Andy's Glasses

This is Anders Breivik. Remember him? Lovely guy. Self-confessed ‘nazi’ and total fucking homicidal lunatic. Ok, a lot of Norwegians are a bit strange, all those 22-hour nights in the winter-time, too much seal meat and whale blubber in the diet, but Anders really went too far. He planted a bomb in Oslo which killed 8 people, then, unhappy with the poor ‘return’, went on to a youth camp and shot dead 69 kids. All the while giving his famous(ly stupid) nazi salute. Nice.

He’s been in prison since 2012, in solitary confinement. And although the cell is rather luxurious in comparison to the British Victorian offerings made famous in 1960s movies, he is alone for 22 hours a day. As opposed to being dead for 24 hours a day, as really he should be. But we don’t do ‘capital punishment’ in Europe. Its not nice.

But Breivik complained that his human rights had been violated by his imposed solitude.

There’s a old definition of the yiddish word ‘chutspa’, kind’a ‘bare-faced cheek’ and more, in which a kid on trial for the murder of both his parents claims leniency on the grounds that he’s a orphan.

This world of ridiculous irony is the one which Breivik’s lawyers entered into. A man who without a thought killed 77 completely innocent people, demands human rights for himself because he’s not ‘happy’ with his lot.

And ridiculously: he won. He can now have visits from his ‘girlfriend’. Ok, not a girlfriend in any normal sense. They were ‘friends’ online before the slaughter. And she’s ‘in love’ with him having exchanged hundreds of letters and the odd phone call during his incarceration. They’ve obviously never met.

It should actually be a crime to befriend a psychopath in any way shape or form. To ‘lurve’ a man with views that would make Goebbles shudder. But its not. I can only hope that she is grotesque beyond any acceptable standards of grotesqueness, has a beard, weighs 32 stone and is Jewish.

And happy birthday to Her Majesty the Queen. We had marching bands down Fleet Street yesterday, on horseback. I thought it was in celebration of the Stoke game on Monday night but apparently it was ‘just’ for the Queen. Like she’s short of parading soldiers in her life.

Happy Thursday

A xxxx

So we were in The Hague (city in Netherlands, not William) and there in the Mauritshuis (no idea) was a collection of old masters. Among them, Vermeer’s ‘Girl with a Pearl Necklace’. So I thought. Ok, let’s go watch a porno then; see if I care. Mel was amazed at my willingness to go to what turned out to be a sodding art gallery. No, its Girl with a Pearl Earring. Ahhhhh, just one Ratner’s window short of a happy ending.

There were lots of paintings. Old ones. Some of which are startling, in their detail and accuracy. Some of which were photographic in quality and lighting, albeit at over 500 years old.

But they’re dull. Dreadfully dull. To me they fall into categories.

‘Laughing Cavaliers’, as I think of them, or miserable Cavaliers; any geezer with a beard and a haughty expression wearing a ruff and New Romantic clothing.

Then there’s the ‘cherubs’. The Renaissance obsession with chubby little naked boys with angels wings. Its as if it happened at the BBC in 1974, rather than Continental Europe centuries before.

Jesus and Marys. They were the One Direction of their day. Couldn’t get enough of them.

Bowls of Fruit. Ever fucking popular. As are flowers. The Dutch Masters loved flowers, as they would, but Jesus, enough already; get a grip.

Old Men. Too old to be Cavaliers, to young to die. Them and self-portraits. Great art. No imagination required; I’ll just paint my own face. Though not in an Adam Ant kind’a way.

And the Girl with a Pearl Earring. Which is a great painting. Especially as it wasn’t a portrait but an act of fantasy on the part of the old Master. What they called a ‘tronic’. A painting from the head.

And if you like this picture, google it. There will be 27 zillion images of the painting. At least. If you google ‘castrated parrots with grey beards eating profiteroles’ you get 52 million options. So Vermeer’s most famous…

Yet standing in front of it, and yes, crouching too, were ‘the tossers’. Trying to frame the painting perfectly in their sodding phones so they can remember it. Even though they knew it before they went there and can see pictures of it any time. But no, I have to have it on MY phone. It’ll look totally different to the other images taken by someone else. So I’ll just stand in the way for half an hour and line up the iphone…

You know that bit in Comic Strip’s Bad News Tour when (guitarist) Ade Edmonson says: “Jimmy Page was 18 when he wrote ‘Stairway to Heaven’, but I could play it when I was 14. I think that says a lot”.

That’s like these tossers with the Vermeer on their phones. “It took Vermeer 5 months and a date with Scarlett Johanssen to paint that picture, and I took it in 3/800ths of a second. I think that says a lot”. Yeah, it does, it says you’re a tosser. Now get out’a the way and let me look at some fucking paintins.

My problem with the ‘old masters’ is that they painted ‘things’. They painted ships and dogs and houses and trees and bowls of fucking fruit and they painted them very well. They just didn’t paint things I particularly enjoy looking at. Concepts. Ideas. Impressions. Harry Kane. Naked women with 3 breasts. Interesting stuff. That came later. I’ll go back next year see if its ready yet.

Happy Returns to the UK

A xxxx

I wrote a little something on the plane home yesterday evening. About the Dutch Masters. Because I know how much you love a good pitcher, a nice Rembrandt, bit’a Vermeer class. The Johann Cruyffs of the paintbrushes. Right?

But then in the taxi home from the airport something happened. That not only changed the intended content of today’s blog, but probably changed my life. Forever!!!

Never one to resort to mild exaggeration when rabid hyperbole is an available tool.

I was following the football on my phone. Yes, like a teenage tosser; glued to the screen. And Harry Kane scored a goal. 9 minutes gone and, according to the texts that flowed onto the BBC site, it was (to quote Robbie Savage? that’s never happened before) “a brilliant, brilliant goal from a brilliant, brilliant player…”

Tears welled in my eyes as we sped along the M40. The driver, in turn, was glued to his little screen, the sat-nav. And you couldn’t even get Spurs vs Stoke on that. But as he obviously had not the faintest glimmer about where he was going I left him to his screen. Which led him/us on a wildly circuitous route round the motorways to the west and northwest of London. But I kept schtum in part because I was ‘engaged’ with the football and in part because his ‘detour’ of about 40 miles did manage to avoid the roadworks shit currently clogging up Neasden.

We arrived home for the second half. I ran into the house, Mel is quite capable of sorting out a few suitcases, paying the driver, remembering the ruck-sacks, my mind was elsewhere. It was at the Britannia.

And that second half turned into an exhibition of the beautiful game at its most beautiful as Spurs relentless pressure and high speed counter-attacks produced three more superb goals. Ok, Stoke aren’t the prettiest team in the league, but they stood no chance. Pochettino’s tactics were so wonderfully deployed that it became almost cruel. Almost.

So I’d like thank:
Hugo Lloris; the best goalie in the world
Kyle Walker; the best right back in the country
Danny Rose; the most improved left back the world has ever known
Jan Vertongen; the masterful Belge
Toby Alderweireld; player of the year
Eric Dier; best holding midfielder in the land
Mousa Dembele; brilliant everything
Christian Erikssen; classist player around
Eric Lamela; most improved player on any planet anywhere
Dele Alli and Harry Kane; simply the best.

I’d also like to thank:

Arsenal football club for failing to play to the best of their abilities and for not beating Palace on Sunday.

Leicester City football club for dropping points, at last, and for losing Jamie Vardy for now probably two games.

Mauricio Pochettino for being remarkable and lovely.

Do we still ‘believe’? Have this weekend’s results rekindled that ultimate of dreams? IS THIS OUR FUCKING DESTINY?????

Come on you Spurs

A xxxx

Kuenkenhof gardens are in Holland. Near Amsterdam. Where every year they plant 7 million bulbs. Which guarantees that in springtime they will have ‘one or two’ flowers knocking around. Or even 7 million. Which also guarantees that there is no-where else in the world where you can see, at one time, more crouching Orientals than you can anywhere else at any one time. If you factor in (fucking-)selfie-sticks, then no-where else even comes close. Every single flower, shrub and sculpture in Kuekenhof comes as an installation with its own Oriental(s)-with-(fucking)-selfie-stick. Its simply magnificent. One of those ‘isn’t nature wonderful’ moments, brings tears to your eyes and then ‘I’d like to shove that (fucking) selfie stick…’ just creeps in.

Photographs are a wonderful thing. Memorable. Inspirational. Magnificent. Fabulous. A ‘selfie’ is none of those things. A selfie is an act of moronic vanity and self-obsession which basically says: ‘well, you reckon the Taj Mahal/Moon Rocket taking off/winning goal at Wembley/Northern Lights/whatever are brilliant?? Well they is much much more betterer with my stupid fucking grinning, pouting, ugly face stuck in front of it. Innit?’ Who needs to see 7 million amazing flowers; you can do dat on google images. But ME in front of them? Fucking priceless.

Fucking worthless, more like. Fortunately you can find one or two flowers without the added extras and then outside the park, seeing fields and fields of flowers growing is rather special.

But its not just tulips, though they get all the publicity. There’s more daffodils than you can imagine and fourteen zillion hyacinths. Because Holland, this part of it at least, is bulb central. They produce 62% of the world’s bulbs here. Tiny bit of a tiny country. Amazing what you learn reading the ‘stuff on the walls’ in the ‘bulb centre’ at Kuekenhof.

I love Holland. They gave me a funny little black’n’yellow Fiat 500 to play with and everyone here is really nice and really… Dutch. Except for the Orientals. And the French, Germans (loads of Germans here), Italians, Spanish and even a few Americans/Canadians. All come to see the tulips. And eat the food. Great food here. Amazing in fact. And flowers? Did I mention the flowers?

Leicester dropped points today. (This phrase will never be repeated again:) God bless West Ham. Though a curse on the ref for the last minute penalty allowing Leicester to equalise. And just as important, Jamie Vardy got hisself sent off. So will miss at least one game. Brilliant. All we have to do its beat Stoke tomorrow. That’s all…

Happy Sunday (I would normally at this point write something in the host language, but Dutch? Simply impossible). Forgive me Johann.

A xxxx

I must apologise, in a (fairly) sincere and (almost) genuine manner, for pretty much ignoring the lower end of our esteemed Premier League of late. Because I’ve been so busy up there at the top end, the glorious, victorious, uproarious pinnacle of wonderful football that I kind’a forgot that there are other teams playing the game too. And, as always, ‘there by the grace of God’ that we’re SECOND IN THE LEAGUE!!!!.

Basically, there’s the usual fight out between the tragically underperforming no-hopers and one of them may possibly survive. If you could relegate four teams then we would, to be honest. So bad are Villa, Newcastle, Sunderland and Norwich. But that’s not the way it works. Only three go down and one will survive. And I would say: ‘to go down next year instead’ except last season that fourth team of hopelessness and uselessness was Leicester City. How fortunes change.

Villa are gone. Beyond hope. And now their captain and one-time talisman, Gabriel Agbonlahor, has been suspended by his own team for being a fat bastard. They call it ‘reduced levels of fitness’ but basically Gaby has been putting away the pies and pints in profusion and is now officially a porker. Itself a metaphor for just how far Aston Villa have slumped. When the players can’t even be bothered to maintain decent fitness levels. They’ve already given up.

And how tragic, for the region, if not just the football teams, if both Newcastle and Sunderland were to be relegated, leaving only Middlesboro’, should they get promoted as they probably will, as the sole Northeast representative in the top flight. Ironically, on the wish-lists for ‘teams you’d love to see relegated’, which every fan secretly harbours, along with his almost essential inner-racism, sexism and anti-just-about-anything-decent-ism, Newcastle and Sunderland fans would have the other team top of that list.

Every fan of every club would probably have Norwich on the list. Not so much not liking them, more a complete and total indifference to anything about them other than the sheer visual offensiveness of their migraine-inducing kit.

Watford: safe. Bournemouth: safe. For now.

Just about to land in Holland. Going to see some tulips. Apparently they have them in Holland. One or two.

Back monday night. Just in time for Spurs at Stoke. Biggest game… well, y’know.

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

So its 2012 and the Olympic games have just finished in London. The best Olympic Games EVERRRRRRR, no doubt about that. Mainly because there’s never been another one I could get to with my Tube card and make it home in 40 minutes. And also because it was brilliant. All round, just brilliant.

Ok, that’s done. What do we do with the £14billion worth of ‘things’ we’ve built? We need ‘the legacy’, that vomitworthy term for working out how to make a financial disaster into… well, even just a little bit less of a financial disaster. At best.

So the swimming pool will become… a swimming pool! Who’d’a thought’a that? On its own the Legacy committee paid for itself with that one. The ‘Olympic Village’ can become much needed housing. Flats. Loads of them. Great.

Now what about the stadium. Built at a cost of 475 million quid, they referred to it today as ‘Coe’s folly’. As if it was Seb’s vanity and indulgence, when organising the games, and he ‘demanded’, like some petulant kid in a sweet shop, that we build a magnificent stadium, fit for… well, fit for the Olympic Games. If not his ‘folly’, what would they have done, scratched a few lines round the local park for Usain Bolt to run round? With 200 ‘fans’ who couldn’t see anything? No, you want the games you need the stadium.

Then what do you do with it afterwards? Hmmmmm. Unlike the Aquatic Centre, we have no need whatsoever for an immense athletic stadium that will never again host more than 47 people. And it costs a lot of money just to have it there and not let it go to ruin. A lot of money. Which taxpayers fund.

Local football club West Ham are actually looking for a new ground, having outgrown their old, shitty, grotty, scummy slum-dwelling. They need a ‘digital’ ground and Upton Park is well-analogue. They need a new, high-tec, bigger ground for when Port Vale visit them after the next relegation, bringing 277 fans with them.

But the stadium needs to be adapted for football. That running track won’t work. Puts too much distance between the fans and the action, reduces atmosphere to nothing, disaster. Never mind, for just another 272 million quid we can convert it to West Ham’s needs. Easy peasy (WHEN SOMEONE ELSE IS FUCKING PAYING!!!!). West Ham paid their fair share of these costs. Well, they paid £15 million. For a stadium now costing north of 700 mil. Fair’s fair.

The Hammers will pay rent though. Ahhh, that’s good news. Get some money back. Sort of.
They’ll pay 2.5 million a year in rent, BUT, the council will pay for heat and light, which costs… new lightbulbs… an extra radiator… which costs 2.5 million a year. What a result.

West Ham obtain the best stadium in the world for nothing (and 15 million quid is literally ‘nothing’ both to West Ham and in comparison to any other ‘new stadium’ option), for no rent, effectively and basically become the first team in the world to be ‘on state benefits’. Which is, you have to admit, the perfect image for that team.

However. Before we revile them too much, even though its one of my favourite hobbies, this deal is actually a very good one for the Legacy Committee and for Newham Council. Oddly. Because there will be payments. They’ll get a big share of the naming rights once someones found another UAE airline. They get a share of catering profits and other benefits, right up to a 1 million pound payment ‘when’ West Ham win the Champions League. Wouldn’t spend that too soon.

And there is nothing else to do with the stadium. It would otherwise just sit there. At least while costing West Ham zilch, which is morally repellant, it will not encumber the taxpayers any longer.

Karren Brady has just overtaken Dimitri Payet as West Ham’s finest player. Possibly ever (with apologies to the family of Bobby Moore).

Happy Friday

A xxxx

The problem with getting to the end of the universe is a simple one. Basically, its a fuck of a long way away. Further than anything else. Scientific fact. If you take the Northern Line all the way to High Barnet (which certainly feels like the end of the world) you’re not much closer to the edge of the universe. The real problem being that the universe is expanding at the speed of light. And nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. I tried once, got flashed by a speed camera, cost me 60 quid and 3 points on my license.

The universe is approximately 3 billion years old. Thus the edges of it are approximately 3 billion light years away. If you could travel at the speed of light, in 3 billion years time you’d only have reached where the edge of the universe is today, not then. By then it will another 3 billion light years away. How frustrating would that be? “Oy, I’ve come all this way and you’re not even here”.

So space travel involves big distances. But ‘out of the box’ thinking has come up with a way, if not to reach exactly the edge of the universe, then at least to get some ways in. Or out.

Internet billionaires have teamed up with Stephen Hawking, maybe they’ve hacked into Stephen Hwaking, who knows, and come up with a brilliant idea. Make tiny little ‘craft’, smaller and lighter than mobile phones, attach a really thin (metamaterials; several microns thick) sail which you then ‘power’ away by blasting it from planet Earth with enough laser beams to blind every commercial airline pilot currently working. The kind of ‘power’ that the entire planet uses at one time would be blasted at this poor little craft, propelling it to 20% of the speed of light. Only 20%? That’s not much. No, its only 32 million miles per hour.

It can reach Alpha Centuri, our nearest star after the sun, in ‘just’ 20 years. Uber could get you there cheaper, but it would take 42 million years in a Prius.

And this tiny ‘craft’ has a camera, so it can take selfies along the way.

I mean; how clever is that?

Original thought. Man’s finest expression.

Unless that ‘man’ is Jimmy Page or Robert Plant. Whose finest expression, Stairway to Heaven, the ultimate rock anthem’s rock anthem, the most bestest, wonderfullest, guitar-hero-est, amazingest song, was possibly nicked from someone else. Oh, that’s not so original then. Not according to the band ‘Spirit’ who recorded a song Taurus 3 years before Stairway came out and let’s just say ‘the similarities are possibly beyond the merely coincidental’, and then we won’t get sued. Unlike Page and Plant who are being sued. And as that song has generated, they reckon, over £400 million in royalties, its worth a fight.

To the future… and beyond!

Happy Wednesday

A xxxx

I’m bored with tax now. Not that it was ever suggested that the world of taxation was in any way interesting, exciting or spectacular. But really. Iss enough already. David Cameron’s tax return, George Osborne’s, Boris’s, Jeremy Fucking Corbyn’s.

Surely what would be more interesting is what is NOT on the tax returns. The dodgy deals, the bags full of cash, the drug money, back-handers, bungs, sweeteners, the love nests, 20-pound notes slid into the panties of a pole-dancer. Doubt they’ll ever make the ‘transparency’ obsession currently filling the first 9 pages of every newspaper.

So just to put an end (as if) to the whole sorry mess: I don’t know anyone who pays more tax than they have to. If I did find that person I would laugh at their total stupidity. To take advantage of ‘thresholds’ and ‘allowances’ is NOT tax evasion. Nor is it immoral. If the tax people can’t make tax simple enough to be full-proof, accountants will always use those allowances and loopholes to maximum effect. The richer you are, the more creative those accountants can be. You don’t like it, then get rid of ‘offshore’. Burn the Caymans, topple Jersey into the sea, invade Panama. See if I care.

What is much more interesting is football. They should move that to the front of the papers and put politician’s tax bollocks to the back.

Ronald Koeman, the rather brilliant manager of Southampton, includes in their training sessions ‘communication skills’. Which is really due to a malfunction of society itself rather than something specific to to the beautiful game.

Players don’t have conversations. They arrive in their Lamborginis with their earphones plugged in and stare at smartphones or games consoles in every spare moment. They would tweet but most professional footballers don’t know 14 different words, so it would be a bit repetitive.

Koeman realised that if the players don’t speak to each other then they’ll have difficulties on the field, where communication is vital for the flow of the game. Its easier to shout ‘MAN ON!!!!’ when a Robert Huth is about to scythe both your legs from under you, than it is to send a text. Or a snapchat picture of the immense German with evil intent in his eyes.

Social media is fine. But it ain’t ‘social’ in any meaningful way. Its a solitary pursuit. And an obsession for not just footballers but for everyone walking down the Strand in the evenings, sitting in restaurants and driving their fucking cars.

So good ole Ronald.

Its good to talk. Then it might be a little less embarrassing when our ‘stars’ get interviewed after the games.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

There was a football match in the afternoon yesterday
Manchester United were coming to play
At White Hart Lane in Tottenham-land
Four a clock kick off, all sorted and planned.

Not ‘four-ish’, or ‘whenever’ or ‘see how the day goes’
But four o’clock sharp, Sky tv’s comin’, everyone bloody knows
There’s 3 million people sitting with hot cups of tea
Waiting for kick off, by 3.53

Oh, wait a minute, United haven’t arrived yet
oooooh, this Loondoon traffic, ‘eck its bad as it gets
There’s t’people in cars, all over’t place
jammin’ ooop t’roads, blooody disgrace

Oh never mind, no problem; we’ll just hang around
you just take your time, at some point, we’re sure, you’ll make it to the ground
We’ll play cards, a nice video game
Stuck in traffic, what a terrible shame.

WHY DIDN’T YOU LEAVE EARLIER, YOU SILLY NORTHERN NOBS
LONDON’S BIG, ITS BUSY, EXCITING, EVENTS, PEOPLE DOING JOBS
ITS NOT LIKE MANCHESTER WHICH CLOSES FRIDAY NIGHT
ALL DAY SATURDAY AND SUNDAY, BLOODY PROVINCIAL SHITE

At last they arrived, Manchester Super United, the very same
Biggest team in the world, at least in their exalted name
We haven’t beaten them at home for 15 long, hard years
In fact 15 years and 40 minutes, all had ended in Tottenham tears.

Not this time, the wait is really over
even if the traffic’s jammed from Newcastle down to Dover.
The game was close, the midfields packed tight
no clear chances, not a goal in sight.

For 70 long minutes the stalemate kept the sheets clean,
But Spurs are great this year; ya know wha’ I mean?
Lamela on the floor, scoops the ball to Kane,
first time pass finds Erikssen running in his lane

A wondercross from Christian, Alli’s played onside
Lovely finish, ball hits the net, my smile’s a mile wide.
Four minutes later Lamela curls a free kick, long and very high
Toby rises above the dross and for United the end is nigh.

But wait, it ain’ over til its over and fat ladies hadn’t sung
so just 2 minutes more and more riches my team brung
This time Lamela finished off the move, fab ball from Danny Rose
3 goals in six minutes, United have a bloody nose.

Unfortunately, earlier in the day
Leicester won at Sunderland so they still hold the sway
But even if we don’t win the league, all is certainly not lost
Because Spurs are simply fucking great and win at any cost.

The team is young, full of budding stars, the future looking bright
They’re full of skill, fast and sharp and never turn from a fight
The manager is magnificent, team spirit riding high
We’re building for the future, (he says with weary sigh.)

Cos I want it all and of course I want it NOW
But who’d’a thought Leicester City might take the mighty bow?
They could lose a game, or two, drop points like in a sieve
So yes, I love my boys and yes, I even still ‘believe’.

Happy Monday

A xxxx

If we had a Guillotine in the this country David Cameron would be headless by now. I have no doubt that the public ‘fury’ at his ‘undeclared sale of 30 thousand pounds (!!!!!)’ of ‘offshore shares (!!!!!!)’ before he was Prime Minister, fired up by the morons in the press, would have seen the man lynched. And a Guillotine would appeal to the Corbyn-types and sandal-wearers in general, and all the hard lefties, plus the growing band of Brexitiers, because it resonates so loudly with class struggle and ‘revolution’.

They’re all tossers.

Cameron’s a tosser too, but for a very different reason.

Before I get onto that reason, this is what the most morally indignant of all the high-ground press, the Mail on Sunday, had to say about the PM. That he received 300,000 when his dad died. No crime there then, you’re allowed to get money from an estate. Because that is less than the 325k threshold for inheritance tax, the PM paid no tax on it. So far so good. Then, the ‘very next year’, his mother gave him 200k from the father’s estate. Again, under the threshold, no tax due.

To everyone else, that is the end of it; THERE IS NO STORY. But the Mail, inevitably, I suppose, chose to take this one step further.

IF they’d given Dave 500k in one lump he’d have a 70,000 tax burden. But they didn’t. Therefore he has cheated the country (and every last one of its honest, hard-working, tax-paying citizens!!!!) out of 70 grand. What a motherfucker!!! (Not so much printed as implied.)

When Jeremy Corbyn’s parents died I hope they gave him nothing. Because in Corbyn-land all property is theft. So by leaving him anything at all, he’d be a thief. As well as an arsehole.

David Cameron is a tosser (in this particular context) because when, in 2010, he was asked to state whether he had ever benefited from anything ‘overseas’ or ‘offshore’, other than playing on the beach in Corfu, which even for Corbyn doesn’t count, Cameron stated ‘NO’. So that’s why. He stated something that was untrue and its now come back to bite him, quite hard, on the bum.

It is not, as is implied, ‘the tip of an offshore iceberg’ (they’re all offshore, by the way; geographical fact), nor ‘another symptom of his tax avoidance’. It is, in fact, just a stupid untruth. Which is, for a politician, unforgivable. Never tell lies. Ever. If they’d asked him if he likes football and he’d said ‘no’ when he does, that’s a lie. It doesn’t mean he’s out to destabilise FIFA. Its just a lie. Stupid but not ‘indicative’ of anything more serious.

With the Arse dropping points yesterday, WE NEED TO BEAT MAN UNITED TODAY MORE THAN ANYONE HAS EVER NEEDED ANYTHING IN THE ENTIRE WORLD EVER BEFORE. EVER!

Happy Sunday… we hope.

A xxxx