Holidays in the sun. 

June 13, 2017

I have always been very wary of the urge to meddle, particularly as I hate it when clueless but well meaning people do it with things I have been personally affected by. This is probably where I would usually go off on a rant but I want this to be a bit more focused that my usual rambling and tangential waffle. I walked into town a couple of weeks ago along the Hastings sea front, I don’t do it very often and I was shocked to discover that a group of homeless people had set up camp on the beach. The last time I had seen anything like thing was during the late eighties and I worked near Waterloo station where cardboard city, a shanty town for the homeless, had sprung up in the underpasses around the station. It was like something out of mad max or the future world in the first terminator film. There was something deeply strange about this seaside encampment though, whilst there is never anything jolly about being homeless (I have been so myself), if you didn’t read the context for the people being their, you could be forgiven for reading to situation as a nice little seaside vacation.  It was a situation I felt a need to document as I suspected (quite rightly it turned out) that it wouldn’t be allowed to remain there for very long.

One thing that have been a constant in my work over the last couple of decades is the documentation of appalling things using overly cute and benign seeming imagery. I have found that it is easier to get a message across if people aren’t aware that they are being given one in the first place. This is what I tried to achieve in the new painting, Holidays in the Sun, a happy sounding title that also happens to be a song by the Sex Pistols. It’s all smiles and sunshine and camping at first sight until you think about why the postman looks so bemused. One of the worst things about being homeless is the lack of a postal address, you are instantly a non person in regards to getting benefits, let alone applying for a job.

 I decided that this painting would be going up on eBay for charity before I even started it, initially I was just going to take the money to the campers and buy them a load of provisions but as they have already  been moved on I felt it would make more sense to have the money go directly to the St Mungos  who run a homeless shelters and help and rehabilitation for the initial causes of homelessness. I am aware that someone will probably read what I’m doing wrongly or see some cynicism in it and kick off. That is really up to them I guess, I can’t control anyone else’s responses, only my own, which was that this occurrence needed to be documented for posterity in some way. There are far more offensive things that go on in this town in regards to the homeless, if you want to get angry about something then I can happily furnish you with a list of people who demean and patronise the poor and vulnerable hereabout and get paid for the privilege of doing so. Anyway, I said I wouldn’t go off on a rant today so here is the link, happy bidding! 


Election problems and finishing prematurely.

June 9, 2017

I am writing this in advance as, like a lot of people in the uk who are classed as disabled, vulnerable, whatever, if the election goes the way of the conservatives then my life is pretty much over. I have been hanging on by a thread for a while now, and that will be it, gone, my final safety net gone and I will be too distraught to form words.

When I conceived this set of four (and a half) drawings, inspired by the original series by William Hogarth produced in 1755, it was mostly as a means to keep my mind occupied whilst the election process went on and, as always happens, all the idiots come out of the woodwork and everyone starts being vile to each other.

This election series is in part intended as a reprise to some work from a few years ago, when I was in a much different place in my life, although, in its own way, just as vulnerable. Where as that was about the inevitable decline brought about by vanity, this is pretty much a comment on that rare point in culture where the privaledge are made vulnerable, if only nominally, to the whims of the masses that they mostly hold little but contempt for.

In the first drawing, An election entertainment, the scene is of a party thrown by one of the parties to encourage (bribe) voters to choose their candidate come polling day. The scene show the potential candidates having to deal with some of the general public they would rather avoid whilst the band plays on in the background. A party member counts out bribes whilst another local dignitary comes a cropper of a bass guitar. The figure representing the mayor, who in the original falls ill to eating far too many oysters, has overdosed on ‘sherbet’and an attempted resuscitation is in progress. It’s interesting to note that a group of local lefties were witnesses up to this the other day. Whilst you expect the right wing to be utterly evil, it always comes as such a profound shame when people who claim to be on the side of the people manage to overlook the misery and repression that comes as a result of their nasty little habits. In the far right of the picture you can see a man being coerced by his family to take a bribe in exchange for his vote as his son needs some new trainers. Through the window you can see the start of a riot taking place. In the original, an effigy of a Jewish person was being strung up, in this it is a vegetarian. It’s a reference to those who attack Jeremy Corbyn for such spurious reasons as his choice of diet. It is important to note that at the time of its creation, some two hundred and sixty years ago, the world was a very different place and racism and antisemitism were rife, Hogarth was regarded at very progressive for the times and was one of the founders of the foundling institute, providing care and education for the orphaned and desperately poor children. I brick flies through the the window and strikes down the election agent and to his left a child frills up a large container (in this case a paddling pool) with booze. As is usually the case in real life you can see me making an early exit stage left.

For the second drawing, Canvassing for Votes, I kept the three building scenario of the original. The pub on the left has been renamed The General Belgrano after the dubious British navel ‘victory’ of the Falklands war that rescued Margaret Thatcher from the doldrums in the early eighties. There are still two old soldiers outside, only now they are homeless ones rather than on a secure pension. A film crew utterly fails to notice the real story of the building being attacked by an angry mob as it prepares to do an interview with one of the candidates. Centre front is a farmer in the process of being bribed for his support while about him a derogatory poster has been hung over the pubs sign in reference to both the classic tv sitcom Father Ted and also the rather childish and negative poster campaign by a group local to where I live. A candidate is standing on a soapbox and being worshipped by some party followers whilst and impromptu halo dangles able his head. To the right, in front of the pub door, the original drawing depicted a lion eating a lily as a reference to England’s supremacy over France, it has been replaced here by a panda eating a teddy bear to demonstrate China’s economic supremacy over the United Kingdom. As ever a pub landlady counts her profits from hosting the day’s events, the only real winner of the day.

I had to think long and hard about how to approach the polling day drawing as the original drawing has a series of the disabled and the dying whole gave been dragged from their sick beds, something that rings horrific bells with the current regime’s poor treatment of wobbly folk. The poster behind the counter displays my feelings about the purpose of elections, that it’s a poor do that the only real involvement any of us really have in the democratic process is stick an x on a piece of paper every five years. Sure we can protest, sure we can pester people in power, but do they listen?  I personally feel the whole pantomime is there to make us feel better about how little power we truly have. But that’s just my opinion. In line behind a one legged and one armed man having trouble with his ballot paper is professor Stephen hawking, I wanted to show a definite statement in regards to the abilities of the severely physically disabled. Behind the professor’s minders waits a poor chap undergoing chemotherapy and behind him another one who has fell up the stairs and who’s head is turned to a very unnatural angle that doesn’t bode well. Beneath the stairs lurks the Trollidarity, attacking from the dark and shadows in secret as they do. To the rear a rather disheveled Britania lies, propped up against her broken ‘chariot’ as the driver waits for the breakdown truck, representing a country that is falling apart, just as it was two hundred and sixty years ago.

When I drew the last panel it was with a heavy heart as although where I live is regard as severely deprived, it is surrounded by small and picturesque towns and villages that are populated by the extremely wealthy and privileged who inevitably vote for the conservation party. It was with that in mind that I set about to produce the final drawing, The Chairing of the Member with current Home Secret Amber Rudd as the star. This was, however before a series of catastrophic disasters both by her and the Conservative party had slightly altered the chances of labour mp Peter Chowney becoming elected instead. This meant that it neccesatated me providing a second version of the drawing in true Orwellian fashion, doctoring the original image to a level that only usually happens in North Korea or Moaist China

In the Amber version, the mp is being sprayed by a child with a water pistol, a vague nod to the child pissing from the same spot onto the procession below in the 1755 version. In the original a bird hovers overhead, mocking napoleon’s use of an eagle as a symbol of triumph, this version features a chip stealing eagle, common where I live, the chip being a reference to a briefnewspaper feature about prime minister Theresa May lacking the common touch whilst trying to eat food from a fish and chip shop. Rather than the mp crashing to their doom from a dropped chair, she is immantely in danger of being electrocuted by a sabotaged power line. In front of the procession is a drummer rather than the original fiddler, a cameo by my friend kitty. The protestor is the same chap who was at the front of the voting line in the previous picture. A family of foxes run from the mp as a reference to current rumours that fox hunting might be made legal once more. The building to the right shows the unhappy members of the opposition party, suffering for their defeat. For the parallel universe version with Chowney as the local mp, I have played on the way that that some of their candidates have been almost diefide by those on the left and so chose to give him the full ‘chosen by God’ treatment, comparative with the hand of God marking him out and cherubs declaring him as our saviour. 

Whatever happens tomorrow (today when you read this) will dictate which four drawings make the final folio of prints. They have been printed  on dead posh Germany art paper using fade proof, archival quality, ink and will be signed and numbered to a strictly limited edition of thirty of each print and you can buy them here. They took a solid three week’s work to produce and as ever I am spectacularly skint so your support is much appreciated. 


The silence of our friends

January 14, 2017

“In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

Martin Luther King said that… And as in America it is Martin Luther King day this week I thought I would take note of a few things he said. The one above and the one below spring particularly to mind as being rather appropriate.

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” 

And with the latter in mind I shall begin. There is a rather poisonous and revealing  character trait that persists amongst a certain clique in the town where I live. I’m not the only one who sees it, but I’m the only one who seems willing to acknowledge it in public even in an identity stripped and homogeneous form such as this. The trait is this… Being selectively nice. Most people I know are lovely to everyone, it isn’t actually that hard, it doesn’t actually cost anything except perhaps a few more seconds of someone’s time and a little bit of breath to form words. The same thing has been witnessed by multiple people about every member of the same particular group, and that is that they are lovely and charming to anyone who may be of use to them and at best cold and at worst absolutely foul to anybody else. I first noticed it a few years back, not being someone who craves or even likes attention (quite the opposite in fact) I have tried my best to remain invisible locally as much as I can do. To that end, a lot of these people were actively rude to me (and to others, I’m not that paranoid) on our first meeting. This situation  only started to change when a few of them cottoned on that I probably had skills and/or contacts that would be of use to them and at that point they suddenly changed their tune. I have a long memory though… And I’m not subject to flattery.

I’ve watched over the years as the same faces have clawed their way up the greasy pole of popularity in the local community, and watched new people arrive in town who have employed the same, self serving methods, ingratiating themselves with the people who they think matter whilst giving anyone else the cold shoulder and in the process have quickly scaled the aforementioned lubricated log themselves, getting support for their awful gigs, terrible events, shoddy products, and crappy establishments in the process. It’s tiresome to watch as yet another rat boards the rising boat, scratching up the flesh of the unwitting on their way up the gangplank.

The thing is though, what can be done about it? As I have discovered to my own frustration, no one wants to admit that it is happening, well not out loud anyway. Whether through fear of getting shunned themselves or just not caring enough to be bothered, no one dares speak a word of what goes on in public. What’s more, there are people who won’t even be seen talking to me (except at my home) because I have dared to speak out about all the shittyness that goes on. It seems that everyone locally relies on the patronage of everyone else to either turn up at their thing or to buy their stuff… (Un)fortunately  people locally are either mystified by what I do or just plain hate it, leaving me in the unique position of being able to say what I like without it having much effect besides the almost daily filthy looks. But there lies the problem…. Just me spouting off about the actions of rude, manipulative, people is just some nutter ranting away on his blog, the mad eyed screamer’s platform of choice for the new millennium , and until other people choose to grow a pair this town will just continue to sink into the silt under the combined weight of the egos of all its human barnicles. The silence of our friends is powerful and while it continues, the fakes, the frauds and the egos large enough to cause gravity wells will continue to poison the town in which I live. 

I have tried… But it falls on deaf ears and in most cases people are unwilling to believe that half the people are as bad as I or anyone else will say they are. Most people will try and think the best of people if they are given the option and under those circumstances these sharks in human clothing go in for the kill, shamelessly taking advantage of human nature on the way. Criticisms and accusations slide off them and someone like myself who speaks about it comes off as looking bitter or mad. But what choice do I have but to draw people’s attention to it all? And here I am again, not being silent. And the best I can hope for? That like with the local psychopath I spotted in five seconds as opposed to the five years it took everyone else and the government’s work capability assements I spoke about for years before the whole business was turned into an award winning movie, everyone will get it years later. People are so slow to believe anything that isn’t in their best interests and they seem determined not to believe me, all I get to do is to turn around half a decade later and say “I told you so.”


Be the change

January 11, 2017

I wrote a long while ago about the rather strange obsession in Hastings and St Leonards with inappropriate excuses for knees ups. From the age old pagan festival which dates back to the dawn of time in…. Erm… 1983 to the wildly geographically and meteorologically inaccurate Mardi Gras, there seems to be no end to what can be shoehorned on to the local events calendar to keep the pub tills ringing and to rake in money for and inflate the ego of whoever dreamed up that particular wheeze. I did toy with the idea of importing the annual Penis festival from the town of Kawasaki in Japan but then figured that there were already enough complete pricks about town already without me throwing them a parade. 

 The latest nonsensical todo is an extravaganza to celebrate the birthday of the American black civil rights activist Martin Luther King Jr. Frankly, this totally mystifies me and it seems to be culturally and geographically out of place on a number of levels. The American Civil rights movement, whilst being of great importance to the United States, is a total irrelevance in the United Kingdom. We abolished slavery long before Americans did and we, as a culture, never subscribed to segregation of any kind, let alone the legally framed racism of North America. Granted, there were appalling signs in the windows of many British boarding houses stating “no dogs, no blacks, no Irish” up until the seventies and some of our television programmes up to the early eighties left a lot to be desired. It must be acknowledged though that the Brits were as equally sexist and homophobic as they were racist, which was equality of sorts I guess… Erm… yay us? The cultural framework in the uk makes importing Martin Luther King day a complete nonsense, as relavant as Thanksgiving or labour day would be. Incidentally, I never get why Rosa Parks doesn’t get a day in the states as I find the bravery of a quiet lady, too tired to stand, breaking the segregation rules on a bus a much braver and inspiring action than a grown man mouthing off about something. They never do that, do they?  Granted he did get whacked, but then so do lots of political speakers, hazard of the job…

So along with Mardi Gras, Martin Luther King day becomes a “thing” in Hastings with its prerequisite dressing up and money will be shelled out, including the predictable amount for charity so as to legitimise a bunch of grown ups titting about yet again, and that will now be the year partitioned off into another time wasting but ultimately pointless excercise in attention seeking. Yawn! 

So in leu of something completely arse backwards, here is a suggestion for something new and completely appropriate……… Drum roll please…… Gandhi Day!

Just think about it for a moment, Britain’s dark history lies mostly in the days of empire. That’s not all of it of course, from the crusades, through to Iraq via slavery, the opium wars and slave trading we have always been pretty awful as a nation and frankly still are but the empire on which the sun never set was also the evil on which the sun never set, India being a case in point. Mahatma Gandhi led India to gain independence from the British empire through non violent means and was instrumental in using and developing many of the non violent techniques that would be later used by Martin Luther King as well as many others throughout the world. On top of that he could spin his own yarn, which always impressed me, both from a technical point of view as from the photos I’ve seen it always looked like he got it impressively even, plus as a form of economic self reliance, that and the salt making were dead impressive as a practical forms of direct action.

Plus, from a personal point of view, I can’t be mouthing off about what other people are up to if I can’t propose a more positive and appropriate solution myself. Gandhi himself said, Be the change that you wish to see in the world. So if I want to see a date on the Hastings calendar that is not about egos and drinking and puffing up one’s own community standing, then I’d better sort it out myself, as humility and event organisation seem to be strange bedfellows hereabout.

There are a few practical problems to having a Gandhi day in Hastings though, firstly the musical aspect. As anyone who has ever been to a knees up in Hastings knows, you have to have music, ideally some local, erm, talent mangling some vaguely appropriate tune or other. Martin Luther King lends itself rather well to this format, what with Stevie Wonder’s Happy Birthday and numerous Billie Holiday songs that can be wrestled into enthusiastic submission. But Gandhi? I found the rather catchy Gandhi Jayanthi but not being the usual verse chorus verse structure in 4/4 time accross twelve bars it might be a bit much to belt out down the pub. Then there is the costume problem…. Seeing as Gandhi rarely wore much more than a big nappy affair of a bit of cloth wrapped around himself, it’s probably not the most practical get up for a cold night in October where his birthday fell, the sandals wouldn’t be that practical either. Plus there was the Gandhi not being a boozer problem…no event in Hastings or st Leonards is worth bothering with , it seems, unless everyone gets plastered  by the end of it, and one that doesn’t make money for the local landlords and shopkeepers will sadly get no support. But that isn’t necessarily a problem as there was nothing Gandhi liked better than to quietly potter about at home.

So there we go, we have a plan. A culturally and historically relavant celebration for a historical figure who had a positive effect on Britain, by scuppering its exploitative empire, that can be celebrated quietly at home with the minimum of fuss and distraction to people who find the whole endless cycle of showing off events rather tedious and childish. Plus unlike the usual ego stroking affairs of my somewhat parochial and backwards thinking home town, I stake no claim to said idea and give it freely to the world. All I ask is that if you choose to have a Gandhi day of your own, just don’t invite me. I have enough stuff to avoid going to and put people’s noses out of joint in the process as it is.



Travels with my bear

November 3, 2016

Do you ever catch yourself sometimes and think “bloody hell! I do some weird shit!”?

I had one of those moments yesterday, I needed to get some publicity photographs done for a Christmas show I’m doing and I needed a few of my teddy bears. “I know what”, I thought, ” I’ll take some with a few local land marks” so there I was, wandering down the seafront, a grown man with my teddy bear, like Sebastian and Aloysius from Brideshead Revisted and no one took a blind bit of notice.

I love that about st leonards, no one really cares what you do. When I lived in Doncaster, leaving the house was hell, all you had to do was wear anything other that an Adidas or Nike tracksuit and the locals would start to sharpen their pitchforks.

I really enjoyed that aspect when I first moved to st leonards but after a while that started to change. I’ve always been exactly who and what I am, a little bit eccentric and off kilter. I think my own way and I refuse to get sucked into any group or gang and I love having my own mind, and speaking it for that matter. I had a brief flirtation with being a goth when I was younger but soon got bored as it just became yet another uniform. I wear pretty much what I want now and it is judged on my own terms and is more about a sense of design or historical significance than anything else. 

I have never sought attention, when I recieved  filthy looks back in 1989 and onward knitting my own jumpers on the train, I did it because I like knitting and it was dead time that could be used. When I had an asymmetric razor cut Dutch bob it was because it is technically the hardest hairdo to cut and when I followed it with a coup savage it was because it was because I was fascinated with the idea of someone hacking at my head with a cut throat razor. I have never in my life sought attention, I don’t need it, don’t want it and in the kindest and, in the politest way possible, I really don’t care what you or anyone else thinks of me.

The problem is though, so many people do. Care what people think of them that is. 

This lack of people taking any notice, whilst giving a wonderful freedom to those that need it, has a tedious side effect. Those that want and indeed crave attention have to keep upping the anti, doing more and more outrageous things to get noticed. Personally, I’m a great believer in the notion of meritocracy and that the best way to get positive attention is to develop a talent, to get really good at something. Call me old fashioned but that is what I feel.

There is a short cut to talent, well two in fact and they are both used locally and seem to work to a degree. The first is to use the distance from London’s creative heart and the slightly  cut off nature of East Sussex to gild the lily of your own level of talent. Mediocre talents in any industry suddenly become geniuses and the totally inept can join in too if their mouths and egos are big enough. The other is to just keep puffing yourself up further and further, using and endless stream of events to draw in punters and sell booze to get dressed up yet again, year after year like and endless merry-go-round of gaudy drivel. Then, if that isn’t enough, the next thing to do is to invent a few things of your own. Although it is even easier just to steal your ideas from things happening in London or Brighton or wherever knowing that, if you do it with enough brazen cheek, you will get away with it in an isolated bubble of a community. 

The thing is, however hard they try, people that in need of attention will be tolerated and ignored, labelled by everyone who isn’t them as “that bunch of tossers” while the rest of the world gets on with their lives, ignoring the occasional bit of mess or disruption as a nessesary evil, the price they pay for their own eccentricities to be ignored. Like me and my bear. 


Off my trolley 

November 2, 2016

Every now and again in life there is one of those moments where you have to hold your hands up in the air and admit to yourself that you have to cross a line in the sand.  I had one of those moments today, I bought myself a shopping trolley. You know, one of those awful things that little old ladies are so fond of dragging across your feet and scraping the back of your heals with. Like permantly wearing glasses a decade ago it became one of those choices that cease to be a choice and was then a necessity.

Ok, flash back to yesterday where my Halloween started at six am scanning receipts and ended at midnight with me putting the last envelope of nitpicky crap into the last folder with no breaks inbetween. You have to do this sort of crap if you want to prove how poor you are to the authorities… Oh the life of an artist! 
Only today it turned out that they only wanted the paperwork and not the reams of proof that goes with it. This left me with a major problem, loaded down with all that paperwork, how the hell was I going to buy all the stuff I needed to now that I had finally made my bi monthly trip into town? Car owners don’t have this problem, the weight of things, what the weather is like, time and energy spent walking, the capricious nature of public transport, it all magically goes away and very soon they forget what a pain in the arse just doing the basics in life is. So today I bit the bullet and bought one of those wretched wheeled contraptions. It is a tasteful black one rather than the evil black watch tartan variety so popular amongst  the aged community but it still smacks of old biddydom and I felt hideously uncool dragging it through esk, the weird shop in Hastings that is a cornucopia of weird, random, stuff and then along the sea front and home.

I have a strange connection to the awful contraptions as when I lived in London I had the misfortune of having the factory that made the wretched things right next door to my home. It was already an odd place to reside in, an estate agent would describe it as “characterful” or some such rot. It was one of those places that whilst not on the standard of squalor associated with London living now for anyone who isn’t a stockbroker, it was impossible to rent out legally as it was actually part of a car mechanics premises and not only was I pestered constantly by people wondering why there was no one to repair their crappy old car on a Sunday morning but the precious M.O.T certificates and embossing stamps were kept in a hidden safe in the living room so that breakfast and dinner would always be disturbed by the landlords coming and going. No wonder I live in the hardest place to find now and avoid people for the most part. I remember the streets always being strewn with bits of trolley, plastic wheels and little washers used to roll everywhere in their bid for freedom and the people who worked there alway had that dead eyed look of the incredibly stupid as if there was not a single spark of imagination to be found anywhere in their heads. To cut a long story short, living there was annoying but a neccessary evil when being skint the in country’s capital.

You know, I can’t remember the last time I saw a factory, somewhere that actually made things, everything now mysteriously appears from Chinese now as we slowly destroy this countries balance of payments, economy and the environment shipping more crap with limited lifespans accross the planet and hey! I can buy even more of it now, with my big shopping bag on wheels, lucky me! 



A nightmare in black, white and red.

October 29, 2016

What the hell is going on in Hastings? There are fireworks again, and there was a zombie walk on the pier today, Halloween stuff tonight, last night and probably tomorrow as well. The mid life crisis cyclists are supposed to be tarting themselves up in a horror themed bid at attention seeking, I’m not sure when that is / was though as I’ve been ignoring them all in the hope that they will eventually go away. Sadly, they haven’t yet, yawn!

In my world there is something far scarier…. Like the letter that landed on my doorstep this morning. 

Money is a total pain in the arse. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been bombarded by visions of the future and now, at forty six, the future has failed to arrive. Sure we have lots of shiny tat, screens on everything, data flying everywhere but we are still enslaved by the notion of money, and that is really all it is, a notion. Money was originally meant as a means to represent resources but now… Well it’s a living breathing entity to which we are all enslaved. Last time I checked there were a few countries in the world discussing the idea of giving each of their citizens a basic lump of money on which to live and then any work they did on top would enhance their lives further rather than just keep them afloat. Thus removing the indignity of a means tested benefit system for the vulnerable and allowing people to pursue less money focused goals if they should desire.  Maybe the fact is that I’ve been binge watching Star Trek for the last few months and it has totally permeated my conciousness but a world without money makes perfect sense. Then again I would as I never have any, and when I do it goes straight back in to the next art project.

The horror story that arrived on my door mate today is my housing benefit forms, being part of the vulnerable community of serfs that have to rent their home is bad enough but as the reason I need to get help is because my fledgling business earns sod all money, it means that I need to stop whatever I am doing to spend a number of days, parcelling up every single invoice, bill, receipt and whatever from the past year and stuff them all into little envelopes because the local council doesn’t trust anyone to be honest. It’s mad though, all they really need to know is that I am skint, the amounts are immaterial. In my view it’s one of those vestigial notions left over from the workhouse days of futile make-work to punish the poor for being poor. I have so very much to do, but instead of that I will be photocopying, well, everything, I’ll be updating spreadsheets, digging frantically through bank statement and spectacularly failing to do anything that earns money. Oh! And they will run off with my cash invoice pads too so I will have my cash invoicing go completely out of sync, grrrrr!

It’s such a funny world, the harder you try to drag yourself back to normality, the more stuff seems to crop up to drag you back down again. It won’t though, I will take a deep breath and push on through to the next bit of nonsense but it won’t stop me. Although the, given the choice, give me a few witches, ghost and zombies to deal with any day of the week. 


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