tedious wasn’t it. I mean, really though. (Of course, if you enjoyed it, you’re a thickheaded testoseroney screaming hot-dog stuffed terrace bothering dundertwunt so I win either way).

Are there any sporting events this year? I know there is some Olympic crap in 2012. Which will become infamous for a terrorist atrocity or a drug scandal or a fucking tube-strike rather than anything else, as is the British way. Oh, Wimbledon will be tedious and won by someone who’s won it already.

ARTS

“Nobody “tipped to be big” in 2010 by a newspaper will amount to anything.”

Er, okay. What I should have done is made a list last year. This is rather difficult to measure. Wait! I have the internet. Gimme a second...

Okay! Answer me this, did you buy any records by or read anything about these guys after Jan 3rd 2010? The Vauxhalls; Genetic Ear Mouse; Plaything; Scott Franklin; Kill Her Gently; Singapore Swing; Kelly Dubz or Pipebomb?

No, of course not. Point made. Point to me.

“Somebody very famous but too young to die, will die due to “pain-killers.”

Yep, I’ll take either Corey Haim or Brittany Murphy for this one.Point each? Oh all right.

Same for this year, obviously.

“There will be a breakout indie movie hit with the word Sunshine or Smiley or Happy in the title.”

Erm. Fuck. Not one, as far as I can see. I am annoyed now, as this is the one I thought I would walk. God bless anyone with more patience and search-engine skill who can find a movie that falls into this category. Arses. Thought I nailed it.

“A very big rock group will release an over-produced seminal album that isn’t as good as their old stuff.”

Awww dammit. Losing streak. What happened to The Stones? US? Radiohead? Pink Floyd? Led Zep? Lazy fuckers. Don;t they realise my reputation is at stake here?

“ Every movie that breaks the $200m box-office mark will be a sequel.”

Yeah. Do you really need the list? Toy Story, Iron Man, Sex & The City? (Avatar was 2009 technically, pedantoheads).

"Something controversial will happen in the art world to do with taste or boundaries or children and a fuss will be made instead of just sending the artist to bed for being “tired and showing off.”

Took a search, but another point for me there. Idiot.

FOOD

“No new food groups will be created. However this will not stop 358,000 new cookbooks, celebrity chefs or TV cooking shows happening. Nor will it stop Masterchef co-host Gregg Wallace agreeing with everything Turode says and saying he’d “happily stick his face in” whatever chocolate dessert is put in front of him.”

And that’s another 2 points.

Okay gang, have kept you long enough. And have proved confidently my Nostrodamus like abilities. The fact that I completely made up The Vauxhalls; Genetic Ear Mouse; Plaything; Scott Franklin; Kill Her Gently; Singapore Swing; Kelly Dubz and Pipebomb should in no way diminish this. Ahem.

Nice to be back. See you soon munchkins

A few words on specs, fees and leaves being brown

Sat 22nd Jan 2011

Well a tremendous hello to everyone who joins us this afternoon where I am or whenever the hell it is where you are. Not much to keep you with this week. My observation, philosophical and basic awareness skills have been much negated by being unable to stay awake much and creeping off to bed at 9.30pm most nights to curl up with a chapter or two of a Stephen King before beddy-snooze.

Howe’er...

One thing did have me bolt stark upright awake, glaring, eye-rubbing in mock panto-style disbelief on a train platform on Tuesday.

I was heading t’ward Holborn for my weekly Lindyhop lesson and, as is my way, was trundling up an Underground platform awaiting an Edgware bound northern-line train. I don’t know quite why I walk slowly up the platform on these occasions. Once in a while – and having no ability to accurately empathise, I imagine you’re the same – I know pre-fucking-cisely where the exit is at an Underground stop so can strategically position myself in the right carriage to glide balletically out upon its arrival. For example, if you’re at Kingston, heading to Vauxhall on Southwest rail, you want the get the middle door of the second carriage after the awning. This brings you – bosh – right to the Vauxhall exit for a speedy scuttle home, pondering life, the universe and whatever garishly camp nite-time show the Vauxhall Tavern is advertising on its huge gay hoarding.

Anyhap, that’s very much a by-the-by because as I say, on Tuesday last I was on the platform at Waterloo with no idea where the exits were at Leicester Square, so just dawdling up the platform, i-podded head full of whatever it was I was listening to. Most likely a bit of Morrissey, as I’m revisiting his work recently.

So what do I spy on the platform that had me all of a giddy shiver and a gawping gasp? It was the poster for a new movie entitled “Morning Glory.” It’s an “hilarious” comedy about an ailing American network Breakfast show. The capable but crashing-dull-interview-subject Harrison Ford (does he still sport that earring? I don’t know) plays the greying anchorman, some late twenties skinny Hollywood popsie plays a go-getting assistant or some such hogcrap. Jeff Goldblum has a small role in which, I’m guessing, he pauses and twitches and shouts and makes creepy libidinous hand gestures. But there, on the poster, sat on the desk, is the tremendously lovely Diane Keaton.

Dawww. Diane Keaton. She’s like America’s Julie Walters. Utterly brilliant in everything, no matter how bad it might be and certainly a reason to tune in to a movie or TV show you might otherwise ignore. Annie Hall, Play It Again Sam, Manhattan, The Godfather, Father Of The Bride, First Wives Club – who doesn’t love the Keatster?

Well there I was admiring the shiny smiley face of everyone’s favourite quirky oddball mother-figure, when – peering closer to the photo, I realised they had digitally removed her spectacles.

Hardly world-crashing news, I concur. However what they’ve done is left her with the metal nose bridge bit and the metal arm attachment edges, to give the illusion of those “frameless” clear glass type specs popular among architects and people from Norway. But lean close and you’ll see that they have completely removed the lenses from the photo. So she is plain faced, apart from three gold metal bits oddly stapled to her nose and temples like a peirced mumsy Camden Goth on her way to a Korn gig. Take a look. Freaked me out, I tell you.

In fact, freaked me out in exactly the way that the song “California Dreaming” by The Mamas & The Papas doesn’t.

Great record, huh? Very much a singalong drivetime radio classic. But it’s unusual in the sense that it’s one of those songs who’s backing-vocals are more memorable than the lyrics.

Picture it. You’re driving along in a 3 years interest free Ford Mondeo, perhaps a motorway service station mini pork-pie on your passenger seat, and David “The Pensioner” Jensen bungs it on. That familiar opening opens and you wriggle a bit in your seat, knowing you’re going to sing a long a bit.

But do you sing along with the lead singer, as you might do to Bono, Elton John or Clive Mantle? No. You wait ‘til the singer (Mama or Papa, I don;t know which) starts:

“All the leaves are –

And then you launch into the backing vocal at the top of your lungs:

“Aaaall the leeeeaves are Brown.”

And so it goes on.

Mama: “And the sky-y is grey –

You: “And the sky is greyyyyyyyy.”

Mama: I went for a –

You: I went for a waaaaaaaalk...

The backing is much much more fun to sing than the actual melody. Odd that. Well not odd, perhaps. But a perculiar phenomena. I’ve been trying to think of other “Backing Classics” to put on a playlist. Another obvious entry would be Abba’s “Take A Chance On Me.”

“If you change your –

It takes a stronger man than me not to start chugging away with the:

“Takeachancetakeachancetakeachickkachancechance...”

If anyone else has any particular backing classics, please add them to the comments page and let’s see if we can get a top 10.

Finally, I guess many of us tuned hopefully into Channel 4’s “10 O’Clock Live” on Thursday to see what the hundred squillion pound marketing and publicity hype machine budget was banging on about. What did you think?

Me, and I know this is just me? I had a few problems with it:

The Live-ness is a pointless gimmick. Surely the ONLY point of a live news-satire show is to keep the jokes

fresh and contemporary and up to the minute. Sarah Palin, Global warming, Jeremy “cunt” Hunt and student

fees however are hardly cutting edge issues of the day.

The braying studio audience are a pointless distraction. Newswipe and Screenwipe didn’t have them and were

all the more impactful for it.

Why does Connie Huq let Charlie Brooker leave the house with that haircut?

An interview is only really an interview if it’s

Long enough to do in depth on relevant issues

Actually a conversation, as apposed to an opportunity for a comic actor to deliver pre-rehearsed

funny lines about the topic from a sheet of paper, no matter what the interviewee might be saying

I did laugh though, at a few bits, which is more than can be said for almost anything else on television at the moment, so I’ll be sticking with it and hoping they calm it down a little.

Interestingly, the peice with Universities Minister did get me thinking about this tricky issue of University fees. I will share, oh so briefly, my thoughts. Or I might just hurl a fire extinguisher at a policemen and hope that makes the same point. (Now THAT's satire).

There is this idea that low-income, non-university members of the public should not have to pay for others to go to university, as the university-educated types are likely to earn more money upon their graduation and can therefore – as they will be the sole beneficiaries – afford to pay back the fees themselves.

Okay, two points on this, and then I’ll leave you alone.

Those further educated, benefitting from the pecuniary advantages of a degree, will surely end up paying more

tax as they are in a higher income bracket. So they, more than the low income non-uni-types, will be

contributing more to the cost of their education via this. Ultimately, paying back – albeit in more gradual

and less transparent instalments – the cost of their education.

The idea that low income families shouldn’t have to have their taxes spent on something THEY DON’T

SPECIFICALLY BENEFIT FROM is cockwash of the highest order. Some of the tax I pay to the

government every month presumably goes to keeping the street lights on in Hull. Or paying for bins to be

collected in Nantwich. Or for the West Wittering fire-brigade to have safety equipment. I don’t

PERSONALLY benefit from any of these. But the country does. And the population as a whole does. And

everybody’s life – throughout the land – is just that little bit better, easier, cleaner and safer.

Hell, if you want to convince me that the UK would be a worse place if its young people had been taught

how to understand History, Art, Poetry, Economics, Photography, Film or Dance in their formative years

(and benefitted from the life experiences and social lessons full-time higher education offers), that’s fine. Fill

yer boots. Twit.

Personally a country where all the Universities are turned back into vocational Polytechnics (which is

essentially what seems to be being suggested) and everyone comes out with a “trade” might be heavenly if

you need a plumber. But as someone smarter than me once said:

"medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry,

beauty, romance, love? These are what we stay alive for."

Love to all

A few words on annual abstinence, men on moooons and being there for idiots

Sun 30th Jan 2011