Andy's Glasses

Must have been about 30 years ago. I took a call at work asking me to sponsor something for sick kids or contribute for ailing single-parents or donate to malnourished Africans or something. And I agreed. Sounded good. The charity had a good sounding name and this was not an uncommon occurrence. They said they’d send someone round to pick up the cheque the very next day. But before they arrived I had another call. From a journalist. Who’d just visited the charity’s office and happened to see the name of my company on the list there and called me. “Don’t give them a penny”, she said. “They’re dodgy, a sham, fraudulent, shitty, bottom-feeding, heartstring-plucking con-artists”. Ok.

The journo had in fact been investigating that very charity for her paper because although they were registered and seemingly kosher and everything a charity needs to be, only about 2% of the money raised ever found its way to the bisexual monoped beneficiaries or whoever they were. The other 98% was lost in ‘running the charity’. 6-figure salaries for the directors, a new Porsche every year, ‘business trips’, all expenses paid, to Barbados, Gstaad, Las Vegas.

And since then I’m the most totally cynical person about charities. All of them. Don’t trust them as far as I could fucking throw them. The original ‘Live Aid’ was the biggest success story ever. Bob Geldof raised millions to ‘feed the world’. But not one penny of it ever arrived. No-one, to this day, can work out where it went. Certainly didn’t get spent buying Bob a new wardrobe, scruffy git.

The problem is that I want to be charitable. Its one of the founding principles of the Jews, as it is with Muslims too. And although I’m about as observant a Jew as the Pope, some things, like charity and chopped liver are way deeper than mere praying to God knows who (I should rephrase that but I like it).

They’ve changed the rules now so charities have to be more ‘transparent’ but the CEOs of big organisations will earn big, or they wouldn’t move to the charity sector which needs their expertise. You can’t expect people to work for nothing. But I want to know when the focus on any ‘charity’ has moved from ‘them’ (the needy, the poor, the headline cause) to ‘us’ (those running it). And that is impossible to know.

And I hate Amnesty International and I hate Oxfam because both are overly politicised and blatantly anti-Israel (yes, you CAN be anti-Israel and NOT anti-semitic, but both those charities fail that difference test by any criterion you choose).

And now we learn that bosses at Oxfam are spending OUR money (from our taxes) and your money pledged on the street or in direct debits, on hookers and pornography. Which sounds morally worse than if it was on cars and beer, but its not. Its ‘your’ pleasure with ‘our’ money, whatever that money goes to.

And this is the problem with David Cameron’s wonderful gesture of giving away a massive slice of UK income to ‘overseas aid’. When you can bet at least 7/8ths of it never gets to feed the starving. Unless they’re using hungry hookers.

Give generously.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

The problem with Lila days is that on occasion I have to go to work. Which is very disruptive for Lila because it is undoubtedly her favourite day of the week. When she gets chocolate. Lolipops. Frosties. Hot dogs. And I let her drive the car. Well, ya gotta learn sometime. (Her mum actually tests her blood for sugar and salt every Thursday night, just in case any of the above were true. Fortunately she doens’t test for recreational drugs).

Its very inconvenient that my colleagues take holidays. It means I have to get in ‘early’ and miss my baby-day. Hence the disturbance to blog frequency.

But I saw Lila for a bit early on and she was really pissed off with Arsene Wenger. Like, REALLY, throwing her toys out of the pram. Notice there no quotation marks for that phrase, because in this instance its not a metaphor, its for real.

Wenger was talking about the upcoming North London derby on Saturday specifically about ‘diving’; that lowly, duplicitous art whereby players take a dive upon the gentlest caress of their shins, or sometimes totally caress-less, in order to win a penalty because the ref thinks they’ve been fouled in the penalty area. And its true, diving is the real curse of the modern game. Its cheating, its wrong, nasty and evil. Yet is done by virtually all players given the right circumstances. Or the wrong circumstances.

Wenger said that ‘diving’, which originated over there in Europe, rather than here in Britain, obviously, has now changed and that ‘the English’ are the masters of diving’. And as his Arsenal barely play any Brits at all and Spurs provide the very backbone of the entire England team, some of the more sensitive among us take this as a direct slur.

Much as I really, truly hate diving, even when perpetrated so elegantly by our very own Dele Alli, it actually fills me with shame. I’m embarrassed when our players dive. But they do at times. Though not Harry Kane, which Wenger implied.

Wenger seems to have, as always, viewed the whole diving issue through the empathy-free Wenger-zone of one-sided arrogance. For which he’s famous. His players never ‘dive’. Yeah, right. The ‘dive of the season’ (yes, they rank everything on that intra-web thingumy) was won by Alexis Sanchez (he used to play for Arsenal but was too good so they sold him), and by Santi Cazorla wearing red, and numerous others who hang out at the Emirates. Jack Wilshire was booked for diving.

Ahhh, they weren’t dives, Wenger would probably say. Just like referees don’t give penalties to Arsenal like they do to other teams, so his players NEVER dive. Yeah right, Arsene, right. And if they did, he just didn’t see it, he was busy throwing bottles of water around the dug-out.

Everyone has the right to be a French tosser, but hypocrisy is always unforgivable.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

When is the news not the news? Either when its fake news or when its no news. Or both.

So Donald Trump tweets ‘look at England; their Universal Medical… thing (he almost said it like that, really) is broke and not working’. So we must assume that his use of the word ‘broke’ is not the moronic form of ‘broken’, but in fact ‘broke’ as in ‘stony’, as in bancrupt, as in skint. Cos he’s got ‘broken’ covered with ‘not working’. And the President of the Unaaaarted States of ‘Merica would surely not employ repetition out of ignorance, surely? So the NHS, according to Trump, uber-businessman and savvy beyond savvy, is broke. As it has been since the day it opened, in 1948. The whole point of ‘nationalised healthcare’ is that it is paid for out of the nation’s coffers. Out of taxes. The day they bought their first sticking plaster the balance sheet went into the red and its been there, in ever-increasing degrees, ever since. It has never made a profit, never made a penny, and it never will. As then it wouldn’t be ‘nationalised’ no more, would it? And all this to avoid installing any kind of social medical care in the States. Tosser.

Then there’s Paul Townsley. Who? I’ll tell you who. The other night Jacob Rees-Mogg, Tory leader-in-waiting, uber-nerd bible-basher and Brexiteer to the stars, was giving a talk at Bristol University. Which was infiltrated (ish) by a band of left-wing, balaclava-wearing, militant-types (who in reality were just a bunch’a posh kids in fancy dress) who pushed and shoved weedy little Jacob. A kind of melee ensued in which, in the complete absence of security personnel (so they’re not that bright in Bristol, are they?), several people from the audience stood up and tried to protect the MP. No-one was aware at the time that it was just a kind of ‘stunt’, a protest. And one of the public to move in and help was Paul Townsley. Ohhhhh, him. All well and good so far. Decent chap. Until… NAZI-GATE!!!!!

Someone (with nothing else to do out there in newspaper-land) found a picture of Paul dressed as a nazi officer. OMG. Could it be that Rees-Mogg’s saviour was in fact a NAZI!! Like a real one???? Or was he a nazi sympathizer? Or even a far right radical yearning for the glory days of the Reich? Or could it be possible, as the photo was doubtless gleaned off Facebook, that it was in fact what is known (just ask Prince Harry) as ‘fancy’ and ‘dress’? When those two words are used together, all bets are off. All political correctness flies out of the window. You can dress as Kunte Kinte from Roots. You can dress as Raquel Welch from that stupid dinosaur movie, you can dress as Harvey Weinstein, ffs. But apparently, you can’t dress as a Nazi.

Must be desperate for news,

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

There’s lots of important stuff going on. I suppose there always is. But they’re talking of replacing our Prime Minister! If they could get a pair of leopard-skin shoes on a lamp-post that would be fair. But they’re talking about replacing her with Boris, and Michael Gove, AND Jacob Rees-Mogg. Three for one. A clown, a back-stabbing Judas (and the back chosen was, in fact, that of the Clown) and a radicalised Christian.

Corbyn, in the other camp, is bringing back all the brethren cast out from his party for being nasty, evil bastards. The bullies, the militants, the anti-semites, all banned from the party for their horrible words/deeds, now, suddenly, welcomed back with open arms.

But I just didn’t care. Not about any of it. I cared a bit about the moronic, bandwagon-jumping, knee-jerk-reactionary ultra-feminists who want to ban the Grand Prix ‘pit-girls’, not because I actually watch Formula 1 but because I hate the thought of life being less colourful in total because Harvey Weinstein fondled some actresses. If that happens and pit-girls, and the boxing ring girls and cheerleaders get cut out, then the Weinsteins have won. Don’t they see that?? They see ‘objectification’, I see legs. Great legs. But only subjectively.

And I didn’t care about any of it for the 90 minutes (plus 4 minutes of really essential injury time) yesterday afternoon when Spurs were playing at Liverpool. Because the match was just so gripping, so exciting, so riveting, that I was too excited and gripped and riveted to think about it.

Liverpool went a goal up after 3 minutes. Bit like Manchester United who, according to their manager after they went a goal down after 11 seconds at Tottenham on Wednesday night, ‘were so shocked and surprised that they couldn’t recover’. Tosser. Even though they had almost the full 90 minutes to do just that. But Spurs were different. After surviving the first half they simply bossed the entire second period. Dominated. But no goals. At 79 minutes our manager brought on Victor Wanyama, not really the sort of player you normally turn to for a quick goal (6 goals in 175 matches or thereabouts; Lionel Messi he ain’t). And in the next minute Wanyama scored the goal of the season. Certainly his goal of the season as he’s unlikely to score another. And its 1-all. A few minutes later we win a penalty. Very controversial but definitely a penalty. Which Harry Kane (who you’d put your shirt on scoring any time he’s near the ball) missed.

2 minutes after that, in the first minute of injury time, that little Egyptian fucker- sorry, Mo Salah, the greatest little striker since… who cares, scored a great goal. As he does every week. 2-1 to Liverpool and 2 minutes left on the clock. And we win another controversial penalty. And this time Harry scores.

It takes a lot of nerve to step up to take such an important penalty having missed one five minutes previously. Takes a lot of confidence too. All justified as he neatly slotted home.

OMG. I screamed. Mel screamed (she wasn’t in the room but was so shocked by my scream). The whole world screamed. Except for the Liverpudlians. They went shtum. Jurgen Klop was screaming too, but in German and a different kind of screaming. Born of frustration, of pain and suffering and (in his mind) injustice. When he can ‘enjoy’ the 974 slow motion replays that we were all privy to on tv, he’ll understand completely.

2-all. But it felt like a win. And the most dramatic 10 minutes of football I think I’ve ever seen.

But now its over, back to reality. Where’s Lila?

Happy Monday

A xxxx

Cyrille Regis died a few weeks ago. Which was a shame. Only 58 and a genuine superstar footballer. Played (mainly) for West Bromwich Albion so he was never likely to achieve much fame and notoriety that way, but he had two things going for him which assured he would forever command a place English football. He was brilliantly gifted. And he was black.

And if you think, so what? half the league is black, then you have to understand what football was like back in the 70s. And how far both football and society have come since those dark days. Well, they seem ‘dark’ by today’s standards but you mustn’t ever judge the past by the standards of today. Because ‘today’ didn’t exist back then so things like political correctness and any form of equality were concepts for the future. Unfair to criticise or take a moral high ground which wasn’t even an aspiration in 1974.

There was, then, just one other black player in the ‘first division’, Clyde Best at West Ham. Who was regularly booed, monkey-chanted and the recipient of unwanted thrown bananas. As often by his own team’s fans as by those of the opposition. Which you can put down to West Ham fans being racist and vile, which they pretty much still are, but ignorance was the real root cause at work. The world needed to be dragged out of its past, a process which took… I’ll let you know when its finished.

Then came Cyrille. And Brendan Batson and Laurie Cunningham, all playing for West Brom together, and all black. Which meant they had to just be better than everyone else. And they pretty much were. And they had to ignore the near constant abuse and insults everywhere they went.

What’s more, Cyrille Regis was a lovely bloke. A genuine good guy.

They had a memorial service for him last week at the Hawthorns. And they ended with a rousing chorus of ‘Nice one Cyril, nice one son, nice one Cyril…’

Which was not his song. Never was that sung at West Brom for Cyrille (note the spelling in the song!!!), or when he played for England. That was a Spurs song. For Cyril Knowles our left back who took wicked free kicks.

So I’d just like to say that I’m all in favour of honouring a great man who was a pioneer in the beautiful game, but GET YER OWN FUCKING SONG!!! to do it with.

RIP Cyrille

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

Have I told you how much I can’t stand New, New Labour? Did I mention that at all? Comrade Corbyn and his merry band of Trotskyites, bullies, misogynists, Stalinists, scumbags and anti-semites? Then let me make mention now. I FUCKING HATE THE LOT OF THEM. Now I’m feeling better.

Not content with spreading their hate-filled rhetoric among themselves, they are systematically removing any and all Labour ‘people’ and replacing them with their ‘brethren’. Like-minded communists insistent on redefining ‘democracy’ until it looks like something that Joseph Stalin would have admired. Or Adolph Hitler too. Because totalitarian is totalitarian whatever flag it waves.

Corbyn’s Labour have no time for Blairites. They have no time for traditional, union-based Labour, unless those unions are far to the hard-left. And driven by the hateful ‘Momentum’ organisation, labour MPs or even councillors who don’t share their rather extreme views are deselected and replaced with puppets who are. Unless existing members change their own personal beliefs to follow in line with the Corbyn/McDonnell way. Like our Mayor Sadiq Khan did the other day when he realised that mayoral elections are coming soon so he’d better start sucking up to the same Jeremy Corbyn he’s been in virtually total disagreement with since his election to County Hall.

Claire Kober was the leader of Haringey Council. She’d been in that role for 10 years and was popular with fellow councillors and the people of Haringey. She’s ‘moderate’ in political terms. A ‘pragmatist’. Both of which are in Corbynland, synonyms for ‘Blairite’. Soft labour. And she’d spent a couple of years on the housing crisis. Worked out a brilliant deal to create 6,500 new homes in her borough. Which, like all boroughs has a massive housing shortage. It was a 2 billion pound project. But councils don’t have 2 billion quid just kind’a knocking around looking for a home (or 6,500). Councils are strapped, always. The deal was with a building contractor. As opposed to an ice-cream vendor? A PRIVATE building contractor. And that is an absolute red line in Corbyn’s world. We don’t use private contractors on public projects. Which is why, as Claire tried to hold on to her project, Momentum gained control of Haringey, ejected the moderates and replaced them with Corbynites. Who would rather build no houses than houses resulting from a public/private partnership. Let the homeless sleep in a communist ideology, much nicer than privately built homes. And then they ejected the leader. By bullying, by being completely undemocratic and using the usual threats that the Labour machine reserves for women.

Corbyn wants the project totally publicly funded. Even though the public don’t have a spare 2 billion either. He’ll find it. He’ll ‘borrow’. And raise taxes. Which always lowers the total tax gained, but he won’t learn that. He’ll ‘borrow’ more to cover it.

Claire Kober then said that her personal experience through this entire horrible, abusive and nasty business was nothing compared to the levels of anti-semitism from Momentum and the merry bridge of ‘socialists’.

As I wrote many weeks ago; Labour; for the many, not the Jew. But I read it yesterday attributed to Howard Jacobson. Must see who said it first. He’ll be hearing from my lawyers. If I had any.

Happy horribly wet Saturday

A xxxx

Went to see the movie Mollie’s Game the other night. What a great story. Taken from the eponymous book, the ‘true’ story (ya never know how much is embellished with a flurry of ‘artistic license’) of Mollie Bloom, an ex-olympic skier who ended up running massive, high-stakes poker games in LA and New York. An American Story, logical progression from Free-style skiing to poker pimp. Gambling is illegal in both LA and New York, except in ‘private’ games. So as long you don’t get paid or ‘take a cut’, facilitating 10 guys (all guys, I’m not, in this instance, being sexist) to win/lose a couple of million dollars is perfectly fine and acceptable. And the winners gave her ‘tips’. Thousands and thousands of bucks. As big winners would. So far so legal. She declared her taxes and paid her dues. And lived like a queen. But then late in her career she started ‘charging’ a percentage of winnings, to cover her expenses, and that is a serious red line over there. In England Mollie’s Game wouldn’t have been a story. She’d never have been arrested by the FBI. In part because we don’t have them here, but also because its not illegal to do anything relating to gambling here. They advertise it on the tv over the entire sporting weekend. But Mollie ended up in court. Otherwise there’d have been no role for Idris Elba who played her lawyer.

Jessica Chastain plays Mollie. She is totally captivating. Sharp-tongued, quick-witted and much cleverer than everyone else. Or perhaps that was Mollie. Hard to see the line. Which is what being a good actor is all about, I s’pose. But as well as the great acting and powerful performance, Jessica looks simply stunning. She is the centre of the screen, wherever she is. She has that almost ‘old world’ kind of ‘screen siren’ look of the old Hollywood greats. A smile 7 miles wide filled with 276 gleaming teeth. The hair, the make-up… she got me, I was drawn to her light. Which is very bright. Bit like Lila.

Meanwhile Paul Pogba is taking flack at Man United for being a lummox on Wednesday night. Didn’t track back when Spurs attacked, couldn’t handle Moussa Dembele (few can when he’s fit) and generally being what we know him to be. A rather lazy but incredibly gifted football player. What could be termed a ‘luxury’ player. So is it his fault that as a central midfielder he failed in his responsibilities? Or the (miserable, whining, blame-throwing, Portuguese) manager’s fault for playing him in the wrong position?

Only time, and possibly trophies, will tell.

Happy Friday

A xxxx

Its not enough to win. Not at football. That’s why God invented adverbs. So you can win brilliantly, win convincingly, even win ugly-ly. The three points are still the same, still feel great, but when you win against (allegedly) top-flight opposition, you want to win well. And its still not enough. Because you then want everyone else to lose. Obviously there is a problem here, mathematically, logically, because every other team can’t lose at the same time. So it gets selective. You want the teams you don’t like to lose and you want the teams around you in the league to lose. They’re the priorities. Having secured your own win. And this is all so unconscious and visceral.

Spurs won last night. Against Manchester United. So that’s immediately a double whammy. They’re immediate competition and I hate whingeing Jose. Then, amazingly, Chelsea managed to lose 3-0 at home to mighty Bournemouth. Who’d’a thought? Who’d’a put a bet on that?? Probably only an insecure Chelsea fan in ‘hedging’ mode. And that’s brilliant for Spurs, wonderful for Bournemouth and… not great for Chelsea. Certainly not great for Alexis Sanchez. So we’re all happy there.

Liverpool won on Tuesday, which is a bit depressing, but at the same time strange things were happening all the way over in Swansea City. Where mighty Arsenal went to play. And having taken an early 1-0 lead, the Arse managed not just to ‘snatch defeat from the jaws of victory’ but to forcibly thrust it on their opponents. I’d immediately have started looking for unusual betting patterns involving Arsenal team’s relatives and friends. Such was the way our aulde rivals went about the match they lost 3-1. To the bottom team, at the time.

Whilst Arsenal were losing I was playing bridge. And when you bid in bridge, there’s a convention every player in the world uses. Your partner opens the bidding, “1 spade” he might say. You look at the useless few spots on the cards in your hand and realise firstly that there is no God, and secondly that you don’t got no spades. You have shit. So you bid “1 no trump”. It doesn’t mean you fancy playing the hand in no trumps, it doesn’t mean anything other than “I’ve got a poor hand”. Its called the ‘dustbin bid’. And then I was reading about Kensington Palace. And realised that’s its basically, the ‘dustbin bid’ for Royals. The ‘one-no-trump’ reply for the truly blue blooded homeless.

Kate & Will live there. Harry lives there, soon with Meg, Duke of Norfolk, or maybe Kent (old bloke, beard, face like it was on a 1926 postage stamp) and Princess Eugenie and hubby-to-be. Others too. But its not like its a proper ‘palace’ with one bathroom they all share and, ‘who’s nicked the last’a my fucking milk, AGAIN???’ type conversations. Its a commune. A village with lots of ‘cottages’ that will house royals who can’t afford the deposit on a shared-buying scheme. A care home for the Windsors. A retirement village for those who’ve never had to work.

Very happy, Spurs-ey Thursday

A xxxx

Look, I know its not ‘up there’ with the North Korean nuclear threat, with increasing levels of knife crime, with Arsenal losing at Swansea, with child abuse, but it made the front page of the Times today, so it must be a. really important, and b. totally true beyond question.

The uglier you are the more ‘left’ you’re likely to vote.

Ugly people vote Labour. Gorgeous people are fascists. Its a ‘fact’. They done tests, din’they? And tests are ALWAYS totally validated and beyond question. Except by really annoying people like me who have an unnatural skepticism about statistics. Unless those numbers, when crunched, agree with my world view. Then I love them, obviously.

You first have to ask: why would you perform a massive study (2,000 people involved in one of them, 5,000 in the other) to find a link between ‘beauty’ and ‘political leaning’? Will it lead to legislation? Like denying the seriously ugly the right to vote? Something I’ve advocated for years now. Or will it lead to an increased understanding either of human nature or improvements to world politics? Doubtful. Its just a ‘thing’. An excuse to get a research grant out of someone.

But that’s what they found. The uglier you are, the more likely are you to vote further left on the political spectrum. Good looking people ‘tend to be’ (statistical speak) more right wing. So if you’re really an eye-sore but vote Republican (it was American testing, obvs.) GET WITH THE PLOT!!! YOU’RE A DISGRACE TO DISGRACEFUL LOOKING PEOPLE!!!!

All any ‘study’ has to show with its analysis is ‘a probability greater than chance’. In this case (they didn’t show the numbers), that wouldn’t account for much. And what is ‘beauty’? I’ll tell you, its in the myopic, distorted, astigmatic, corrupted and sick, ‘eye of the beholder’. Very difficult to get an objective ‘score’ on beauty. You see ‘gorgeous’, I see ‘dog’. Unless you’re unambiguously Halle Berry.

The explanation, as if one is warranted, is really offensive. That ‘beautiful people’ are given more attention, more love, spoiled rotten and therefore lack empathy as they get older, used to getting exactly what they want. Therefore they don’t consider others in society as much as, say, Jeremy Corbyn or anyone else in the ‘grotesquely vile’ group.

Speaking as a totally beautiful person (both my mum and Mel gave me 11/20 on a random, blind test in 1993) I find this offensive. I have loads of empathy. And if poor, ugly people don’t agree they can JUST FUCK OFF and climb back into their holes!!

The next test they’re going to do compares penis length to views on global warming. Or perhaps global length to penis warming, I can’t remember the precise details, but that should be very… errr… useful.

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I am carless. I have no car. For probably the first time since I was
16 and 7/8ths and bought my first Mini which I couldn’t drive so just
kept cleaning it until the glorious day of my 17th birthday. Ok, I
drove it a bit, but not very far and quite modestly so as not to
attract unwanted attention, and only when my parents were out, obvs.
We did such things ‘in those days’.

When Rachie left for Berlin she had one final request. (I won’t list
the other pre-final ones, it’ll take me three days). She wanted to
keep her car. Which is a gorgeous little convertible thing. So she
brung it round and dumped it in the driveway. Next to my car. Another
gorgeous convertible thing but bigger. And I’d look at them sitting
there and admire and swoon and… and…

There they’d sit. I reckon I drive 50 miles a week, if that. I travel
by tube, get there by bike and I walk a lot. Mel takes her car to
work, which isn’t very far but its always filled with stuff women fill
cars with. So having two cars between us was always something of a
luxury. Or a habit really, because if you have a car, you have a car.
You don’t stop having them just because you don’t use them at all. Do
you? But having three cars, with two just sitting there waiting to
share 40 miles between them was excessive, even by my standards. Which
are roughly: you can never have too many cars. But three cars between
2 people, one of whom only uses it a bit on weekends? Something had to
give.

So I made the ultimate sacrifice and unloaded my car. And filed the
papers to temporarily adopt Rachie’s. Which I must say is fantastic to
drive and even has a proper gear stick. Probably a clutch somewhere
too but I haven’t found that yet. But its great fun and fast as fuck.

Which brings me back to the present/near future. Ford in America are
taking out a patent on a driverless police car that can spot a
speeding motorist from its hiding place in the trees or behind the
rocks or wherever, and issue a ticket to the vehicle’s computer which
will instantly be displayed on its own ‘heads up’ computer system. Or,
for some offenders, it can, autonomously, give chase. What an empty
car will say to this speeding motorist, when it catches up, I really
don’t know. Unless Robocop gets out and blasts everyone to shit with
its phaser-blaster-destruction-ray-thingumies. (Patent not pending on
that one; we should get in there).

And I hate anything that tries to stop me driving too fast. Its my
human right. Sort of. Don’t they realise that if cars moved faster
there’d be less clogging up on the roads? What a pleasure it would be
to have the outside lanes filled with cars actually moving at or above
the speed limit.

Oh well,

happy Tuesday and hey, hey, hey; let’s be careful out there

A xxxx