Cancelled Lessons

Cancelled lessons/lectures/seminars are an interesting phenomenon.


I remember clearly that there was no greater event than a free lesson. A lesson where you reach your classroom and discover that the teacher standing there is a substitute. You think:


“The teacher isn’t in”


Soon followed by:


“Free lesson” (I have excluded gratuitous exclamation marks, but in my memory they are there).


In school (or in mine anyway) a free lesson was an ‘anything goes’ pass for an hour of acting like a complete hell-child. The relief of not having whichever lesson had been scheduled is akin to a mini-christmas out of season. It is truly a sadistic bonfire night in the brain. I shudder to think of the anguish that my class put naïve sub teachers through, although a number of my humorous memories of school come from these situations. Sub teachers have a habit of saying incredibly strange things such as:


“Obey me child”, “No wonder the devil reigns supreme in this world with little children like you asking people if they want eggs” and “I used to be fat and stupid when I was young too” (All real examples).


There is a process that morphs this perfect state of free lesson into something else, and it intrigues me. The first hints of skewing happened, for me, in sixth form. Here cancellation of certain lessons begun to have less positive effects. I feel this is largely because I began to enjoy lessons in sixth form, and also that there was so much free time provided in sixth form that an extra hour here or there was not the intense release that a free lesson amid a week of packed lessons would be. Having said that, I do remember that there were still nightmare lessons in sixth form that I was more than happy to see cancelled and spend an hour vegetating in the ironically named ‘Quiet Room’.


In University, then, the phenomenon is even stranger.


This morning I made a concerted effort to be awake at 7:00am (which for me was akin to dragging the rotting carcass of a loved house-pet up the Himalayas, difficult), I showered, had breakfast, listened to some music to come round fully and then I loaded my bag with the relevant materials that I would be using in today’s seminars. I was on the ball. Not only was I on the ball, I was rolling around on it like a seal and balancing another ball on my nose. Literally.


Imagine my relief then when upon reaching the room I discover that there is no lecture at all. I was over the moon, relief pouring out of every pore like burning pitch out of the crannies of Notre Dame, like in the film ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ (I don’t know how Disney got away with that, rather a malevolent thing to show children, death by caustic tar). You would think that I was inundated with joy and goodwill.


Well you would be wrong, you assumption-filled bumpkin. I was righteously indignant! I had gone to the Herculean effort of GETTING UP (can you imagine?) and then I was left hanging by the underwhelming administrative skills of my lecturer.


Maybe I am a crazy subversive maniac crazyperson but I think that the Blackboard system is there so that lecturers can alert us of these cancellations in advance, so that I don’t have to wake up early in the morning, when it is really cold and dreary, when I really don’t have to.


The fact that lecturers aren’t running today and I didn’t know about it has nothing to do with the ‘fact’ that I have missed a fortnight of University and the course has probably just ended rather than this being a one-off cancellation, these things have no bearing on the situation!


I am also indignant on behalf of other people who had to catch peak-time public transport in order to arrive on-time for a non-existent lecture. For shame! That is three whole British pounds that at least one poor student won’t see again. That is real human money that is! The loss of that £3 won’t be easy to bounce back from in the current economic climate. You could buy a lot with £3. You could buy six bottles of water that cost 50p each. Three hundred penny sweets. Thirty thousand sweets that individually cost a hundredth of a penny. I’m not even sure if my mathematical workings there are correct. Please do get in touch and call me a tool if they aren’t.


So in a matter of around five years a simple thing such as a free lesson can utterly change its stripes and transform from a heart giving love hour into a bile filled grilling on the nature of making me get up early.


After writing this however I am uncertain whether this is an analysis of free lessons or whether it is really an admission of how I have transformed from a little tyke into a grumpy old git.


It’s the free lesson one.


In the words of Richard Herring:


“I am still proud of what I have done”.


Richard Herring gig tonight, I am looking forward to it.

Academic Hysteria

Sometimes things get mutated out of proportion through a toxic and masochistic mix of self-interest and apprehension.


It was one such occasion this morning.


It began yesterday when I discovered that I had been allotted a 10 minute slot in order to discuss my proposal for a research question. This would not have been an issue if I actually had a proposal. As I soon realised my very basic nugget of an idea would not stretch to ten minutes of explanation, even with intelligent and sincere questions spaced liberally throughout. It was with mounting stress that I plundered the library for relevant texts (one small research paper stretching over a ‘staggering’ 16 pages). I made good my escape, my purloined sirloin of a research paper hidden snugly in my bag. I also managed to part ways with my small change as the library’s inefficient retrieval system from the deposit box outside means that despite returning books on time I returned books late, totting up a displeasing 90p in fines.


Even the libraries (or Learning Resource Centre as it unimperiously names itself) are being manned by highwaymen in broken Britain. Damn LRC, it stands for Load of Robbing Curmudgeons. There is a punchier C word that I have previously used that I am politely avoiding as I would not like to use the same sort of language to describe being physically assaulted with having to pay a 90p fine. Because being assaulted cost me over £7 in damages. That is over seven times as expensive as the library fine. Much worse I think you’d agree.


I then placed myself, as comfortably as possible considering the looming ugly colossus of a 10 minute grilling from my lecturer, on a bench in the (moderate and unexpected) sunshine of a Welsh March. I was further exasperated with the presence of a large group of student surveyors decked out in their hard hats and luminous garb who had placed themselves in the immediate vicinity of my preferred bench. This I found unacceptable as I like that bench. It is relatively secluded and offers opportunities for appreciation of nature (birds and mountains) and also for people watching (birds and mountains).


I soon accepted that I would have to retreat to a less pleasing bench and did so post haste. This proved to be a good decision as soon distant rumblings from beyond time and space informed me that these student goons had begun making a mess of my idyllic area with their drills and diggers. I was displeased. I had very much enjoyed the general ambience of the area, with it’s…


Two magpies just landed on my windowsill inches from my face (separated by glass)(my face from the magpies that is, not the two magpies separated from each other by glass)(that would be cruel). I take this to be an intense indicator of good luck. Although telling you that may have spoiled the narrative arc of the story I am in the middle of. My mouth is also currently burning from eating Jalapeno Pepper flavour crisps, though I am unsure whether this is also an omen.


...the area, with it’s generous views of the South Wales valleys and its wildlife, including, but not restricted to, magpies, rabbits, squirrels, tiny orange women wearing far too little (it is sunny but it is also March) and huge orange men wearing far too little (it is sunny but it is also March)(and vests are a crime against decency). I feel I must note at this point that there is a vast array of types of people that pass this bench, it is not restricted only to the “Orange Chav” variety. There are gothicks and moshers as well an’na like. The sun is the best fishhook for snaring the unwary outdoors, in all of their semi-naked ‘glory’. In retrospect maybe I am the deviant one in my jumper, it isn’t all that cold. Humbug.


The bench is also located next to a wonderful building whose architecture pleases mine eye, and it also juxtaposes delightfully with a plot of land which used to house a place of religious worship, which has since been demolished. Proof if proof were needed that there is no god, or at the very least, that he is unable to stop diggers from making a mess of his house. Although considering the vast number of “houses of god” that exist on this planet, such a small dent in his real estate portfolio would be of little consequence to the almighty. The bible fails to mention that the lord is a bit of a tycoon.


I sat down to read in my substitute bench, which in comparison offered views of a recycling bin and a bush. But I was not there to admire the view! I had to read, and read fast. I needed a working knowledge of the text in order to provide a passing for intelligent proposal. Luckily the paper was one of those rare academic texts that is genuinely interesting, or maybe I am simply becoming irredeemably buried in an academic world where my personal idea of fun is a half-hour meta-analysis on the role of list-making in a workplace dynamic. It isn’t. I would much rather a half-hour meta-analysis of other things. Just to be clear. I do like meta-analysis. However, I have no time for lists. Just so you don’t think I’m some sort of nerd. Ha. If you do I will find you and meta-analyse you. Yeah, you’ll be laughing on the same side of your face then.


The rather staggered end of this story then is that when I went to give the proposal it was not as formal as I had worried, and my rather rushed preparation beforehand was more than adequate. It would have been better if I hadn’t spent my time slowly basting in a laminate coating of my own sweat, but I suppose the clammy hours are what get things done. It surely can’t be good to be so stressed though, even if it does make for a rather tedious and hopefully mildly amusing tale afterwards.


You may think it is interesting that I could have been doing work instead of writing this, in order to alleviate the onset of stress that is likely to occur when the next meeting comes around.


Well you are wrong! It isn’t interesting and you are obviously a complete oik for thinking it. I’ll do work in my own time, stop bullying me. Jordi Cruijff!


So, I think that this story has ground to its death, if you thought it was boring then go back to the start and pretend I am someone exciting as you read it through.


“OMG Stephen Fry’s favourite bench area was ruined by student surveyors!!!”


“No wayz!!!”


Instant gold. Just add Fry.

'Monkey'

I like monkeys. I also like the term ‘monkey’. My main issue with this term is that it is perhaps not as acceptable as I would like it to be, especially in the mischievously pejorative way I would like to use it. I tried to perform a study of what adjectives the word ‘monkey’ could be conditioned with in order to make it acceptable.

Adjective 1:

“You are a cheeky monkey.”

This is by far the most socially acceptable use of adj + monkey in order to describe a human being. It seems as though everyone has come to a consensus that the quintessential behaviour of a monkey could be summed up as cheeky. This is perhaps informed by the swinging and oohing & aahing that monkeys are most stereotypically envisioned as performing. It would be interesting to find out whether the throwing faeces element of monkey behaviour is also considered ‘cheeky’, and I would argue that even if this is ‘cheeky’ in terms of the behaviour of monkeys it would not be considered similarly if it was a human being undertaking the action. In fact it may even be considered incredibly deviant. Although if someone were to lock me in a cage who knows what I would resort to.

Adjective 2:

“You are a sexy monkey.”

This phrase perhaps doesn’t spring so readily to mind as its predecessor (that would be ‘cheeky monkey’ if you’ve forgotten), but it still has the ring of something you could get away with socially. I feel that the phrase ‘Sexy monkey’ would suggest an individual that is impish and adventurous in their sexual tendencies. This is interesting as there are monkeys who are very sexually obsessed (the bonobo for instance – I won’t link any photos), and yet it is not promiscuity that this phrase suggests, at least to my own ear. So with these two acceptable uses of monkey this leads me onto my third possible use.

Adjective 3:

“You actually look like a monkey.”

Now sticklers will point out that there isn’t an adjective per se in the final example, and I think you would be right. But that’s my example and I’m sticking to it, so there. Now direct comparisons to animals without conditioning the term with an adjective is largely depreciatory, although this may depend on social stereotyping of the animal in question and also the context of who is doing the saying and who it is being used to describe. For instance describing someone as a dog is usually bad, and even though puppies seem to be the universal unit of cuteness describing someone as a puppy would by and large be seen as an underhanded snipe. Similarly a cow, a pig, an elephant, a chicken, a turkey or a horse are all negatively charged descriptors.

Intriguingly the only one of these examples I have used, as a flirtatious gambit no less, is the third example. In a mildly drunken state (not an excuse) I spent the evening describing a lady friend as actually looking like a monkey. It is perhaps testimony to her sense of fun that she took these relentless descriptions in good humour, although it is equally as possible that she was unaware just how similar she was in appearance to a monkey. In honesty she didn’t look that much like a monkey. Although she looks enough like a monkey that she could have reacted badly. She is also similar to a monkey in behaviour (see earlier: pooh throwing etc).

Just to be clear, I have never seen anyone throwing their droppings, I err on the side of caution as I do not want to libel anyone.

The clever so-and-sos amongst you will also understand that another reason the term ‘monkey’ is not socially prevalent/acceptable is because of its racist connotations. In order to clarify, and hopefully alleviate worries about the inappropriateness of my ‘look like a monkey’ comments, they were said to an individual of Eastern heritage. In retrospect she may have thought I was comparing her to the character Monkey, from the late 70s TV show Monkey Magic. That is perhaps more questionable than comparing her to an actual monkey. He has awesome sideburns though (which she was lacking)

I suppose the point that I am cack-handedly attempting to make is that negative and ignorant terms are often reclaimed by the groups who they are used against, terms such as ‘queer’ have been reclaimed by the gay community, and there is a continued, though controversial, reclaiming of the term ‘nigger’ by the black community, though it is worth noting that not all members of these groups perhaps desire this reclamation. Although that is a redundant explanation, for there will be members of any group, however strictly defined that group is, that disagree on certain issues with the group as a whole. For instance, the current Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, is, vocally at least, not as anti-homosexuality as the Christian establishment as a whole, and yet is forced to kowtow because of the opinion of the group ‘as a whole’.

My question then is this: Can we not reclaim the term ‘monkey’?

I admit that my reasons behind this are purely selfish, I like the term monkey, listen to it, it sounds awesome. I don’t want to have to qualify it with ‘cheeky’ or ‘sexy’ (silly would perhaps work as well).

Can we start using it again?

No, I don’t suppose we can.

For some reason I now really want to go to the zoo.

Credit Cunts

It has been about a week since I was attacked.  I’ve left it this long, probably out of a desire to let it settle, and not to write something fatuous while the event was still foremost in my head.

  

I was walking home from a gig with my friend, around midnight, and we were planning on getting something to eat on the way home.  We were enjoying what had been one of the better nights out we have had in an area which is renowned for being crap.

  

Whilst waiting outside the shop, we were accosted by a pair of apes, though it is likely that they are unfamiliar with the term ‘accost’.  We were treated to such gripping dialogue as:

  

“Which one of you is driving then?” and “Where are the house parties?”

  

Now given that both me and my friend were on foot, and it was midnight on a Thursday, both of these questions contain assumptions that were incorrect, which would’ve been an impressive persuasive linguistic technique, if the person who uttered it didn’t look as though he was about to drop to all fours and howl at us.  It is perhaps unfair to suggest that this particular individual and his goon had been left out of several evolutionary steps through the generations, but they had nevertheless further retarded this process with as much alcohol as they could find.

  

I would very much like to suggest that alongside an age requirement for alcohol consumption there should also be a mandatory intelligence set where people who are of questionable intellect should be banned from consumption.

  

I would like to point out at this time that these individuals were not disadvantaged in any way, they were good old fashioned thick as shit.  Though in recent times it is in vogue to bemoan those who are a danger to themselves, I must stress that these thoughtless twats are a danger to other people, which is significantly worse.

  

Now, I would describe myself as a person who is quite outspoken and I also have quite strong views on a number of contentious topics.  It is masochistically amusing therefore to be physically assaulted, not because of my beliefs, but for a bag of chips.  It is doubly crazy that I was also carrying my friend’s guitar at the time, and yet in these financially difficult times it is the basic sustenance option which these oiks opted for.

  

The injuries that I sustained from this were purely physical and luckily not hugely serious, though I can’t hold out much hope that the two bastards who attacked us will get caught, even though the police have been incredibly helpful, though the process was an incredibly tedious one.

  

Though you do get to see some quite shameless and gutsy individuals when you are made to wait two hours in the reception of a police station.  One notable fellow admitted to breaking and entering, and then proceeded to report that he had been assaulted.  Now I don’t claim to have Holmesian knowledge of crime but surely that is still him in the wrong?  There were also no physical signs of an assault, which was particularly aggravating as I sat about a foot away from him looking for all the world like I had the face of Quasimodo.  Brazen, barefaced behaviour, what a dubious prick.  On my way out of the police station later on there was also a woman who seemed to be reporting the same story from the other angle, I had slightly more compassion for her, it may be slightly cold to hope that she hit him with something hard, but I think I would do something similar if a slimy shit snuck into my house.

  

There’s very little chance the two men who attacked us will get caught, we didn’t know them and were only able to give a superficial description of them, and to be fair they do have the most effective urban camouflage, that is, the fact that they are a pair of cunts in a town of cunts.  It’d be like looking for shit in a toilet bowl, you are guaranteed to find some, but there’s no way of knowing if it’s the shit you’re looking for.

  

Perhaps it was slightly ill conceived to have built the final metaphor around investigating faeces.  Too late now.

Cor, Aren't Girls and Boys Different?

Is the underlying assumption in a piece written by Germaine Greer recently, which argues, quite rightly, that women are as funny as men, and provides some possible reasons why women aren’t as numerically prevalent on the stand-up comedy circuit as men.

 

This piece was of interest to me as ‘gender difference’ has comprised a large portion of my academic studies whilst at University, mostly from a sociolinguistic perspective.

 

Putting aside the obvious biological differences, many of the perceived stereotypical differences between ‘men’ and ‘women’ are informed by the language we use to frame these ideas, rather than on an underlying universal truth, as is often assumed.

 

I would agree with some of the points made by GG, inasmuch as I do not think that the pleasure received from making people laugh is linked to the male orgasm or that the microphone is a phallic totem (especially as many comedians are just as funny using earpieces).  I would also agree that making people laugh is not an exercise of power over the people laughing, though I am hesitant to agree fully with the idea put forward by GG that the comic is searching for acceptance.  Surely they are looking first and foremost to make the audience laugh?

 

GG states that “Female performers don’t make it, don’t get the prizes, don’t get the audiences and don’t make the money.”  I’m sure a look at Dawn French’s bank balance and Sarah Millican’s trophy cabinet would disprove this rather ill-informed generalisation (as would a glance at this year’s student competition’s qualifying acts).  It also misses the fact that a huge amount of male acts also do not win awards or earn a huge wage.

 

There are so many statements in the piece that I disagree with at a very basic level, such as: “Men…have been honing their skills ever since they started school.  Girls have nothing similar of their own and are not invited to horn in on the guys’ act.”  The problem with this statement is it sees ‘men’ and ‘women’ as united groups, with all members within them conforming to the same truths.  It does not address the fact that just because two people are either male or female this is no indication that they will be similar to each other, in terms of humour or indeed in any way other than biological.  In my personal experience there is certainly no formality or rules over who can or cannot join in any joke, regardless of what sex you are.

 

Underlying all of these claims is the assumption that “women are less competitive”, which is a standpoint which is generally accepted, though it would be very difficult to actually prove this.  A question I am often asked in seminars on the subject of gender difference is “Which men and women are you talking about?”  This is certainly a valid question to ask of GG’s piece, as I can be fairly confident that there are competitive and uncompetitive people within both the male and female of our species.

 

GG also draws a distinction that “men do the inspired lunacy, women do droll”.  This is intriguing as I am uncertain how to differentiate between the two things.  Though I am a fan of neither I would struggle to describe the styles of Sarah Silverman and Joan Rivers as droll, which is defined as ‘amusingly odd or whimsically comical’, and surely there is no greater inspired lunatic than Josie Long?

 

Despite arguing this I find there is very definitely a numerical disparity between male and female acts.  I have only been attending comedy gigs for a few years, and yet I have likely seen roughly a hundred male comics, whereas I have only seen sets from four female comedians (please note that I have not been avoiding gigs with female comedians).

 

In some ways though this may work in favour of the female comics, as I can name them all (Shappi Khorsandi, Lucy Porter, Helen Keen and Mab Jones), whereas the vast majority of male acts that I have seen have been forgotten.  Equally though I am sure that the acts in question would rather be remembered on the strength of their material, rather than on which toilets they use.  There is also a geographical element to my having seen so few acts, for I have seen many more through the magical mediums of television, radio and the internet, many of whom I intend on seeing live (Josie Long, Sarah Millican, Susan Calman, Bridget Christie and Kirsten Schaal amongst others).

 

I don’t think that having so few female acts suggest that women aren’t funny, for instance I have never seen a double act or a sketch group live either, which would then inform that these aren’t funny, which is certainly not the case.

 

Comedy is such a subjective beast that it is impossible to argue that something ‘isn’t funny’, for there is always an unspoken suffix of ‘in my opinion’ at the end.

 

GG states that: “Every year produces a new crop of women standups who will take the world by storm, and when the froth subsides very few names persist”.  It is worth noting that this statement also holds true if you remove the word ‘women’.

 

I think that stand-up comedy as a male-dominated space is perhaps informed by its socio-historical roots in variety and dancehall, where struggle for equality hasn’t yet balanced the numbers in terms of comedians.

 

As a general rule when I go to see comedy, I hope that I am going to see something that makes me laugh, and this isn’t qualified with a preference of either male or female comedians.  I don’t think I am a radical maverick in saying that it is the content of the brain that is key to comedy, rather than the content of the underwear.

 

In a world where people still differentiate for such ridiculous reasons as colour of skin and sexual preference, it is hardly surprising that some people believe that no woman is funny.  Quite simply, they are wrong.  My perhaps unsatisfying wishy-washy conclusion is thus: some people are funny, some people aren’t.  It depends on what YOU think is funny.  Funny, that.

V - Suitable for Vegetarians, Contains 520kcal per 800 words

Every couple of months I get intrigued by the calorie system, though this phase is largely short lived, and has little impact upon my eating habits.  I have a similar interest in whether foodstuffs are suitable for vegetarian consumption, though I have no interest in forgoing meat (though it is not hugely present in my diet regardless)(because chicken isn’t meat).

 

One of my all time favourite ‘suitable for vegetarians’ style products are the Walkers crisps which are flavoured like meat (supposedly).  It is good of Walkers to have their eye out for the masochistic vegetarian market (“Don’t kill the animals, but I want the taste of them”).  I know if I ever turned veggie I would end up living on blackberry squash, beans and chips and jam sandwiches.  Which in all honesty, wouldn’t be a huge lifestyle overhaul.  Though I haven’t had a jam sandwich in quite awhile, for I am wary of bits.

 

It is of interest to me then that the chip, my favoured foodstuff, offers hugely differing calorie counts if they are prepared in different ways.  Topping the offered calorie chart is frying, with preparing them in the oven scoring slightly lower and grilling providing the least.  The most interesting part of the chart though, is the one where they tell you how many calories 100g of chips contains should you decide for whatever reason to eat them in their uncooked frozen state.

 

I was suitably foxed by this information.

 

It turns out that the ‘healthiest’ (in terms of least calories) way to eat 100g of chips is to eat them without cooking them.  Which then drives me to ask the questions: what sort of calorie counting nut would eat chips from frozen?  Is there really someone who cares enough about roughly 40 calories that they would decide that it was of more value not to cook them at all?

 

If that person is you, seek psychological aid.

 

I am currently cooking, which perhaps informs my foodstuff-based line of inquiry, and for the sake of interest I will tot up the amount of calories that this one meal will amount to (remember, I am of the computer-gaming generation, so the more points the better, that’s how it works).

 

My meal consists of:

 

Chips (in the oven, I’m not mental) – 200

Chicken-thing (a burger not a penis) – 300

Tortilla wraps (2 (suitable for vegetarians and for freezing)) – 200

Tomato Ketchup – 20

 

Bearing in mind that two wraps are equivalent to the entire portion of chips, I think they are being omitted from this particular meal, as they essentially provide only a messy and unconventional alternative to a fork, and if I wanted that I would use chopsticks, notably chopsticks also have a very low calorie count, especially when compared to the scarily high count of the wraps.

I am also drinking diet coke during this meal, which claims to have less than 1 calorie per can, but I can be fairly certain that it is less than wholesome in some other, unspoken way.

 

I have also added some vinegar to the meal, for though there is no calorific information of the bottle I am going to risk it.

 

Differing accounts of just how many calories you are ‘allowed’ a day renders the activity of ‘calorie counting’ even more spurious, with some sources claiming that around 1200 is advisable, and on the other end of the scale people advocating 2500.

 

This one meal I am having comes to roughly 520ish, rounding up the cooked statistics, and rounding down the diet coke, and bearing in mind that I will eat a smaller meal of perhaps spaghetti or noodles later in the day I should be well below my calorie intake.  But I am quite a large gentleman.

 

Of course I am offering you only a very select example of what it is I eat, and I am factoring out pub meals, Chinese take away, chocolate, fruit pastilles, crisps, biscuits, alcohol, bread, chocolate cake, pop, tortilla wraps and jaffa cakes which I often find myself partaking of.

 

 I doubt I will go on a calorie counting odyssey, though I am going to opt out of some of the more fanciful delights I have been enjoying recently (the oh so hedonistic tortilla wraps).

 

Between me and St David I pledge to forgo tortilla wraps and other frivolous things, and my brilliant plan for eating less is, get this right, it’s a brilliant plan, I will eat things slower, thus savouring more of the taste, thus needing to eat less.  Brilliant, I bet Paul McKenna feels like an idiot now.  With his stupid hypnotist face.

 

Though eating things slower is an unrivalled plan of brilliance, I would guess that some exercise wouldn’t go amiss.

 

Alright stop nagging me, I will do some exercise as well.

 

Bullies.

**

I have since finished my meal, which was tedious and satisfying.  I think perhaps I will compose a blog during all my meals, which would be constructive, and would stop me thinking about food.  However it is likely that a rise in the frequency of blog-writings would mean a decline in quality.  And I simply couldn't allow a drop of quality, not after the truly top notch quality you have come to expect from me.  I wouldn't be able to forgive myself.  And neither would St David, who for some reason is now a bastion of good opinion.

Let it be known that for every bar of chocolate you eat, the baby St David cries.