Andy's Glasses

The first senior minister from the Church of England has entered into a gay marriage. I’m going to assume he’s gay then. No lesser mortal than the Archbishop of Canterbury has stated that this is in breach of some terms and conditions somewhere, either in the contract of employment or in Leviticus 57, whatever. And so he may get sacked.

But surely, sacking someone for (basically) being homosexual is illegal on grounds of discrimination? Or does the church get exemption from the normal rules of employment because of ‘God’s will’?. Or is that ‘God’s willy’? Either way its tricky ground. Though the church is now worried that this will open up the floodgates of priests entering gay marriage which goes against that institution’s fundamental assertion that marriage should only be between a man and a woman. How fucking 18th century is that? How terribly Oscar Wildean.

The Archbish is also most concerned (and I’m going to quote this because its so fucking ridiculous you’d otherwise think I’d made it up) that: “it could be catastrophic for Christians in Africa, hundreds of whom had been killed by people who associated Christianity with homosexuality”.

Firstly, it would not appear such a far-fetched idea to associate Christianity with homosexuality, with the floodgates of gay priests all mincing round eager to follow this lead, and secondly, who are these African gay-bashers? I’ve never seen an ‘ALL CHRISTIANS ARE POOFTAHS’ bumper sticker? Even in Africa. Only on our vicar’s car.

Tomorrow the festival of passover returns once more for its yearly appearance. The time when Jews (none of whom are gay, or in gay marriages, or anything even remotely that stylish) celebrate the murder of African Christians by eating cardboard for a week instead of bread.

Passover is also a time to remember when Wigan were passed over by Arsenal, the team that couldn’t beat them in 120 minutes of open play football, so resorted to a penalty shoot-out instead to eventually get the job done. They must be feeling very proud.

And just before that pride, Everton bumped the Goons down to 5th place. The ‘tragic’ league position, formerly owned for the best part of a decade by Spurs. Everton are riding high, thus got a very lucky break at Sunderland. For whom luck appears to have run out completely and only miracles, and maybe gay priests, can save them now.

Spurs are always proud. Proud to have gifted West Brom with three (more) defensive howlers to give them a head start. Proud that we’re a shambolic and useless Frankensteinian team, stitched together with parts that don’t fit together, bolted onto the pitch by a manager who doesn’t believe in tactics, organisation or planning. Tim just thinks: let the defenders defend, let the strikers strike and let the midfielders… errrr… midfield. Tosser.

Liverpool against Man City starting soon. The season decider. Well, one of possibly 9 season deciders. But big nonetheless. Very exciting.

Happy Sunday

A xxxx

My old life ‘luxury’ was always to read the papers in bed on a Saturday morning with a ‘nice cuppa tea’. Then I discovered Tai Chi, or perhaps it discovered me??? (its Chinese, therefore inscrutible, therefore its good to accentuate the mystical) and Saturday morning class is at 8.15 and if you’re late you get a scissors kick to the testicles. Ok, maybe not but you just don’t do ‘late’ for Tai Chi. It’d be like turning up late to see the Queen. Though she’s far less dangerous.

Unfortunately though, on Thursdsay night, my always delicate right shoulder suffered a degree of fuckage in a roll on the mats. Don’t know what happened; didn’t in fact know anything had happened until Friday morning. Such is life in ‘middle age’ (I hate that term almost as much as I hate the term ‘champions league qualification’). So no Tai Chi this morning. My life is empty. My karma well and truly sutra-ed, my yin out of line with my yang, my feng decidedly unshui. But I’ll survive, so spare your (totally fucking insincere) sympathy and bunches of flowers. But not the chocolates. Never spare the chocolates.

So this morning I got to read the papers in bed. And I’ll play some gentle tennis because: a. I think the gentle (phah) swinging might actually be of benenfit to my shoulder; b. its a lovely morning: c. I’m stupid.

The headline read: Lib Dems are pointless.

How is that news? Are they so short of interesting events that the publishers of our daily rags are forced to state universal truisms?

‘The world is round!!!’
Gravity always works downwards!!!
Jennifer Lawrence is divine!!!!
Adolph Hitler was naughty!!!!
The sun’s hot!!!!
Chelsea fans are evil!!!!

You simply don’t need reminding about stuff you already know. That’s not what ‘news’, by any definition, is. Poor Peaches, that’s news. William and Kate racing yachts in New Zealand, though not very interesting, is news. Football is always news.

Virtually every day I have cause to comment, ponder, utter or just think: ‘the Lib Dems are pointless’ but no-one puts it on the front page of the Times. Yet Jeremy Browne, possibly because he is a Lib Dem politician and (I think it safe to say ‘former’-) friend of Nick Clegg, says it and WOOOAAAAAHHHHH, THAT’S NEWS.

Though Mr Browne does have one more interesting insight. That every politician or party should ask the question: if you didn’t exist, why would it be necessary to invent you?’

And the answer is because politics takes itself so damned seriously, its only by the existence of Nick Clegg and the Lib Dems that we can fully appreciate what a total waste of time and space the entire ‘government thing’ really is. Shakespeare realised that there must always be ‘a fool’. And who better than old Cleggers to set the example that other fools can barely aspire to?

Enough talk, its time to go and ruin my shoulder completely

Happy orthopaedic Saturday

A xxxx

The reason football fans survive the almost endless heartache (Spurs fans), anxiety (all fans), depression (Arsenal fans), humiliation (Manchester United fans) and hatred (Chelsea fans) is because of hope. That single, solitary glimmer of what might be; of what could be; of what one day may come to fruition.

That one day you might get to the Champions League. Again. That you might win the league. That you might win any kind of silverware that doesn’t come in canteens of 12 place settings from Argos.

Yet for most teams, the mass in the middle and lower end of Europe’s finest tables, aspirations are more humble. Survival. A league cup. Entry into the Europa League. The LD Vans Trophy. Relagation avoidance.

But fuck ’em. We’re not interested in those sorry bastards. We don’t care if Swansea go down and Stoke stay up, if West Brom survive 2 seasons or 4 before dropping back down, if Aston Villa finish 6th or 16th. They’re just there to make up numbers and prepare us for the main events. The glamour games, the big stuff. The Winners.

Man City play Liverpool this weekend and that is truly massive. If the Scousers win that’s the only way Man City won’t win the league. They still can but Chelsea and Liverpool will have a chance. Spurs can still win the title, but only if everyone else dies and has all their points taken away in a match-fixing scandal. (the dream scenario)

Sunderland are almost done. If Spurs can beat them 5-1 they must be compete rubbish. Everton visit them at the Stadium of Getting-Very-Dark-Now on Saturday and that too is a massive game. Because a victory for Martinez’ boys will put them above Arsenal, in 4th place. Champions League place. And if you end up 5th, as we know to our great and continued cost, you get double punishment. Not only you miss out on Europe’s top table but you get stuck in the Europa which distracts massively from next year’s quest for 4th place. As well we know. Though Spurs’ malaise is way deeper than just the pressure of Thursday night football.

With Barcelona crashing out of to Athletico Madrid on Wednesday questions are now being asked about the future for Europe’s reigning monarchs. Barca are ‘getting old’ and without some serious(ly talented) new blood to replace the Puyols and Xavis and Iniesta (who’s always looked about 55, even when he was 19) Bayern Munich have almost toppled the Catalan’s throne.

No mention in all this of West Ham. Who cares?

So we’re at the final fence. The last chapter. The 18th hole.

Some of us are still hoping. We just don’t know what we’re hoping for.

Happy friday

A xxxx

I love a cabinet reshuffle. Out with the old ministerial garbage, the dead wood, the named and shamed, the worthless, the pointless, the useless and those fallen from grace, either in terms of popularity or morality. Or, in the case of Maria Miller, both.

She had to go. Not because ‘her position became untenable’ after the investigation into her expenses, nor because during those enquiries she treated the hearing with contempt and inflammatory rudeness and pretty much refused to answer questions in any direct or meaningful way. Nor that her continuing presence was causing a scandal that could cost votes. No. She had to go because all week she has enjoyed ‘the complete and total support’ and confidence of the Prime Minister’s office. Which is always the kiss of death.

So we need a new minister for Culture, embracing the arts, the BBC, the press and major sporting events, like darts from Sheffield and the national Tai Chi championships from Solihull. And Maria was also the minister for Women. So we best get a new one of them too, otherwise 50% of the bleeding population will be moaning and nagging on about not being adequately represented. Again. And that role is, strictly, ‘women and equality’.

Thus David Cameron, who is famously challenged in relationships with women, ‘on a professional level’, who struggles to accommodate them into his government, and, ever since his fagging days at Eton, has felt much more comfortable in the presence of (preferably bare-chested, but you can’t have it all) rather effete, camp and posh men, he has appointed a new minster for women. A woman. Good choice, Dave. But a woman, one Nicky Morgan, who is opposed to gay marriage and is strongly anti-abortion. So perhaps we should split that role. A minister for straight, married, middle-class, normal women. And then appoint another for the rest. The rabble. Or, 70% of the female population, as they might be known.

Yet this new crusader for the rights of (some) women, this post-feminist pioneer has to report to her overlord; the Minister for Culture. New kid on the block, Sajid Javid, Minister for Culture. The only man in the world who actually approves of ticket touts. Or ‘ticket re-sellers’ as he calls them, for following their entrepreneurial dreams and filling a gap in the market. Not just exploitative bastards who fleece honest fans by corruptly buying up vast blocks of tickets that the fans should have been able to buy themselves without the 5000% mark-up. No, they’re ‘entre-pree-neuuuurs’, ain’ they.

I’m gonna assume that Nicky Morgan is a devout Christian. Because regular people don’t hold strong views against gay marriage nor oppose abortion, preferring to give women that choice. And I’m not suggesting in any way that Mr Javid is a devout or even observant Muslim, but the culture of that particular religion is not really conducive to ‘women’s rights’ in any way that actually gives them any, kind of, rights.

And that, Ladies, is your new ‘dream team’ to fight your corner. Might as well have the cabinet meetings in Spearmint Rhino.

Interesting that in all these expense claim cases, not one MP has under-claimed and been awarded MORE money.

Manchester United are out of the Champions League, David Moyes surely soon to be out of a job, and much more sadly, Barcelona’s aspirations in that cup also ended last night at the hands, and feet, of ‘the other’ Madrid, Athletico. The new wonderteam to come along and dare challenge the supremacy of Real Madrid and Barcelona for Spanish bragging rights.

Happy thursday,

A xxxx

I love a bit of art, a nice pik-cher, a paintin’, maybe a skulp-cha, just love it.

Yet I managed to avoid all of Vienna’s almost countless galleries until our 11th ‘hour’, immediately prior to take-off, before giving in and actually entering an art museum. The one in the picture. Aptly named: The Museum for Modern Kun- well, whatever, you can speak German as well as I can (I sincerely hope). All the museums are wonderful buildings, in fact spectacular. But going inside?

This Museum of Modern Art, momak, had and exhibition of modernism. Ahhhh, modernism. Great. So we paid our Euros and in we went, into that building that was so splendid it was made of volcanic lava and looked like a massive, black shoe-box.

Modernism started in the late 1800s and there was Picasso and Maigritte and numerous other luminaries of the art world, some impressionists, some cubists, a few surrealists, dadaists and all was well and dandy. Until Modernism decided that it was ‘modern’ in repsonse to the changes in the world, led by Darwin and Freud, and thus became a philosophy rather than a mere art-form, and this opened up the doors to all kinds of ‘installations’, concepts, and general ‘stuff’ that was so revolutionary, so different, so ‘fucking out-there’ that it would not immediately be considered, by the moronic masses, as ‘art’.

Piles of metal, a couple of mirrors, some cardboard boxes, three tv screens showing disconnected images over and over again. This all became ‘modernist art’ and is really good. No, it is, really good art. Apparently.

Call me a philistine if you will, but an entire wall covered in pages with random numbers printed on them is not something you would want to look at in a museum. In an accountant’s office maybe, but not an art gallery.

Yet the exhibition made it much easier to leave Vienna and fly home. Arriving back at Heathrow just in time to hear the last 15 minutes of the Chelsea game on the radio coming home. European Cup quarter-final. And Chelsea did what was required. Paris St Germain are gone, Spurs never started, Viennese play football but in powdered wigs and long red coats whilst holding violins, and Chelsea are through. The Morinho effect.

Art is life. And life is football. It all comes around. Which was why my main thoughts whilst wondering round the momak were of Spurs beating Sunderland 5-1, Arsenal losing 3-0 at Everton and how different things have different meanings to different people.

Have a very post-modernist Wednesday

A xxxx

I think Ultravox got it spot on when they wrote the words: “all Viennese are bastards” in their classic song. Possibly their only song of any merit. Ahhhhhhh, Vienna.

Vienna is an exceptionally beautiful city. Amazing buildings, truly wonderful, incredible churches, more sculptures than… than… than somewhere else that has shit-loads of sculptures… maybe Florence… possibly Rome… even Paris. And lots more than Elland Road which just has one. Billie Bremner. Who, oddly, is not represented here in Austria at all, anywhere.

The architecture is simply breathtaking and every building is built with rows upon rows of statues, all different, all representing different aspects of Austrian culture. Which would seem to have been, historically: stabbing people with swords, wearing funny hats, riding horses to war, invading anywhere that you already don’t own, slaughtering infidels, being a soldier, standing on top of someone you’ve just defeated and playing a violin. Oddly, the most significant parts of contemporary Viennese culture are not represented at all. They are, sitting outside for 3 hours drinking coffee and eating cake, and being really really hauty and aloof.

I think the reason for this shortcoming is a practical one, that its very difficult to get ‘whipped cream’ in bronze or granite.

Anyway, me, Mel, Vienna.

Today, as you can see by the picture, has been simply gorgeous. Cloudless, warm, wonderful. We walked 57 miles. We even took a tram (really ‘going native’) up to a quaint little town in the Austrian Woods. Most affluent place I’ve ever seen. Great coffee. Then back to the city to walk more and just enjoy the moment.

The Viennese are smart. I don’t mean clever; that I wouldn’t know as they don’t talk to you. I mean, smart, sharply dressed, clean, fastidious, immaculate. They’re like Germans with attitude. Which is quite a statement. But they’re not Germans. And that’s perhaps the problem. After the last war the Germans were forced to integrate with other nationalities, accept immigrants, open their borders and basically, become more worldly. Austrians didn’t. They started the First World War then sat back and let Germany lose it for them. So the next war was started by that famous little Austrian with the funny moustache, you remember… whossisname. And he was trouble, so again, they sent him to Germany who once more lost the war started by an Austrian.
So Austria was never forced by the international community to make reparations, to integrate, to accept anyone. Other than more Austrians. Leaving them alone to become ever more xenophobic and compose some lovely music. And eat cake with whipped cream.

Surprisingly though, Viennese are not collectively obese. As they really should be because their diet is terrible and they eat cakes all day long, and most of the night. Yet they remain slim so can dress more smartly than big fat slobs. Which enables them to remain the snootiest people in Europe. And with Paris just up the road, that’s no mean feat.

But the city is magnificent and I can almost forgive the nation that was responsible for The Sound of Music.

Happy Monday

A(uf wiedersein) xxxx

…is a term used to describe those who have 3 or less ‘apps’ on a phone or appliance they’ve had for more than 6 minutes.
If a success in personal life is measured by Facebook ‘friends’ then surely the measure of cleverness, popularity or in fact penis length (especially for women) is the number of apps present on one’s digital interface.

I have one app on my phone. There are some others that were there when I acquired it, but for me, I have just the one. And I realise that I’m missing out on life, the universe and everything in this respect. I’ll never know where my nearest kung fu accessory store is located relative to my current, gps authenticated position. I’ll never watch Sky Sports news when I’m on the bus. And I’ll never bleep my bar code in someone’s face. So much lost. There ya go.

From our bank, to keep us ‘happy’ we get all manner of what can loosely be described as either ‘shit’ or alternatively, ‘added benefits’. One of which is called Airport Angels. Virtually every airport has an unspecified lounge that is for plebs who can’t get into the Swissair First Class Lounge, or the BA Fascists Only, or Lufthansa Business Class Uber Alles. And they’re neat and utilitarian and, for us, free.

So we pitched up at Heathrow at the ungodly fucking hour of about 6 o’clock this morning, and I needed coffee like a drowning man needs oxygen, like a fish needs water, like Spurs need a striker, and I was going to want to eat something to line my stomach before risking BA’s either super-frozen or microwaved within an inch of its life, offering. Ahhhhhh, Airport Angels; brilliant.

Excpet we’d forgotten to bring our little credit card thingys. Shit. Then Mel, of all people, (ok, there was only the 2 of us as we didn’t include the taxi driver in the conversation) suggested that we had in fact once downloaded the ‘app’. Holy. Shit. An app.

With no disrespect to Mel (as if), for her to think of something of a technical, on-line nature is like your cat washing the car. Its like North Korea unilaterally disarming. Its like Arsene Wenger applauding a refereeing decision or holding up a trophy.

So, duly ‘apped up’ we went to the lounge, ate croissants, drank buckets of coffee, loaded up with fruit and saved the £47 it would have cost in Starbucks.

Several hours later and we’re here in Vienna. And we’ve already had strudel. Calories just don’t count when your away, thankfully.

Happy sunday; gooten whatever

A xxxx

Spurs hope to have their new stadium complete by the 2016/17 season. I hope so. I love that area of Tottenham, always have. Its dirty, sleazy, impoverished, crime-ridden, ganged-up, riot-central, policeman-killing wonderful. Ok, I wouldn’t want to live there. Certainly wouldn’t eat a meal there (fish’n’chips kebabs only) and would never get out the car there after dark. But on match days… ahhhh, on match days, its just wonderful. And the day they finally get round to gentrifying it and bringing in the yuppies and they finally open a Starbucks there will be something of a tragedy.

But the stadium is needed and we want it right there. Where its always been. Because we’re Tottenham Hotspur. Not Olympic Park Hotspur, nor Share-of-Wembley Hotspur, nor Milton-fucking-Keynes Hotspur. The sensible thing would be to share a stadium with Arsenal. Like the 2 Milan teams do. But it simply couldn’t happen. Mustn’t happen. What’s a half a billion quid between enemies?

They now reckon that, dispite all the promise of a ‘seamless transfer’ of the old to the new, there’s now talk that the preceding season Spurs may have to turn nomadic for their home games. Something that’s never happened before and that will please the season ticket holders no end.

Some games, big games, Arsenal, Manchester United, Chelsea, may be played at Wembley or in the Olympic Park. Lesser games, LIverpool, Everton, Manchester City, will possibly be at stadiummk. Which is the daft and unpronouncable name of Milton Keynes football ground. And really shit games, Stoke, Sunderland, West Ham (assuming all are in the Premiership then) will be on Hackney Marshes or in the park with sweat shirts for goalposts.

Interesting.

Today is the Grand National. That’s where a bunch of horses run round a track, most of the time without jockeys, and any horse that manages to complete the circuit alive wins a carrot and the punters all take out mortgages on their homes to bet on this ‘great and historical event’. Which is so brutal, barbaric and cruel that they had to cut half the jumps down, make the ditches shallower and ban the riders from using swords. The National is like ‘Gladiator’ for horses.

But its not just about killing horses, there’s a million ways to do that. The Grand National is about getting any fairly fit bird who lives within 50 miles of Liverpool (itself not an easy task), paint them orange, apply half a pound of slap to each face, spray on a skin-tight dress, make them drink champagne whilst wearing ridiculously high heels (counts as ‘multi-taksing’ up there) and get them all screaming at the horses. As if those poor beasts aren’t frightened enough already. The horses, I mean.

My money’s on Kelly McVicar to win the ‘tits out’ competition. Not sure about any horses. Unimportant.

Happy sports day

A xxxx

This weekend, Sunday morning to be precise, we’re off for a few days in Vienna. Mel’s birthday ‘surprise’ is well and truly out of the bag as the combined forces of British Airways, American Express and Mel’s almost obsessive need to ‘prepare her packing’ even for a 3-day, carry-on trip spilled all those beans. Which is fine. Its still a great thing to do and sorts out a birthday present. For someone ‘who has everything’. As most people in the Western World do. Ok, she doesn’t have a Lamborghini, nor a diamond-encrusted solid gold collar for the pet tiger she also doesn’t have, but I mean ‘within limits’. Because buying presents is always difficult. Which is why the expression ‘its the thought that counts’ came about. To excuse the giving of really awful presents, really dull offerings. The full expression is: ‘its the thought that counts and I obviously couldn’t think of anything decent’.

But if Mel ‘has everything’, then what present would you give to the Queen? She has her own Kingdom, so a box of Black Magic seems a bit lame by comparison. But yesterday Her Maj and Prince Phillip were in Rome so they popped round to the Pope’s for a cuppa tea. Fortunately he was in when they called, just hanging out a wash. She couldn’t exactly go round empty-handed so they took him a few groceries. And in return he gave Our Liz a photocopy of some old document and a little cross thing for little Prince George. A silver one to match the spoon in the wee baby’s mouth.

This was a meeting between the two leaders of Christianity. The Pope is head of the Catholics and the Queen is the chief executive of the Church of England. This was a meeting of the Bill Gates and Mark Zukerberg of the spiritual world. Big time. Old timers.
And in the relationship between Queen and Pope; who wears the trousers?

Its hard to give a gift to the Pope. Mainly because he’s pledged poverty and humility and a disociation from worldly materialism. But also because he lives in the complete luxury of a Saudi sheikh in the world’s most opulent palace surrounded by the most treasured artwork in the entire planet and ‘guarded’ (must be some kind of euphemism) by a bunch of pretty Swiss boys in fancy dress. Maybe he’s an American to have so little sense of the irony involved there?

It was a great meeting. They didn’t discuss the Falklands. Nor much else I’d imagine as he doesn’t speak much English and the Queen’s Spanish is a bit rusty. Like me she can probably order a beer in that language, maybe a burrito, but not much else.

They’ve found water in the solar system. No, not in Waitrose next to the wines and spirits, but on one of the moons of Saturn. And water, as we all know, is ‘the stuff of life’. Where there’s H2O there might, just might, be life. Though not necessarily as we know it, Jim.

This water is on a tiny little moon with a surface temperature of -180 degrees. Which is what we call ‘a bit chilly’. And water should be ice. Ahhh, but this water is 24 miles below the moon’s surface. Oh. Would be very interesting to se what ‘life’ could possibly evolve down there. I’m thinking animals with drills. Boring tools, or those capable of designing a very fast elevator. Can you even get a mobile phone signal down there when I struggle in my own kitchen? And what is life without an iphone?

Happy friday

A xxxx

Sunday nights is bath night in our house.

We bring in the zinc bathtub from the outhouse, put it on the kitchen floor and boil pans of water for a while. Being the man I bath first. Then the water gets used by everyone else in strict order of age, favours given, debts owed, promises made, until everyone’s clean. Eeeeuuuuw.

But Sunday night is in fact the night I take a bath. Only on Sundays. The rest of the week I shower. Fast, frequently and often. Because I’m a man and we don’t generally do ‘lying in our own slime’ when a shower is so much more efficient and the acoustics are better for singing. So I shower morning and night, every day, mainly because I’m a bit obsessive, but also because I’m a sweaty, greasy git.

Sunday’s its the luxury. Bath just 3 degrees off boiling temperature, me, a kindle (best not drop that really, Mel did once ‘just to test it’; yep, definitely failed that test), brilliant. Simmer for 30 minutes or until red and wrinkly all over. Drain and place in a soft white towel…

But washing can be a problem.

Whatever happened to soap? Remember soap? Well we don’t got none.

In the shower I have shower gel and even, if I’m feeling decadent, shampoo. But by the bath we have Boots the fucking chemist. Shelves and shelves of part-specific cleansers, scrubs, exfoliators, scourers, rejuvenators and more herbs than we have in the kitchen.

How is a facial cleanser different from a facial scrub? Oh, that one’s got ground up concrete in it, that must be the scrub. Well, apricot stones, concrete, all feels the same when you try to wash your goolies with it. I found another, less brutal, less gritty wash, that seemed to work fine. Then found it was made by ‘Femfresh’, for those intimate parts. Well, just because I’m a man doesn’t preclude intimate parts, does it? Like I don’t have feelings either?? I certainly felt that apricot grit-wash on me bollocks, that’s for sure.

It would appear that I’ve found a gender difference even more profound than the ability to park a car, throw a ball (without looking girly) or growing a beard (that last one doesn’t apply in Southern Europe). The women in my house use a different cleaner for every single part of their anatomy. Arm wash, leg soap, facial cleanser, necky foam, chest, er, stuff, naughty bits ‘intimate Femfresh’, toe wipers, foot scrub, finger mousse, wrist shampoo…

And, of course, a moisturiser for every corresponding bit. Well, you wouldn’t want to use hand cream on your legs, would you??? Perish the thought.

Gimme a break. And a bar of bleedin’ soap, will ya? Or I’ll just jump in the river in my clothes, like a cowboy. Yee hah.

Happy Thursday

A xxx