Andy's Glasses

I would never buy a bright pink bike. Even though there’s probably feminists and certainly ‘trans-activists’ lining up right now to accuse me of some kind of ‘rape!’ just for saying that. But I would ride on one. At least the lorries might see the fucking thing. But I didn’t buy it. It’s currently one of a kind. The (soon to be) first electric bike rental in London. And the rental company was bought by Uber so I was brung one to play with. All I had to do was tell the bike’s security system that my name was ‘Moh’ and it let me ride. Uber rule.

And I’ve never previously ridden an electric bike, but it is fun. And more importantly… or possibly more problematical from an obesity/exercise perspective, it is totally effortless. In a wonderful, surprisingly powerful kind’a way. You just touch the pedals, pretending that you want to, errr, pedal, and it just zooms off from under you. You keep up some nominal pretence at pedalling and it just does all the hard work for you. You appear to have legs of steel whereas in fact the bike’s battery (good for 20 hours apparently, and topped up by a weeny solar panel on the back, just to appease the Greens and other non-binaries) just does all the work. And more. Because its fast. Basically its a motor-bike without an exhaust pipe. And consequently without the need for all that regulation shit and helmet rubbish and licensing nonsense.

Available early next year apparently for just a few quid a trip, probably. Wonderful.

Football is all about schadenfreude. It’s about really enjoying the fate, misfortune and tragedy of all the teams that you don’t exactly ‘not like’ but just wish bad things upon. Which is essentially all of them other than your own.

So when the front page of the Times runs a piece about Abramovich’s ‘money laundering and crime links’, its not only funny but also possibly explains why he’s never sued me (he is a very litigious person generally) for making precisely those accusations numerous times over the years of his reign. Also because he doesn’t know I exist, perhaps. Nice to be validated.

And best of all, we all love to see Manchester United lose and Morinho squirm. Both of which occurred simultaneously last night as the reds crashed out of the Meaningless Cup to Derby County. But only after yet another public spat between Jose and Paul Pogba. The French ‘superstar’ (when it suits him) blamed the manager for inhibiting the team when they failed to beat Wolves on Saturday. Everyone else pretty much blamed Pogba for losing the ball and not making any efforts to win it back. Plus ca change. So Jose said that he would never make Pogba the captain; he’s unworthy, not for playing in his lacklustre manner but for speaking to the press about such things. Just like, errrr, his, errrr, manager does all the time. But such nonsense destabilises a team, upsets the players, causes aggro in the dressing room. Pogba’s a stupid player, knows no better. Morinho is not stupid, possibly why he was never really ‘a player’, and should know better. If nothing else but from his vast experience of fucking things up by attacking his own players publicly.

Frank Lampard is 57.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I would never willingly, knowingly, consciously, ‘watch’ an awards show. Not the Oscars, Grammys, Emmys, Dog-of-the-year show or even Footballer of the Year. Of which there seem to be about 9. The BBC one, the viewers one, the FA one…

It’s not that I’m opposed to ranking a group of peers on the merits of dubious criteria, or by some critically accepted body of work. Frankly, I couldn’t give a shit. But I just don’t like the format. Some smug Harry, or indeed Harriet, stands up and ‘compares’ a heap of nothing, often actually becoming the show itself, as Billy Crystal did at the Oscars for so many years. As Ricky Gervais did in such controversial style that no-one wanted to see who won ‘best actor in a semi-comedic, quasi-thriller part played by a person or persons of the contradictory gender’ because it interrupted the flow of the stand-up routine.

But last night after the news, as I was putting the sword to the last 2 clues on the Evening Standard crossword (the ‘easy’ one, obvs.), the FIFA World Football Magnificent Award Ceremony! For Magnificent Footballers came on. One minute it wasn’t, the next, it started. And Idris Elba took centre stage.

I love Idris Elba. Even though he’s not going to become the first slightly ethnic James Bond. He’s a great actor and a wonderful director. But a ‘stand-up’ he ain’t. Not that he didn’t really try to be funny. But that just made it worse. And for an actor who, presumably, learns lines for a living, whole speeches, soliloquies even, he really had trouble stringing his relatively straightforward sentences together.

But I forgave him because they kept showing goals being scored, saves being made, celebrations by French people and other ‘items of interest’. Everyone was there. Mbappe, Luka Modric, Zidane, fat Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Gareth Southgate, the Didiers, Drogba and Deschamps, everybody in football. And Dani Alves wife. OMG, Dani Alves wife.

When actors win awards they gush. They cry, they scream, they talk for 45 minutes about losing their virginity in high school, how their children’s love of cream cheese inspired their performance, all sorts of total bollocks.

When footballers win prizes they do so as Robots-in-a-second-language. “I’d like to tank my tim, my man-ger, my vife and my kids for dis ting wot you give me. Good bye night.”

It was embarrassing. It was cringe-worthy. All these fantastic, esteemed superstars, revered and worshipped, and none of them have anything to say. All held together by Idris, who had loads to say but stumbled over the words whilst saying it.

Even Gareth Bale’s overhead kick couldn’t keep me watching.

Tank you and good day-night-time.

A xxxx

No-one knows the Labour party’s position on Brexit. Labour don’t know the Labour party’s position on Brexit. Kier Starmer, the shadow Brexit minister, or ‘old dead eyes’ as I like to think of him, continuously maintains that they’d just ‘negotiate a much better deal’ without actually mentioning what that might entail. And certainly never ever broaches the somewhat more tricky subject of whether ‘Europe’, as we call ‘it’, would accept this offer, which they doubtless wouldn’t.

So Labour may now, having consistently said they wouldn’t, consider a ‘second referendum’ on the terms of Brexit. But here’s the problem, particularly for Jeremy Corbyn.

Many issues are party political issues. Fox hunting. Very tory, wouldn’t get much support from Labour. Workers rights. Very Labour, the Tories would oppose a lot of it. Shooting peasants in the countryside. Reducing the tax on vintage champagne. Nationalising the entire country including the rail networks and Goldman Sacks. These are all very party political things.

Brexit isn’t. There are both sides in both the main parties. We don’t need to count the Lib Dems because they are numerically insignificant. And UKIP is a synonym of ‘Brexit’ and they’ve shot their load and gone into hibernation.

And this division inside the parties is Theresa May’s problem, obviously, in that she can’t get any proposals that please both sides. For Jeremy Corbyn its harder still. Because the Labour Party Members are very pro-remain whereas a vast majority of Labour voters are pro-Brexit. Brexiteers don’t want a second referendum, whatever it may say. If I’ve heard ‘leave means leave!’ once I’ve heard it a million times. They won the referendum, let democracy work.

So at their conference in Liverpool this week, the members will decide whether a second referendum will be supported by Labour. And they’ll probably decide to back the idea. Whereas outside the conference the Labour supporters will resent the fuck out of their party for doing that. And Jeremy Corbyn can’t win an election with just the party members.

Len McLusky, the third arm of the devil’s horns (yep, I just awarded the devil a third horn in the interest of political metaphor) after Corbyn and McDonnell, is pragmatic enough to realise that by promising a second referendum it could actually cost Labour a general election should it happen. And McLusky is in lust with the idea of having a government in trade union hands. And as far as he’s concerned Europe can go or stay, whatever, as long as it doesn’t stop him getting POWER.

Interesting week to come. If you like chaos.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Let’s talk football. I wanna talk about football. I love football. It’s the best game ever, its the finest… thing, the most wonderful… other thing… I just love it!

So no prizes for guessing that Spurs won yesterday. In one of the most delightful performances (never saw a moment) and totally dominant play (not even a hilight), the magnificent Tottenham Hotspurs bested the Albion and Hoves from Brighton.

But what I actually realised was that this is actually still quite a new season. So every result can have quite a big impact on the league table. Burnley won yesterday and lifted from bottom place up to 16th. Spurs went from where they were to a little better. Ok, we overtook Bournemouth but that’s something. If we can overtake Watford too we’ll be sitting pretty.

Arsenal don’t count.

Chelsea may go back to top place today if they can beat West Ham. If. Not a big ‘if’, just a regular one. As Chelsea look positively fearsome and West Ham… don’t. In fact they look shitty, last week’s victory notwithstanding. I accept my view may be somewhat prejudicial because when I start ranking teams more horrible than Chelsea on any level, that team has a problem.

But the odd thing is; teams I really don’t like still do well sometimes. I just don’t understand it. Though I don’t mind Liverpool, ‘we’ have a history going back to Bill Shankley and the glory days, that doesn’t mean I want them to suddenly look invincible. We beat them soundly at Wembley last year. Doubtful we will this year. When you start banking on ‘its a funny old game’ and ‘anything can happen in football’, you know you’re in trouble. Liverpool saw off Southampton yesterday without really trying. Just as Manchester City annihilated Cardiff exactly as the script was written.

Because ‘big teams’ should beat ‘little teams’. How could it ever not be the case? That’s why they call them ‘big teams’. Because calling them ‘stinking rich, over funded, tax laundered, Billionaire play thing vanity projects’ is rude.

So where does that leave Manchester United? In the grand scheme of bigs and littles? They are the stinkingest of stinking rich (in terms of turnover and world following, rather than backing which has always been a bit strange under Glazer rule) and yet couldn’t beat lowliest Wolves at Old Trafford yesterday. Personally I blame Morinho. Mainly because I love to see him squirm and live for his melt-downs.

In the paper they asked whether at Spurs it was possible, having acquired no new blood in the transfer market, to expect the same 25 players to play basically at the absolute limits of their capabilities, for yet another year. With no drops in form (Harry Kane) or disputes (Toby Aldereiwield) or injuries (Hugo Lloris). And I think the answer is an emphatic ‘YES!’ Based on hope, unrestrained optimism and blind faith. Ok, and a modicum of stupidity. Because we won.

Happy shitty, rainy, dark, wet, lousy, no-tennis Sunday

A xxxx

When do you not mind the rain? Ok, when its nighttime and you’re in, that’s fine. ‘Good for the garden’. And the (only) other time is when you’re supposed to be playing tennis but can’t find anyone to play with. Then the rain’s good. Because you (errrr, or ‘me’, probably) don’t feel you’ve missed out. As is happening as I write this. Because Spurs Paul, my longest standing tennis accomplice of modern times is, broken. They just don’t make ‘em like they used to. And he’s out of warranty. Long out of warranty. So I’ve broke that player, can I get a new one? Not today, apparently. They’re all taking kids to uni (it must be ‘that’ weekend) or mowing a lawn, fitting a kitchen, out for brunch or some other lame and pathetic excuses. I’d rather they were honest and just said: ‘we just don’t like you any more and would rather get fat in front of the tv than spend an exhausting hour with you, you total nob-end’. I think Spurs Paul should just man-up and hobble round the court, whatever his team of surgeons advise to the contrary.

Because doctors don’t know much really. Take macular degeneration, f’rinstance. Horrible condition in the eyes that affects a lot of old people. Leaves them eventually blind or near so, like my own dad, who has some vision left but not a lot. They give a course of injections (don’t ask, but the answer is a gruesome ‘yessss!!!’) of which there are 3 choices. One costs over 500 quid a jab, the second costs 800 quid a jab and the third, which they don’t use, costs 25 quid a jab and is allegedly better. I say ‘allegedly’ because although the drug is licensed here, that license is for a cancer treatment, not an eye treatment so they’re not allowed to use it in eyeballs. In case… errrr… in case… well, in case it seriously affects the obscene profit margins of the companies making the first 2 drugs. Obviously. The savings to the NHS would be about 500 million a year. So not much really. ??????

The makers of the expensive drugs, Novartis and Bayer, took an NHS trust to court for using the cheaper alternative but the judge told them to fuck off. Ok, I’d have told them to fuck off, the judge actually said ‘piss off’.

And I mention this because its really not unusual for the NHS to be acting in a silly and careless way with our money. Every politician talks about how much more money they intend to ‘give’ (read: ‘piss away’) to the NHS because its so underfunded. But the problem is NEVER to just throw more cash. The problem is that there are probably 100 examples of using common drugs at massive expense where cheaper ones might even be more effective. And a hundred times 500 million is… such a lot of money that Boris’s stupid allegation of ‘350 million a week extra just for leaving Europe’ becomes even more ridiculous than it always sounded.

The NHS needs to be made more efficient in this and many other ways. Then we wouldn’t need to put in any more money, taxes would drop, we’d all be healthier and richer and would take more holidays, maybe paid for by the new, super-rich health service. Santa would bring the tickets and I think its time for my medication. The cheap stuff though, that’ll do nicely.

Happy (pill) Saturday

A xxxx

For the last two weeks the indoor pool at Mel’s gym has been closed for maintenance. Ok, not the end of the world, but a pain. Because she swims there 4 times a week doing on average 2km a day. So by now she’s 16km off where she should be. Which is like being in Brixton when you really should be at Oxford Circus. They do have an outside pool there too but Mel only likes swimming in that when its sunny, even though the water’s hotter than in the inside pool. She swam in it once but to be honest I’m never happy with her swimming there. And for the very reason that I read about today.

A woman and a girl have been attacked by a shark. Off the coast in Queensland, by the Barrier Reef. Which is definitely ‘outdoor’. And I know that Finchley is not quite Cairns but you just never know with sharks. They’re unpredictable and may pop in for a swim on their way to the Homebase store.

Meanwhile, how sorry do you feel for Theresa May? And how revoltingly horrible are those Euro-trash who are demonstrating, in the build up to our departure, why even staunch remainers like me are becoming almost pleased to be distancing ourselves from such horribly pedantic, inflexible, bureaucratic tossers as rule the Euro-roost over there.

Ms May’s ‘Chequers plan’ was summarily dismissed in Salzburg yesterday by Macron, Merkel, Tusk and the whole merry band of trumped up stuffed shirts. Ok, and stuffed blouses, where appropriate. These ‘leaders’ are insistent that they want ‘a deal’ with Britain, which they need as our trade with Europe is over 600 billion quid a year in both directions. That’s a helluva lot of customs checks. They maintain that they want a great working relationship ‘afterwards’. Yet are not prepared to move one pesky millimetre (itself a horrible French invention) towards any kind of compromise.

Not that the Chequers suggestions are exactly ‘universally acceptable’ over here either. It goes too far for most remainers and falls way short for all leavers.

Europe was never going to make departure easy or pleasant but they’ve really gone the extra mile on the ‘difficult’ front. In fact its more ‘impossible’. Making the ‘no deal’ deal the only one left on the table. Because the over-riding feeling you get after each and every attempt at negotiation, is just a big ‘FUCK VOUS!!!!’

Happy Friday

A xxxx

I fasted. Yesterday. Yom Kippur. The fast day. 25 hours, no food. Not a morsel. Then you go to someone’s house, in our case that of my brother, and eat 72 hours worth of food in 22 minutes. The 25 hours is the ‘rule’, the other statistics just mere testament to piggishness. The best piggishness you can ever get because, after the ‘deprivation’, there’s no guilt. Pile it high and eat it fast. Food never tastes better. You’re not supposed to drink anything either, but I kind’a ignore that. Because the fasting thing is symbolic and I’m opposed to literal interpretations altogether, but especially when they inconvenience me greatly.

The thing is, I have no idea why I fast. Ok, I’m a Jew and that’s what ‘they’ do on Yom Kippur, but I’m a cultural Jew, not a religious or in any way spiritual one. What is euphemistically known as a ‘chopped liver Jew’. Ironic term considering the debate in question. Because on that most sacred of days I become the ‘no-chopped-liver-jew’.

We are atoning for our ‘sins’. And everyone sins. Even Jesus sinned. Adam; the original sinner. Had sex with Eve, to produce children when they weren’t married. Couldn’t in fact marry because she was ‘created’ from his rib, making her, presumably, a genetically identical clone, other than the ‘bits’, obviously. And you can’t marry a clone. So sinning is normal.

But we don’t kind’a beat ourselves up over the insults, the slights, the nastiness, the road-rage, the dubious expenses claimed against tax or anything over the last year. We’re not Catholics. We’re not fasting as ‘punishment’.

The idea is that on Yom Kippur we enter such a spiritual state that we simply ignore our bodily demands. We’re just too busy being ‘up there’ with God to concern ourselves with mere physical functionality. Ok, the toilet is possibly an exception to avoid unwanted smells in the synagogue due to all the pissing angels. Other than that we don’t eat, we don’t drink, we’re not supposed to shower or shave or wax our legs (epilating is acceptable but not using electricity). We’re not allowed to rape anybody on Yom Kippur, nor start a fight with the rabbi. We leave our bodies and enter prayer and spirituality and… and… ommmmhhh…

Ok, we don’t meditate like that, we use unintelligible Hebrew instead, but same difference.

I like the message though. We have ‘sinned’ as every human does, but we’re going to improve next year. We make a plan to do that. And improvement is good. We can improve as a person. Because I don’t think home improvements count in the spiritual world.

And my personal improvement did indeed manifest itself for up to 45 seconds after the fast finished and I found myself driving behind a total tosser and had to let everyone in the car know. Sorry God, I’ll try harder next year. It’s just that if You’re so omnipotent why do You allow so many useless drivers on our roads? Just askin’…

Happy calm, relaxed, improved Thursday

A xxxx

I gotta new iPad. And I’m hating it already. If the ‘set up’ process’ doesn’t kill you then the added new features will drive you insane within 2 days. Plus the additional benefit of every time you press something new it wants to give you lectures, tutorials, videos, instructions and, basically TOO MUCH INFORMATION. It wants to spellcheck everything, which, even for a quasi-dyslexic like me is hateful. I reserve the right to invent new words and mis-spell whenever I frikkin want. A clever person would work out how to switch off the evil that is ‘predictive text’, whereas I just keep a hammer nearby in case it gets too much.

My old iPad was about 10 years old but still functioning. Unlike Mel’s ‘mini’ one which had suddenly refused to use its web browser in any meaningful way. Like ‘at all’. So we went to Brent Cross (Soddom and Gomorrah for the digital age) on Sunday to visit the Apple store. And it is the most horrible place on planet Earth. Every mother who goes shopping dumps their kids there to ‘play’. They could go to the little playground, but heh, iPads and laptops are much more fun. And involve much less movement.

There’s lots of Apple People (black shirts, logos, lanyards, earpieces, silicon chips where their eyes would normally be) so you ask one for help. “We want to buy 2 new iPads, a big one and a little one, please”. Almost smiling the woman says “do you have an appointment?” I thought she was joking. Firstly because there were at least a dozen black-shirted semi-bots milling around aimlessly (unless they were doing some kind of internal processing that lesser mortals don’t know about). And secondly because I didn’t need an appointment to buy shit in Marks and Spencers, nor Waitrose. “Ah but some of those are technicians and others engaged in… Apple shit, someone should be with you in about 10 minutes”.

We found a ‘miller’ who was quite nice and helpful and showed us our options. Which were severely limited. Severely. If you need a keyboard you need the iPad Pro!!!! Did you know that? The ‘pro’ is 300 quid more than the regular one and the keyboard is 160 quid on top. But the ‘pro’ offers a million brilliant advantages… that I will never use. Whereas a keyboard I use all the effin time. “Sorry, can’t help you”.

Despondent we went next door to John Lewis. Where they not only sell keyboards for Apple stuff that Apple don’t, because its not made by them, but they give you proper advice. So I bought last year’s model, because fits the keyboard case that is quite brilliant, all for (in Apple terms) virtually nothing. John Lewis keep slightly older stuff in stock, Apple don’t. Mel got a keyboard for her new mini one too. In case she should succumb to keyboard envy.

I’m still definitely not talking about football. Any football. And its Yom Kippur today, so I’m not allowed anyway. No food, no football. No f-words, in fact.

Happy Fast day (ok, re-think the f-word thing)

A xxxx

When you’re bored with New York, you’re bored with life. Can’t remember who said that but I’ll bet he was a New Yorker. Now the new one is: when you’re bored with Brexit, you’re bored with Brexit. So good they said it twice. Or so bad, as is the case. But its understandable. You would normally have 2 sides in any serious negotiation. In Brexit I’ve counted 34 sides. All with different agendas, all with different views of the withdrawal and all a bunch of tossers. Ok, 27 of those are the ‘member states’, so we’ll ignore them. Most of the disagreement is here, in the UK. We can’t agree on what we want so Theresa May has come up with the ‘Chequers plan’ which everyone else hates. And has basically said; take it or leave it. To Europe, to her cabinet, to Boris, to everyone.

Yet the lib-dems, and many others, want another referendum on ‘the terms of leaving’, for us, the common or garden voters, to agree upon. Because we did such a good job last time? Because we can trust our politicians to be frank, open and ‘transparent’ with the details and predictions??We need another referendum like the Pope needs Gary Glitter taking holy orders. The last one showed clearly that we’re not worthy to make such decisions and that our government aren’t fit to present one to us. Nor are the opposition.

But one little glimmer of ‘interesting’ appeared in my paper this morning. Michel Barnier, the Leading Foreign Bastard, has stated that any ‘deals’ and agreements made with Theresa May must be binding for the future leaders of our fine nation too, and mustn’t be ‘unpicked’ in the future. Oh, so its like a ‘deal forever’. And how brutally undemocratic is that? Or ‘how typically EU’, you could phrase it.

The whole essence of ‘dealing’ and governments is that everything remains dynamic. New deals improve things for the people, reduce costs, increase availability, new products arrive, businesses relocate, the entire political and business systems of the whole world depend on flexibility and changes for the good of all. And yet here’s Barnier saying that what’s done is done! Fini! Game over. What if Britain suddenly had a product that was unique and everyone in Europe wanted it, something totally British, like… like depression. Would HE not then want some kind of deal from US? Would we then have to say; ‘ah, but Michel, under the terms of departure in 2019, you prevented us from re-working any future deals’. I’d like that. You could actually reduce it to ‘FUCK YOU!!!’

And that’s it. I’m over Brexit. Even though Brexit itself is far from over. The only thing European I’m concerned with is the Champions League. Tonight. Inter Milan. Not in a happy place.

Good Tuesday

A xxxx

I really don’t want to talk about football. Even though I missed it last weekend, it can be so horrible as to be totally depressing. I’m looking forward to next season now. This one’s finished.

But I had a row the other day. At the Library. Where I take Lila for her nursery rhyme half hour. We love it there. All the carers get to sing all the nursery rhymes, with hand movements and actions, whilst Lila and the other kids get to run around throwing soft toys, oblivious to the grown-ups best efforts. And, as I mentioned the other week, the shit kicked off with the ‘wheels on the bus’, that most insidious, hateful, nasty, mysoginistic and evil of child-indoctrinating stereotyping.

So as we all sang ‘the mummies on the bus go ‘chatter, chatter, chatter’…’ one woman, a ‘newby’, which I can say as a veteran of 3 months nursery rhyme tyme, sang instead, rather loudly, and much more rather, smugly, ‘the DADDIES on the bus go ‘chatter…”. Oh my. Dissent in the ranks. A fenemissed. Which is like a feminist but one who TOTALLY MISSES THE FUCKING POINT.

Firstly I wanna know when ‘chattering’ became some term of abuse. Why is it insulting to ‘chatter’? The answer, of course, is that it isn’t. Its nothing. Another woman joined in. At which point the lovely lady who runs the show was put off and stopped. So I asked what was the problem. Which I learned was that chattering wasn’t uniquely feminine. Neither is farting, I didn’t say, but held back. The word, not the fart. “But all you’re doing is taking a completely innocent children’s entertainment and politicising it”. So the stupid woman started singing ‘the men and women on the bus go ‘chatter…” NOOOOOOO!!!! I exclaimed. ‘How terribly, horrendously, tragically binary is that??’ That shut the stupidly over-sensitive, looking-for-a-fight feminazi up totally as she had to reluctantly agree with my totally ironic and totally stupid comment because otherwise, having embarked upon the ruinously obsessive road to political correctness hell, there is no turning back.

The next day I read how Carrie Symonds has been vilified by the press in the next great act of misogyny. One possibly more serious even than the wheels on the bus debacle. Carrie’s the ‘researcher’ who ‘allegedly’ had a ‘close relationship’ with Boris Johnson. The fenemissed who wrote the article was pissed off by the lack of substance given to Carrie’s career in all the articles and how they should have applauded her 10 years of indeed great success in politics, never an easy place for a woman to thrive and succeed. Why didn’t they write about that? Her good work, her achievements?? Double standards, she proclaimed. If she’d been a man they’d have extolled her.

And if she’d been a man (or indeed, to continue the pc theme, ‘anything in between’) it would have been a different story for sure. But the story wasn’t about the career of the alleged affairee. It was about Boris the fat old ugly fuck shagging a young blonde. If she’d been a he it would have been almost the same but just another sordid arrow in Boris’s debauched quiver. (There’s a metaphor there if only I was clever enough to use it). The professional achievements required to share a bed with Boris (yeuch) aren’t very high, and certainly not relevant.

Feminism is still my hobby and devoted cause. That’s why I get so pissed off when people take it too far. At which point it becomes stupid and self-destructive.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx