Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Antigua - St John's iron roofsWhile Ryan writes about the problems of making Blogger forget stuff, I seem to be excelling. Last time I looked this post went something along the lines of:

"I love the colourful clothes you wear", the suitability of the Beach Boys for summer, doing style Az style, and something else.

Anyway, I went shopping fairly recently, and other than buying a stupid amount of DVDs (and one CD, which I'm currently listening to, Muse: Origin of Symmetry), oh and not getting a birthday/housewarming present for a friend after walking round half of John Lewis's with a nosebleed. Oh, and a tip for the successful shopper, who doesn't wish to induce another nosebleed; do check for local events before using shortcuts. Perhaps trying to walk through a gridlocked [bodylocked?] Soho during Pride (apparently London Pride is not just beer) wasn't really the greatest idea, especially not when I noticed the fellow loiters from the night before (I'll explain later, if I'm allowed to*). So if you saw someone clothed struggling through the near naked throng, snagging the occasional thong**, all while holding the bridge of his nose and every so often pausing to admire another man's equipment (there were some seriously nice cameras there), then that was probably me.

And there I was thinking it would be empty because of the football.

*This isn't actually connected to the guy who wouldn't let me write about things, but it'll be fun to wind him up. And I've just noticed he's dropped the link which was prompting incipient reciprocation.

** Ok, not true, but I like the throng/thong thing.

Anyway, diverting briefly to the football, which I obviously didn't watch, having watched the first England game and therefore fulfilled my quota (I realised watching it that the last (and first) match I saw was probably Euro 96, and so me next scheduled whole match viewing will be in 2016). It's odd seeing people forming beams radiating out from televisions; in several case watching through doors and windows, and so streaming out into the street, rigidly aligned like iron filings over a hidden magnet. And judging from the comparative silence, things weren't going well; the day before I'd been deafened by constant rounds of e-tal-ya.

So by the time I hit a deserted Morrissons (which could have been because of the match, or simply because it's always like that), semaphore between the kiosks was breaking down (apparently they hadn't agreed the signal for "miss") and there was a definite tension in the air, along with a suggestion of rotten potatoes, the latter perhaps a synaesthetic result of Morrissons' instore radio: Songs you'd forgotten and those you don't even remember. I'd like to make some disparaging remark about whichever arse-end of Radio 2 singer was playing, but I can't actually remember, which is probably just as well. It is noticeable that the songs they play all seem to come from the big wire basket of jumbled CDs, all for £1.99, all by people I'd never heard of, so a bit like Virgin then, except for the jumble, wire, basket, price, and the all.

So after waiting an age to buy 75-pence-worth of oranges (I came for reduced stuff, but it mostly wasn't, and even if it were, it wasn't decently reduced), because that's how they make their money, by not employing enough staff to man the tills, although there is that big gaggle over there arguing, and now they're waiting, and watching the queues; ah, I see, it's such an egalitarian company that any staff asked to man the tills can refuse providing they can present a compelling argument, so presumably those three were positing that it's not busy enough to warrant more people on the tills, so now they're going to start noting how many people are queueing at each till every five minutes or so in a rolling assessment, and then once they have enough data they can ascertain the underlying trends and so see if it would have be necessary to put more staff on the tills during the initial examined period. Such efficiency!

But during the wait the Bangladeshi girl on the till starts conversing with the couple behind me, in what I presume is Bangladeshi, although it could have been Zulu. I'm not really listening, because that would be rude (far ruder than ignoring the customer one is serving and craning round the next one in the queue to talk to the people behind him) and because I didn't understand. But then it lapses into the traditional -lish language common to some many tongues. Sometimes it only occurs in certain circumstances, so listening to crackly French radio kecko-ing and eek!-ing its way through a report on Thatcher, Reagan, la Defense Strategique and something to do with a university for Basque separatists, or Welsh locals trying to mention something that isn't a singing leek chewed by rained upon sheep halfway up a mountain, or any German broadcast strewn with sehr kool English (or English-ish) words.

There was some babble containing the words "Gerrard", "Rooney" (like chutney, only thicker), which then was followed by "Penalty-hai", more speech, something said in lowered tones, which elicited a long, incredulous "hai?" which I took to be roughly analogous to the teeth-sucking which occurs before being told the big end's gone.

And no, I'm not sure she was Bangladeshi, but someone who claims to be her brother said he was when confronted by that odd Sino-Italian woman who is a habitué of that branch (long complicated story; this is what happens when there aren't even staff on the tills).

So I left in a state of mild confusion, although that might have the been the utter lack of sleep, food or water, the heat, the blood loss, or the realisation I've got go out again soon. And as I did so I passed a group trying to do the Monkees walk while singing "Always look on the bright side of life". Hai indeed.

I suppose I probably should mention the reason for the tiredness thing. On Friday I was supposed to meet some friends from uni, one of whom was on holiday from NZ. They were going Womble Hunting (well, spending the day tracking furry things in SW19), and then coming back into town for "some drinkings". I arranged to meet. Turned up late. Sent text message. Got delayed response: Ok. Going to Wimbledon Underground Station [yep, that must be the same guy as flooded 3 flats at uni. Wimbledon Station does both types of railway]. Can meet you there.

Which I read meaning he wanted me to meet him in... oh hang on, that can't be right, because he was going to the tennis, then coming up to Soho, hence standing on a street corner getting dodgy looks (it turns out that by choosing to stand in front of the half renovated shop (I'm sure it was a Thai restaurant last time I looked) next to the Stockpot (I've never found the proper one my father used to take us to on in-service days; my mother teaches, so her children had the day off when she didn't, hence spending the day colouring in and hole-punching to death scrap computer printout paper [nice green lines] while staring out over St James's Square), I'd placed myself in front of the only darkened plate glass window in town, and so was standing in front of Soho's biggest mirror. So all those guys with a squint who were checking me out, er, weren't.

I wrote a reply saying I'd wait in Soho if he was coming, or if he meant meet in Wimbledon, then it's too far, and I wouldn't come, oh and when's he next in London? Reply: OK. Back around 18th. Give you a text to meet.

I waited for while trying to figure it out. Ok to which option? Tried to ring him, but his phone didn't ring, so he was probably on the Tube by then.

I hang round, attracting amused glances from people leaving the Stockpot who passed me on the way in. I wait long enough that the guy who went into on the flats over the Moorish place had time to shower, change, probably eat, and come back out again. I see various people pass me several times, noticing that some u-turn immediately the crowd thins out, others walk further and put on a pretence of having forgotten something and so turning back (as they'll do again in 18 minutes).

I direct umpteen people towards Chinatown, the nearest Tube station, and "The Soho area". I have to admit to only giving facetiously misleading answers in the latter case (all other cases being unintentionally misleading, but fortunately forgetting which road I was on should have been covered by general vagueness. "Down there, turn right" said he pointing to the lane that meets five others at the far end).

But as for asking where Soho is while standing it; that's as bad as asking "are we nearly there yet" when standing in the hall taking off your coat. Naturally enough I made sure these fine specimens of Americus tourista (y'all from Artexah? Say, which state is that? The Sunshine State, the Potato State, the Empire State, the Beehive State [oh, all the good ones taken?], the Hawkeye State [what?], the Beaver Steak, the Garden Stake, the Golden State? Uh-huh, the Inbred State? Well, woonchanoit?) saw much of the delights of Soho. So I sent the them down Old Compton Street, right at the end, straight up until they hit Oxford Street, cross straight over, and on until they get to end of that road, and then... oh, it's complicated, you'll forget. Just ask for Greek Street once you're there. So down here, turn right, straight on till the end, then ask for "Greek Street". Look, if they can walk through Old Compton Street and Wardour Street on a Friday night and not twig, well, they don't really deserve to know where Soho is, do they? And I did give them a sporting chance, as the first road sign they'd see would be Greek Street.

Of course I should have directed them to that alleyway at the end of Berwick Street, if only to watch the misunderstandings that might arise.

So I stood waiting while the tide flowing out towards Covent Garden ebbed and flooded back into Soho, while Italy won and BMWs streaming Italian flags roared round the block, while Tesco's managed to direct two lorries through Friday night crowds, while an idiot on a motorbike nearly killed himself and several others, many times, while tourist families spilt out of Mary Poppins into the post-football confusion, while staid young couples walked back from dinner and drew cold at the sight of such otherness, while it got dark. Eventually a text, which began "really daft question" later, I discovered I'd been stood up. I considered going back to the department, but the building would close soon, and surely there must be something I can do on a Friday night in Soho which does not involve PDFs.

So a brief wander, someone I vaguely knew, and a flyer which said free (always appeals) later, I'm in some darkened room, being deafened by awful music while people stare at me. Oh, I'm standing against the wall, and the walls are mirrored. Although he's definitely staring at me. Oh sod off; leaving aside all other issues, I have some taste. Go and work on your drunk-enough-dar. Will you quit staring. The psycho-killer eyes aren't really doing it for me. Oh, you thought that was looking seductive? No, I'll show...er, no I won't. Er... I've just got to go to the loo, and that is not a bloody invitation. And you can sod off too with your "shall I pump you?" handheld liquid soap. Oh it's this song again, don't they have enough trash that they can last beyond an hour? I didn't know it the first time round, so why repeat? Anyway, I'd better go and dance, if only to lose the stalkers. Thank God awful music has enough of a beat that any fool can dance to it, and I quite like dancing, even though I can't. I haven't done this in ages. And then the lights came on, and we went outside, and pretended it wasn't dawn while waiting for the bus.

It's quite odd to discover I'm irresistible, even if it is only amongst the purest dregs of insanity (that was meant to me humanity, but my tired brain has obviously gone Freudian).

The next day involved a nice fun bus ride across north London, using a bus whose route I couldn't make sense of when I read the names on the timetable. It turns out that all those places are were I thought they were, and the bus route is like that simple computer game (and so one of those found on mobiles) were you have to stop the line hitting the sides or itself. Just as well it wasn't a bendy bus.

So get back, undress, curse the flatmate who showers five times a day for being in the bathroom, discover it's Lurch (of the poor aim), and he was mopping the floor. He hasn't cleaned it, just evened the grime over the floor and mop. I'm feeling less guilty for cremating his frying pan now, but if he hadn't left it sitting on the stove for a week, full of fat and meat juices... Actually I don't think he's noticed the blackened bits.

Anyway, shower, forget to shave, decide not to bother (it'll only make my skin worse), send text to say I'll be about half an hour late, grab lunch, leave sometime after I was supposed to arrive, just miss tube, so have to hang round till next on engineering works weekend timetable (the screens had reverted to their standard telling you which platform you're on, which means they don't know when the next train is), change at Problem (oh, so apt), which consists of getting off, meeting the queue to get onto the platform in the tunnel, and, er, joining. One train later and I've elbowed my way to the platform edge. Train comes in full, few people get off, train leaves full, after about eight goes at shutting the doors. Repeat this time with a murderous mob about to lynch to the two arrogant bints who don't move down inside the carriage to make room for two more people. Fortunately it's so completely packed with bodies that we can't get close enough to flay, eviscerate or grind. The driver tries to close the doors, unsuccessfully. There follows a very sarcastic announcement on the train about the gentleman with the throbbing headache, which is not, despite what he may think, being caused by the heat. A startled man mongooses up for further down the train, as I realise I've just been leaning against the outside of a Tube, and so could mine coal in my love line. He pops back down as the doors buck outwards as they hit his shoulder blades.

The train groans off, accelerating apparently proportionally to the density inside the passing carriages. There's seats in that one! I abandon my artfully gained "the doors open here" position, and charge off down the platform and stop somewhere near the other end, hoping the next train is like the last, and that not everybody from the crowded end follows me. Remarkably few do.

During all this, I finally get round to noticing that southbound trains on one line come into a pair of parallel platforms in a different direction to southbound trains on a different line. I hope the same is true of northbound otherwise my brain might melt.

The next train arrives, I grab a carriage-end ledge (by the wonderful window, which some fool had closed), in preference to a pre-moistened seat, the train takes a few attempts to get the doors shut, and pulls off, hissing past the crowd remaining on most of the platform.

Off at Pimlico (oh, am I supposed to deGoogle that too? Dunlop then), to the Tate, hunt round for the friend, who I miss for a while over some slight left/right issues (she meant Westminsterwards), who is disturbing relaxed about the whole "sorry I'm a bit late" thing (er, are we working from original time or revised arrival time?). And then round the Constable exhibition, which she went round faster than I did, and she was the one who said she liked Constable (whereas, er, I preferred some of his small sketches and prep work. Oh, and in that famous one of Salisbury Cathedral, just look were the light is coming from. And now look at the rainbow. And now... you do know how rainbows work, don't you?). But she managed not to mention God too much, or Christianity, preferring to complain about the ghastly parents of the vile children she teaches (well, if you will work in a private school). Although she lost points for commenting about the one which hangs on the landing at [her parents'] home, which features a miscellaneous oddly shaped lump in the middle. Which, the sail?

And then into the interactivity room (didn't have enough, huh?), where you can use your legs to guide an x-ray scouring a painting (Constable was not above a bit of improvement, as one would expect from a man who painted big paintings simply to get noticed at the RA's Summer Exhibition), or have fun painting in squares to demonstrate how to expand images (we've done this; at first school I think). Although because you press part of a screen and a corresponding square on the projection fills, you can draw little pixelated images in it, or words. Although I didn't have time to experiment nor count the size of the grid (it doesn't match the one on the lower screen, which sort of ruins the point of the display). I'm thinking Space Invaders, bedecked in Suffolk greenery.

Then a few moments of indecision over a late lunch, during which I mention the member's room, and suddenly we're into the realm of the privileged. Ok, so anyone could have walked in as there was no one to check, but still it's a special room, with a stunning view of a lightwell. Oh, and the vibrating fridge which makes the entire floor thrum. It's been doing it for years, and I've come to the conclusion that it's to discourage anyone tempted to linger on the leather settees. Giving everyone the sensation of imminent diarrhoea is one way of shifting the coffee nursers.

God, I'm writing this later, and the sky was brown, and now has turned dark yellow as the rain passes over. It's not as heavy as yesterday, when the air streaming out from under the rain was hot, but it still feels malevolent. The world is the colour of butterscotch Angel Delight for as far as the eye can see (which isn't very far).

Ooh, that was fun; it's calmed down a bit, although as I type it's just strengthened, and in the cooler air I can feel heat radiating from the walls. It's quite interesting watching rain wash the road away. Round here the original Victorian roads have been tarmacked over, so mostly are buried excepted for the cobbled gutters. Except the local council being the local council, in some places they've tarmacked the gutters too. So streaming water comes along, hits an ill placed lump of tarmac, skips up, over and round it, and tears off bits of the road surface as it does. As it skirmishes down the edge, it shreds the tarmac more, creating entire bays and peninsulas. Eventually it gets back down to exposed cobbles, and serrates the tarmac overhanging those too.

Which sort of makes you wonder why they tarmacked it in the first place. No doubt someone will complain (actually round here no one seems to complain as no one seems to connect outside to themselves) and the council will come along to smooth out the rough edges, probably by dumping another load of tarmac in the gutters. I suppose this indirect method of dumping grit down the sewers is one way of keeping them clean.

But the weather's been odd recently; last night (ok, so on the fourth or "Happy Buggering Off Day"), I was sitting by the window in a constantly strong, warm, damp breeze, and suddenly could smell seaweed, salty wood and tropical soil (and desperately wanted a cheap but very drinkable cocktail). I find it really odd that London can suddenly convince me I'm in Antigua. But then Exeter could transport me back to Tanzania, but that was mostly the viscous smell of hot rubbish, especially fermenting orange peel.

Back to the Tate, and after being bought lunch (wow, you can have my enduring loyalty for £2.95), and the friend comically filching a copy of the Telegraph (instead of grabbing a copy quickly on exit, or even doing it slowly and ostentatiously, she picked it up and perused, pretending to read article after article, then when ready to depart, she started to put it down, looked all around her to check who was looking, and then folded it and walked out. Such is Christian theft. I hadn't the heart to tell her I thought people normally walked out with them and I've never seen anyone stopped. Why spoil her elation from being so illicit? Admittedly the big display downstairs declaring "Please take one - Free" possibly might have done that but she had at least forty five seconds of rebellious delight).

Then back out into the heat, and down the tube, with both heading north, but she branched off at Vix. Oh, and to the guy who shall not be named, those odd tidal barriers outside the station aren't tidal. It should have occurred to me earlier, but they're less ugly than the things strung round Westminster and Grosvenor Square. They're to stop people charging the concourse in a Volvo full of Semtex, and as I discovered at the Word into Art thing at the British Museum, it wouldn't be a first for Volvo. Someone did a series of works based on the cars used as bombs in Lebanon. Somehow the idea of blowing up a Volvo estate seems so wrong. It's like bombing a sundial. And I've just remembered that Polo ad.

Then onto shopping, which started off as looking for a birthday present, but while I'm by H&M I may as well see what they've got. I went in intending to buy two shirts; one a checked thing that they've been plugging heavily (page 13 of the catalogue [buried in downloads on the UK site]) and the other a half-buttoned, thin cotton, red, pink and white stripey. I go to discover that they've moved the pride of place display, and the first shirt isn't in the shop. And suddenly the second seems too louche for this gawky, nervous and hesitant guy. I had one of those "but it's pink" moments, which is daft as I look good in pink (well, if tanned and not trying to hide). Anyway, every medium was appalling made (it's H&M so one expects this, and therefore sifts until one finds the only one where the pattern matches and the stitching isn't crooked). So I browse, scanning the reduced stuff. Oooh, they have linen trousers for £9.99! Ok, so they're red, but I quite like red, although the nearest I've had to them were a pair of red shorts when I was 14, which I only liked because they weren't the even brighter turquoise ones. But I quite like the idea, if only because of one of the guys in Jump London, which I suspect is more to do with wanting a body like that, which can do that, than because he wore red trousers.

I lift what purports to be a 32 off the rack. The labelled declares them to be loose cut. The trousers crumple on the ground. Right so too long, very red, and cut like cullottes. Can't think why these haven't sold then. Plus the loose fit worries me as normal fit in a flowing material can add an extra swish to my walk, exposing un-rugbied thighs and un-hilled calves (my lower legs need me to move back to Exeter). So put my legs in loose fit trousers and it'll be a bit like a running main snagging on a shroud. Perhaps not.

So what else? They've got stripey polo shirts reduced, but two of the three have navy collars (what's the point in having colours that suit me if I then put the colour of instant death warmed up next to my skin?) and I'm not convinced by the remainder. They've got some not reduced though, and they appeal, in a mid-eighties Clothkits way. Brown, brick red or yellow? I don't like the green on the red (which became a vile colour the moment I moved it into a different light), the brown is too uninspired, too dull, too, well, me. It's the one I'd pick if I weren't thinking about it.

So I hunt the yellows for one which isn't lopsided (you'd think if there are horizontal stripes that would make it easy have the shoulders the same height). So after trading off various flaws (shoulders, collar, buttons, hem) against each other, I buy one in yellow, with red and brown stripes. Of course by the time I get it home it's darkened to a chromium orange (yep, I was tired, yes, I forgotten to walk to the small pool of daylight on the stairs). And that was about it for shopping, as I got a nosebleed while cutting through BHS (empty on a Saturday), so rushed for John Lewis's loos, where I had some odd guy noticing me staring intently at my reflection in the mirror make some comment about "you're good looking, but you're not that good looking", which confused the hell out of me until I saw his face change when he saw the bloodied tissue. London is odd.

Anyway, as I really went out to buy jeans and shorts, the trip wasn't quite the success it might have been. And I still haven't worn the polo shirt, which I've just realised is remarkably like the colours of my first school (not my first-school, the nursery attached to a different school).

Then after shopping came coming back, emailing, blog-commenting and reading news, then realising I've left it too late to go to sleep before going out, grabbing food and heading off, somewhat late for a friend's party. I was working on it taking half an hour. TfL.gov said nearer one and a quarter. I didn't leave till after I was meant to be there. I was only an hour and a half late and that includes being diverted to a bar not her flat, having problems getting in (it had a guestlist for each table. I stupidly said short-name-surname rather than longer-name-only. As I got turned away the friend rang, having seen me trying to get in. Despite being on the guestlist, I still had to pay [grumble number one, but this numbering system may break down as there are too many]).

I go in, am surprised to be met various people from school, who I haven't seen since, well, the first Christmas of uni at least. Of course, I'm too whacked to be enthusiastic and coherent, which was nice, especially as the music's so loud I can't hear a single word. Yeah... Cool... Ok...

It didn't help the normal one had a girlfriend in tow, who made no attempt at communication, which made that corner a little bundle of joy. The birthday girl spent most of time pretending it was great fun and utterly fabulous, including the floor apparently made entirely of limpets, which enforced a rule of hips-up dancing, while impatiently twiddling her phone waiting for her boyfriend to explain being three hours late (obviously he'd been tipped off that we were staggering our arrivals every 45 minutes). And then we left, to head on to somewhere even more expensive, as I discovered the delights of H&M trousers (the drawstring broke for about the eighth time), as we discuss the magic of an Archimedes screw, due to not being able to remember what an artesian well is (I've looked it up now).

And then another hour of expensive boredom, complete with noting why bathing people in UV light is a bad idea. Yes, anything white glows (including that unfortunate white bra under a dark top, which gave her a touch of Pompidou), but off white things go offer white, which when it's teeth... green is not a good colour for enamel. And skin really doesn't need examination in UV. You know that skin cancer advert they had with the tanned models? Well, now imagine a roomful of people all looking at best 30 years older, but often looking outright like recovering burns victims. Just what I want to see.

It was so dire that a friend and I ended up sitting against the perimeter wall (yet more mirrors behind me), trying to talk and occasionally mongoosing to try and keep track of birthday girl, who had ditched us the moment her current boyfriend turned up.

It's somewhat telling that the most interesting part of the night, and most enjoyable part, was standing around talking while debating who's staying where and suitable bus routes to respective homes (and I'd never noticed before that the night timetable is simply based on halved daytime travel times). The least enjoyable was having someone point out it's ten years since we left, before telling us how many children each of the school bullies has had so far.

And that's about for interesting stuff. I'll save the spending too much on little silvered discs for some other time.

And I've just noticed while looking up stuff. In my copy of the A-Z, one road in NW6 is labelled "CLEVE R.", yet nearby roads are labelled "XXX RD.". Sorry, just noticed it, and thought it was odd. The other Cleve Road, near Sidcup, is shown as a Rd as well, and in the index both are Rd. None of the common mapping sites repeat this quirk.

Sorry, just one of those little random distractions.

Anyway, I'd better go and do some washing, to get rid of the smell which contradicts one of Saturday's assertions by the birthday girl, which was that since smoking is now going to be banned, now no one smokes in a bar despite the legislation not yet being in force. But at the time she said it, it was true; a bar packed with people, and no one smoking. Ok, so it could have been the type of place, time of day and area, but it was odd, in a pleasant, if eerie, way.


PS. Stripey or stripy? Both are about the same in terms of frequency according to Google, and I can read "stripey" as having stripes, whereas "stripy" means it has strips. But what about queueing? Queuing, as MS Word corrects it looks wrong, I suppose because what's the point of strimming one excess vowel then most of the word is them? And it doesn't avoid the awkward two vowels thing which is the usual reason for dropping the final e (ok, so normally the final e elongates the preceding vowel, a function the i can take, but does the final e in queue do that? Or is it simply there because words ending in u aren't naturally occurring in English*). And one third of Google's found sites use the e form, so it's hardly a minor fraction.

* Menu, parvenu and deja-vu. Any others?

I remember the computer paper with the green lines!

...the vile children she teaches (well, if you will work in a private school)...
Er, I'll have you know, I am anything but vile.

Once again, I must say shopping with you would be such an interesting experience.

London does seem odd, or rather, public toilets in London do.
Either you are both extremely modest and attractive, or they are all full of pervs...or both.
We were having a discussion the other day about old computers; can you do the 5 1/4 inch disk movement?

Define "interesting".

But it was in John Lewis's. One really does not expect such things in there.

And you've seen me (well, photographs of me). Modesty does not come into it.

Anyway, what are you doing blogbrowsing now? Surely you're supposed to be doing something more constructive, like watching women in white make silly noises.
5 1/4? Ok, now I'm lost.

Interesting: in·ter·est·ing


1. arousing curiosity or attention: arousing curiosity, attracting or holding attention, or provoking thought

2. not boring: enjoyable because of being varied, challenging, stimulating, or exciting

JL, it's the Waitrose of Department stores. No really, it is.

I don't do tennis.
Even when you put it like that.
There's a ball and some rackets. And that's about it.
And Rugby players? Okay, maybe they have better legs, but they sacrifice their faces for it. A stocky/fat grunt does not sell CK's like FL for a reason.
5 1/4 inch disks were floppy disks that actually were floppy. Think of a limp DVD-RW, with a bit less storage space, stuck in an envelope. When you put them in the disk drive, you actually had to lock the catch over the end before it would work, hence the unique wrist action.

Not all rugby players are fat and stocky and not all are mashed beyond belief.

And today's message is bought to you by the WV gnywle. Define gnywle.
Okay, name one, or rather show one. I'll see if you're right.
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