Andy's Glasses

Oh my word. What a disgrace. How shameful. Forget groping Lib-Dem Lords, set aside quenelle gestures by footballers; Spearmint Rhino and the Apartheid regime are both insignificant as gestures of racism and sexism, compared to… to…
to THIS!!!!

Dasha Zhukova is sitting on a CHAIR!!!!!

What a total BITCH!!!!!! (what’s ‘bitch’ in Russian?)

But what a chair.

Its (apparently) a replica of a pop art 1960s chair designed by Allen Jones. Remember Allen Jones? He was the one who… who… oh alright, I’ve never heard of him either. Anyway, he designed furniture based upon scantily clad women because it was 1960, another world. In which they still had slavery, people smoked all day, you could still call a spade a spade and women stayed at home filling their husbands’ pipes ready for his homecoming at 5.37. Germaine Greer was still back in Australia where she belonged and the extent of someone’s ‘feminism’ meant how big their chest was.

Then a (bloody) Norwegian (typical!!!) re-did the chair, blacked it up and Dasha Z found one for her art gallery in Moscow. And had the damned cheek, the bald-faced nerve, the outright audacity not just to sit on it but to BE FILMED DOING SO!!!!
Might as well have raped the corpse of Nelson Mandela, all the fuss its caused.

I would have issues with Ms Zhukova on the grounds that she’s an oligarch’s daughter and she’s shacked up with Money-Launderer-in-chief, Chelsea boss Roman Abramovich, for whom she is much too good looking. But she can sit where she wants. On whatever she chooses. She can sit on Nicolas Anelka’s head for all I care. Its not a ‘gesture’, nor a ‘political statement’, its just sitting down. So why all the fuss?

Because this CHAIR(!!!!) represents a type of racist misogyny that simply doesn’t exist in our post-politically-correct world. Its an affront to every modern value in a world so obsessed with appearance, so devoted to sterility of both thought and action, so repressively determined never to cause any offense to any group, creed, race or sect, except Mormons, obviously, and Arsenal fans, that it has totally lost its perspective on history. And you should never judge history by modern values.

But they do. And in every paper is Dasha, sitting on ‘THAT CHAIR’, telling us how its A TOTAL FUCKING DISGRACE. To all humanity.

I actually like that chair. Because its funny. In any age, at any time. And it represents another world, which also adds to its charm.

So to the critics of Dasha Z (and not just because she’s really gorgeous, because that too would be a representation of chauvinistic horror) I’d just like to say: ITS JUST A CHAIR; SOD OFF.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

I believe in freedom. Amen.

I believe in personal liberty. But not taking liberties with others. Even if you’re a politician. Especially if you’re a relic of a 1970s radio jock.

I don’t like censorship, I believe in the sanctity of free speech and expression and I think people should be given sufficient lattitude in all walks of life to show, time and again, that they can’t be trusted with such a luxury. Enough rope to hang themselves. And dangle they will, every fucking time.

And the government, among other things (though I’m never sure what they might be), are charged with drawing lines in our personal freedoms, with saving us from our own worst excesses, from shifting the moral guidelines to accommodate an ever-changing world.
But some things they do amaze me.

Gambling is a good one. I’m not much of a gambler. Though many are. An it can be a bit of fun or it can be an addictive, destructive obsession. And yet watch any sporting event on tv and the commercial breaks spend their allotted three minutes telling you how easy gambling can be. Go on, do it NOW! We’ll give you the first 20 quid free. Bet on this very football match. You don’t need to phone anyone or go anywhere, just go online. No computer? Your phone will do. Here’s an app called ‘instant loser’ and you we’ll give you 8 to 3 on David Moyes being strangled by a Man United fan during the game. 17 to 4 on the floodlights going out during the match. 26 to 1 on any player coming out as gay during injury time. Its sooooo easy; just nick your mum’s credit card and you’re away…

And boozing is another. They’ve just opened the first ever pub in a motorway service station. The Drink & Drive… ok, its actually called the Hope & Champion is open to serve its drinks to… er… to… well, who you gonna serve in a service area by junction 2 on the M40? Probably motorists, I’d imagine. As you’re not allowed to walk down the M40 as far as I know. And its open brilliant hours, so if you stop to fill up at 5 in the morning, you can have a couple pints before breakfast and be on your way, with just a little ‘buzz’. You know, just to take the edge off of life’s harshness, just to blur those edges a tiny bit. Just to make you more aggressive, judgement impaired and a much better singer for when Born to Run comes on the radio.

So the police are always talking ‘zero alcohol’ when driving and then they license a pub on a motorway. I think the term: ‘go figure’ is appropriate in such circumstances.

I’m applying to open a fully licensed bar and grill, opium den, Amsterdam style ‘coffee shop’ and casino/brothel, on the M6 at Droitwich. Where you get a free rent-boy with every £1000 lost and Wednesdays are all the paraplegics you can eat days, at ‘Andy’s’. Clergy welcome. Police probably not.

Happy all the paraplegics you can eat day,

A xxxx

Its amazing, profound and highly significant.

I just googled to see what ‘bitch’ is in French. Not that most French people wouldn’t understand, if not the word itself, certainly the tone in which it is uttered. But what I found was 756,371 sites (ok, I didn’t count them all, but certainly more than 20) dedicated to swearing at the French in their own language. More than exist for any other language (errr… probably) and more than for any other nationality. Because you need to insult French people much more than any others, more than all the others put together. Its a fact. And to do it in English, whilst kind of rewarding to a degree, simply lacks the unambiguous joy of calling someone a ‘chienne’ or ‘putain’ or a ‘totalement wankeur’.
It avoids that possibly horrible situation of having a conversation explaining what ‘tosser’ means, or ‘bollox’ to someone who smells of garlic and doesn’t wash their hair.

And the reason for this search for further education, other than just for academic research purposes, the reason I need to call a bitch a bitch is because Anne Hildago, the deputy mayor of Paris, has earned that right to be so insulted. No, not just because she’s French, used to be Francois Hollande’s ‘culture minister’ until recently (read: shagged her way to the top, obviously), nor because she’s a nob (sorry, doesn’t really translate, that one; not in the feminine anyway).

She accused Boris Johnson, the mayor of London, of ‘claiming’ that London is now more popular than Paris. A claim based on a mildly creative use of statistics, the likes of which haven’t been seen since Enron folded, I concede. But it is true. Last summer 20% more people visited Londres than did the year before, which was the Olympic Year. Millions of (fucking) foreigners, enjoying our City, taking in the sites, picking our pockets and raping our wildlife. So many that London (according to Boris) is now more popular than Paris. Add to that the relatively small number of French people we have here compared to there and London becomes much much much better.

So Mdme Deputy Mayor de Paris; how d’ya like them pommes?
And what is a ‘deputy’ mayor, in fact? Its like a deputy road-sweeper. A deputy bus conductor. What’s its point? Its ‘raison d’etre’?? (translate that, ya bitch!) We don’t have a deputy mayor, we have decent, nice, clean people instead.

Like Lord Rennard.

He’s clean. For a lib-dem. But he has issues. Or rather, others have issues with him. Women, mainly, who accused him of being ‘inappropriate’ (fondling), mildly abusive (groping) and essentially a very very naughty Lord. He denies it. All 11 of them were just imagining it, maybe even wishing secretly that the obese, sweaty Billy Bunter clone would in fact molest them sexually.

But he won’t apologise. Instead wants to come back to the government as if nothing had ever happened. Quite right too. Sexual abuse is just soooooo zeitgeist. In almost every court in the land. We are turning in to a nation of perverts.

Come to London: get groped.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

David Silvester, a councillor in Henley and representative of the UKIP party, has been suspended by that sorry band of reactionary, stick-in-the-mud, pre-Victorian racists and other Daily Mail readers, because of some comments he made. He said that the recent terrible flooding in his and other areas was a direct message from God to David Cameron in response and anger over the legalisation of gay marriage. Real, Old Testament, fire and brimstone stuff. So what next? A plague of locusts in Reigate? Slaying of the firstborn in Burton-upon-Trent?? I thought that shit was all over. I thought we no longer had miracles and the term ‘act of God’ was purely a get-out for sheister insurance companies looking to avoid a claim. Then up pops old Silvester and shames his political party. Not a normal party either, but UKIP. Which is almost impervious to shame in any normal sense.

Whereas I know, for a fact, that the flooding was really because Arsenal are top of the Premiership table. And God is a Spurs fan. Big fan. Sits not so much ‘in’ the Upper West stand but kind of ‘just above it’. In that godly way. (Also saving about 15 hundred quid a year on a season ticket. Clever).

We played Swansea yesterday. Not the best team in the league but by no means the worst either. They play nice football and have a great manager in Michael Laudrup. But Spurs outplayed them. Fairly comprehensively. With Adebayor once again cast in the most unlikely role as hero. A credit to Tim Sherwood for firstly giving him a chance and secondly to appreciate that with so few strikers on the books its pretty assenine not to play the ones we do have.

Arsenal go marching on. Ok, only Fulham, and at home, but its still a job that needs to be done. Similarly Manchester City, saw off Cardiff even though they conceded two goals. Though outscoring Manchester City this year is becoming something of an impossibility, however many you score.

Not so Chelsea. Much harder to score against that lot. Manchester United did manage it, but only once and way too late in the game to affect either the result or the horrific grimace on David Moyes’ face. His team, particularly in the continued absence of Rooney and Van Persie, look very very underpowered.

Liverpool struggled against a neat-looking Aston Villa side who played their ‘break away’ game with aplomb at Anfield on Saturday night, forcing the Scousers to consider themselves lucky to get their one point. Which was good for Spurs. And remember; anything that’s good for Spurs is good for the whole world. And for God.

We could do with Everton not winning tonight at West Brom. Though whether Anelka plays is almost a more interesting question than the result itself. I’m hoping for at very least a lightening strike on the Hawthorns if not the full Sodom and Gomorrah.

Happy Monday, let’s be careful out there, and say our prayers.

A xxxx

I thought of a great way to con people. Its brilliaint. A modern day sting. Or Sting. Here’s what you do:

you make a film about a con, a sting, a hustle. You get truly brilliant actors (I shall include the females under this generality for the sake of… of… of something) and you get them performing brilliantly and you create a massive hype surrounded by Oscar nominations and glitzy 70s period costumes. And then you use a story which is limp, weak, lacks credibility and is lumpily unbelievable. And con the British public into spending their hard earned, tax-paid income on this truly American Hustle.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t hate it, purely because Christian Bale is magnificent, Amy Adams amazing and Jennifer Lawrence… well, to be honest, her presence alone precludes my ability to hate anything. If she played for Arsenal I’d have serious problems. If she performed a quenelle at the Oscars I’d consider forgiving Anelka.

But much like that other Oscar nominated movie; Blue Jasmine, this too is a bunch of magnificent performances that simply didn’t work for me as a movie. Though unlike the Woody Allen film, this one is too long. All films tend to be too long and suffer for it. Because you get bored and start thinking about how uncomfortable cinema seats can be. As a rule, a movie should last as long it takes to get all the bits of popcorn husk out of your teeth. Any longer is just vanity by the director. Or the dentist. (?)

In American Hustle the Bradley Cooper character is the main flaw. I like Mr Cooper; he was wonderful in Silver Linings Playbook, fabulous in The Hangover, but was just wrong in this. A problem with the plot rather than the acting.

So that was last night. Luckily we had such fun in the afternoon at the London Art Exhibition at the Design Centre in Islington. What was planned as ‘a leisurely afternoon/early evening stroll enjoying the best of artisitic endevours’ turned out to be an hour of pushing through crowds trying to get just a peek at some total shit (in the name of ‘art’), some piece of cardboard painted white, (£5750 + vat), a collage like my kids did in kindergarten, but more childish (£7225 + vat), three red squares on a blue canvas (£9583) and a photo of an old man (£22,745).

Nothing wowed, nothing even made us look twice, but on the plus side, I didn’t get my pockets picked nor got ribs broken in the constant crush.

We were out within an hour. Job done. Art over. Let’s check out the football scores.

Fortunately, for art’s sake, I played tennis brilliantly. I played like Toulouse-Lautrec.

Happy sunday

A xxxx

Nicolas Anelka ‘performed’ his now infamous ‘quenelle’ geture after scoring a goal on December 28th. I think it safe to say that at that time, unless you are French or part of a worldwide anti-semitic conspiracy, that, like me, you’d never seen nor heard of such a thing. I thought a ‘quenelle’ was a new form of low-calorie pulse, bigger than cous-cous, firmer than barley. But no, its a ‘reverse nazi salute’, invented by a French ‘comedian’ called Dieudonne M’bala M’bala. Who, in his spare time, stirs up anti-jewish, anti-zionist and anti-most-things hatred amongst the muslim and extreme right-wing communities. An unlikely alliance in itself, if you think about it. Because most of the far right in France are essentially anti-muslim first and foremost. Which is why the Le Penn dynasty fared so well in Marseilles due to its massive North African immigrant population. And extremist Muslims are the Front Nationale’s biggest bête noir. If that’s not a racist term. But Dieudonne has managed the impossible and has united these groups of not very nice people who, under other circumstances, would be the most natural of enemies. And the glue that binds them, the common ground, the catalyst, is anti-semitism. Everything is compromise. Let’s all hate the fucking Jews. And rejoice!

So Anelka ‘quenelles’ and there is a slightly belated uproar once we’ve all worked out what, precisely, he was signalling. And why.

Because he stated he did the act purely in support of his friend Dieudonne who had been banned from certain appearances due to the content of his ‘act’. Nothing to do with anything anti-semitic. No, nothing at all. I had this swastika tatooed on my chest because its a pretty shape. Means nothing.

Anelka’s team, West Bromwich Albion, have been very cagey about it and have made no sanctions against the player. The ‘Kick-it-Out’, anti-racism-in-football organisation have done similarly fuck all, giving credit to the defence that the player was just supporting his mate, didn’t really realise, blah, blah, fucking bullshit.

So it came down to the Football Association, the governing body of our national game, the grande fromages, the main dudes, the all powerful, all seeing, quasi-godlike rulers of EVERYTHING. And we await their decision. And we await. And await. And await some more. Because they’ve said that they won’t have an answer until January 20th at the earliest.

They obviously don’t have access to Google at the FA then. Because one click and they would know everything there is to know about ‘le quenelle’ and its significance, offensiveness and implications. Its not an ambiguous sign. It doens’t have another meaning, about saving the rainforests or supporting Jennifer Lawrence in her quest for another oscar. Otherwise I’d be doing it all the time.

Zoopla, West Brom’s shirt sponsors have threatened to remove sponsorship immediately if Anelka plays on Monday night. Good for them. But sadly, you can’t have sponsors picking the teams. But you can have sponsors removing their sponsorship if its being abused, maligned and used to represent racist arseholes like Anelka.

So to Greg Dyke and his merry band at the FA: DO SOMETHING FOR ONCE IN YOUR SORRY, HIGHLY PAID LIVES THAT IS WORTHWHILE. DELAY NO LONGER. MAKE A STAND AGAINST EVIL.

And can you get back to me by June/July time?

Happy Saturday

A xxxx

Fantastic goal was scored on Sunday by Cheik Tiote, the Newcastle midfielder. Stunning goal. Goal of the day/month/season type goal. And then it wasn’t. After careful consideration (we don’t got no tv replays in our national game) and discussion it was decided that it was not a goal. Someone was offside. Not Tiote, he was a mile away from the very crowded goal area. But someone else. Who, whilst apparently neither ‘active’ nor ‘interfering with play’ was deemed to have had some, presumably subliminal or telekinetic, effect on the event and the goal was thus disallowed. Oh dear.

His manager, Alan Pardew, after the (losing) game, said that the goal should have stood. No surprise there. Manager always make excuses and as they go, this was a good one. But the surprise was his reasoning. Which was that ‘football is entertainment’ and therefore something as wonderfully entertaining as that goal should have been allowed to stand. Well I personally find it ‘entertaining’ when Arsenal players suffer studs-up, boots in the throat tackles. But players still get sent off for perpetrating such actions.

So at what point to rules/regulations/protocols give way to the great god that is ‘entertainment’?

I shall confess, at this point, that I’m not a great opera fan. In fact, having been but once in my life to see that (shit) artform, (Rigoletto, Vienna Statsoper, 1985), it scared me away. Fat people in fancy dress screaming at each other in a Italian, fortunately with German subtitles(?), simply didn’t move me like career-threatening tackles on Arsenal players does. Ok, well it moved me to tears, it moved me to want to leave, and it moved me towards other artistic expression in my life. Like pole-vaulting.

But now this may change.

In an opera staged in Germany, the singer Danielle De Niese, (typical Aussie name) has performed in some opera or other. Dressed not in the Elizabethan, high-necked, sixteen-petticoated, floor length burgundy velvet monstrosity, but in a leopard print leotard. Writhing round on stage like Rhianna. Like Beyoncee. Twerking like Mylie. Hip-thrusting (I’m making this up a bit now, the fantasy has taken on its own momentum), spinning little tassels on her chest, licking things, sliding around doing the splits…

Whatever.

But at the opera!!! A leotard!!!!

And you know what? She’s right. They’re right. The producers, directors, costume decider people. Because opera is the dullest, most tedious, boring, tragic of all the performing arts. Its like watching England play cricket, but with less white. Its like baseball without the spitting. Its like living in Norway. So to spice it up a bit may get more people engaged, more people interested, keen to learn a whole new classical musical world. Increase the entertainment value. And see bare flesh gyrating.

My only question is whether I’m allowed to watch it, if its ’empowerment’ of women, like Beyoncee, or if its banned from my life as yet another perverted low form of smutty ‘objectification’ of women, like lap-dancing.
I’m still struggling with that one. Same actions, same clothes, one is a feminist statement the other a vile act of submission to misogynistic and chauvinistic pornography.

But either way, its certainly entertainment.

Happy friday

A xxxx

China is making big efforts in improving its image. As well it needs to. Its an awful place. Corrupt, overcrowded, full of poor people, under a brutal regime, no human rights, forced to eat dogs, cats and slugs, and it produces more carbon than the rest of the world put together.

But its rich. Very rich. So rich that is ‘People’s Liberation Army’ (the government) has a fleet of cars that cost £8billion. That’s a lot of Jaguars. Shitloads of Bentleys. A multitude of Mercedes. But no longer. They’re selling up their motors and told to drive round in Chinese cars only. Did you know China made cars? No, neither did I. Though most of us are not privy to what happens in China anyway. Its never been the most open of nations.

The making of cars should come as no surprise really; they manufacture everything for the entire world. Though apparently these cars, Geely and Chery and BYD are ‘somewhat less sophisticated than their European or Japanese counterparts’.
They’re shit. In other words. I’m thinking a Flintstones car with boy-racer stripes down the side and chrome alloys. But you don’t fuck with Chinese high command. Well you can do, but only once.

They’re also trying to improve their green-ness. As their nation burns more coal and gas than any other they’re making efforts to do the right thing. They have nuclear energy and they’re building wind farms. As you’d expect, loads of wind farms in loads of out of the way places (most of China is ‘out of the way’; out of my way at least). I saw them on tv. Massive windfarms, all done with economy and speed, sitting there waiting for the wind to blow. Ahhhhh, just putting up metal windmills won’t do it then, you need wind. Hmmmmmm…

We have wind farms here too. How do you grow wind? Eat a curry? Sorry. You don’t, you ‘harness’ it by putting up mostrous, ugly, outrageously expensive, immense steel windmills and hope the wind blows. And then you pay those upon whose land those windmills sit more outrageous expense to host them.

One fracking site of 4 hectares (no idea, I think a hectare is the square on the hypotenuse divided by the cost of a Chinese car, in Euros, but don’t quote me) will generate more energy than all the windmills in Britain. At a fraction of the cost. And then its good English fuel, paying good English taxes, employing good Rumanian workers to do the sucking out bit.

Furthermore, it will get rid of some of that awful English countryside and replace it with buildings and car parks and good things that are pleasing on the eye.

It is apparently written into council by-laws that spitting in public is subject to a maximum fine of £500. As it should be. So after watching Match of the Day on Saturday, I’d like Wayne Rooney to pay his £25,000, John Terry £48,500 and all the other to cough up (errrrr) their fines appropriately.

And if they fined them for swearing too, that would be just fucking brilliant.

Happy thursday

A xxxx

Poor Valerie Trierweiller. Upon hearing of her partner’s love affair with Julie Gayet, she felt as if, according to a friend, ‘she’d been hit in the chest by a high speed train’.

She should live in England. The trains are never high speed, if they turn up at all.

But this explains why certain women choose to protect themselves from such metaphorical trauma. And how they do so is with air bags.
If a train hit Pamela Anderson in the chest, or Jordan, or Heidi Montag, it would simply bounce off; back the way it had come from.
So the lesson is: if you suspect your husband of having an affair, increase your chest size to FF immediately. Only massive lumps of silicon can save you.

But the sorry tale of French rumpy-pumpy has descended into a somewhat more cynical place. Where Ms Trierweiller, almost as horrendously unpopular in her own right as her useless Monsieur Le President ‘husband-ish’, has to decide how to react to his confessions of infidelity. Already the first unmarried woman to inhabit the Elysee Palace as the First Bimbo, her position there was always a little tenuous. So if she decides to shut the door and never return to the two-timing little shit, she gives up rather a lot.

State funded assistants, security guards, limousines and drivers, private jets, allowances for clothes, croissants, foix gras and untipped cigarettes. It would all go. All the things that perhaps influenced her decision to hook up with the ugly little bald man in the first place when she had, for some years, been conducting relationships with both Hollande and the leader of a Far Right party as well.
Playing the middle ground. The French way.

Hollande confessed to Valerie, as all real men must do. Out of honour, out of decency, out of doing the right thing, the honest thing.
And because he knew that the next day it was going to be all over the papers.

He only stayed with Julie overnight because there was no room on Le First Scooter for a third person to go anywhere. Security guard up front, Francois on the back, where would Julie sit? On the handlebars?? If the economy there was better they’d have a little Citroen and the problem would be solved.

So now he must decide.

The French, being French, are all very familiar and comfortably accepting of dalliances among their high command, but they need to know their leader’s intentions purely so they know how many old tarts and slappers they will be funding in the coming years. It has become a budgetary consideration.

Hollande needs to grow some balls and make his choices.

Where is the number for that silicon implanter?

Bon Mardi

A xxxx

It seems that the world of football punditry is being taken over. By Scousers.

Jamie Carragher hung up his boots last year, put on a suit and open-necked shirt (protocols for the trade) and sat in the Sky studio making noises that no-one could undersand. Well, Stevie Gerrard could probably understand him, maybe Wayne Rooney, but very few who grew up south of the Wirral stood any kind of chance. Yet they refuse to employ sub-titles.

Yesterday they had Jamie along with his fellow ex-Liverpool teammate Didi Hamaan. A German. Ahhhhh, I thought, at least Germans speak proper English. And he does. Almost. Because he speaks it with a very strong Liverpudlio-Krautish accent. And its the Scouse that stands out in his speech patterns. His years at the club had resulted in the horrible Liverpudlian stifling his natural Germanic so he sounded like Paul McCartney doing a Hitler impersonation. Badly.

Another sorry hybrid is Jan Molby. A Dane. A very Great Dane now he’s stopped his training. And Danes speak really good English. Unless they happened to have spent 12 years at Anfield, as Jan did, rendering his speech a lot more Cilla Black than it is Michael Laudrup.

Why is ‘Scouse’ so toxic? Why does it saturate all other types of accent?
I think the answer is that in Liverpool the natives aren’t aware they actually speak English at all and unless you strangle your vowels, drop most of your consonants and pull strange mouth and facial expressions as you talk, they don’t understand you.

But I don’t wish to detract from my new book. Coming to a bookshop near you very soon.

After reading (well, looking at the pictures of her in a bathing suit that was an extreme testament to her waxer) extracts from Cameron Diaz new book: How To Have a Fabulous Body Like Mine, You (previously) Fat Fucker, in 96 easy steps, all of them Really Painful; I’m bringing out my own. Well everyone else is doing it. The obsession with waifness, with fitness, with body beautiful, with size zero continues in every paper every day, normally opposite articles on how to get your children to stop obsessing about their body image, how to prevent anorexia, how models shouldn’t be stick thin, blah, blah fucking blah.

So here’s an extract from my book (£7.99 in all really bad bookstores… if you can still find a bookstore, otherwise £1.17 on Amazon).

Day 1.
Eat food. Lots of it. Fry-ups, Mars bars and chips. Ok, have an apple if you must. But don’t skimp on the carbs and get plenty of added sugar or you’ll be asleep by 2pm.

Day 2.
Repeat as above.
Exercise routine: walk to the pub. Stay for at least 3 hours. Walk back. Staggering counts double. Like your vision.

Continue for 6 weeks and just hope that a fabulous genetic make-up and a bizarrely hyperactive metabolism prevents weight gain.

Its THAT simple.

Bit like me.

Happy monday

A xxxx