A replay of the TV series Alaska Experiment screened here recently.
It’s about a group of people who go off in different groups and spend three months living rough in an Alaskan winter. By rough, I mean they have buildings to live in, but no electricity or running water.
They’re out there arm-wrestling bears for salmon, head-butting rocks to pass the time, chasing dangerous and ravenous gangs of mussels across the bay, practising their figure skating routines and generally trying to make the muesli last the distance.
Anyway, I caught part of one episode where a couple had an encounter with a wolf. They saw it and it ran off, but circled around and came close to their cabin while they were trying to hunt it. After all, you don't want a wolf hanging around, it might sneak up on the cabin in the middle of the night and blow the whole thing down. Wolves are good with explosives you know.
But the highlight for me was the bloke involved, who insisted on calling the wolf a “woof”.
“Yeah, the woof has been prowling around, it left woof tracks here and here, and the cunning woof doubled-back and got within 30 feet of the hut there…”
Wouldn’t you be totally pissed off if you’d bought like the meanest, ugliest, most vicious guard dog in the world – rubber band around the goolies and everything – and called him Wolf. Only to have everyone start calling him Woof. And finally you gave up and started calling him Woof too...
“Woof! Time for dinner! Woof! Woof! Here boy! Woof!”
People would think you were a werewolf.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
What's in a Name?
Language is wonderful. One of the wonderful things about language is that words can convey feeling in a really specific way. They carry their own baggage.
Consider this: I watched Twilight at the weekend and was highly amused to find the vampires in the Twilight world, when exposed to sunlight, sparkled. They were like little diamonds. Quite the accessory for a woman to wear a vampire-skin bracelet.
“Yes, it’s an Edward Collin butt-cheek original. So it’s part of the moon that sparkles in the sun…”
Anyway, this interesting piece of Stephenie Meyer inspiration got me thinking… if vampires were truly to sparkle in the sunlight, surely that would be an integral part of the myth. And if so wouldn’t the naming be different?
Would Vlad the Impaler be quite so fearsome as Vlad the Glittery? Would Dracula instil the same fear in the hearts of humanity if he had been called Mr Sparkly?
Similarly, would everyone have gone to see Jaws if it had been called Big Tuna Surprise? Or Alien if it was called The People-Eating, Stomach-Popping, Acid-Dripping Sex Toy? Actually, probably yes on the latter.
No real message here. Just choose your words carefully. Which is always a good idea.
Consider this: I watched Twilight at the weekend and was highly amused to find the vampires in the Twilight world, when exposed to sunlight, sparkled. They were like little diamonds. Quite the accessory for a woman to wear a vampire-skin bracelet.
“Yes, it’s an Edward Collin butt-cheek original. So it’s part of the moon that sparkles in the sun…”
Anyway, this interesting piece of Stephenie Meyer inspiration got me thinking… if vampires were truly to sparkle in the sunlight, surely that would be an integral part of the myth. And if so wouldn’t the naming be different?
Would Vlad the Impaler be quite so fearsome as Vlad the Glittery? Would Dracula instil the same fear in the hearts of humanity if he had been called Mr Sparkly?
Similarly, would everyone have gone to see Jaws if it had been called Big Tuna Surprise? Or Alien if it was called The People-Eating, Stomach-Popping, Acid-Dripping Sex Toy? Actually, probably yes on the latter.
No real message here. Just choose your words carefully. Which is always a good idea.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Twilit
Women of all ages are still melting in lust at the sight of Robert Pattinson in the film Twilight – a film I watched for the first time at the weekend.
I have not read the books, which I accept are probably a whole lot better than the film. And I cannot criticise the film, because it was a good, solid effort. And I also liked it the other seven or eight times I’d seen bits of it in earlier films.
First, let’s take a look at Mr Pattinson. Why are women of all ages attracted to this guy? What could it be about the perfect mix of angst and danger and haircut that’s so original it hasn’t been seen since the 1950s when it was first pioneered by James Dean?
The theme music; wow, how did I know it was going to be a supernatural flick when the theme was a bastardisation of The Smiths’ How Soon is Now, which had been previously used in 1996 film The Craft and the theme music to TV series Charmed.
Now mix in a bit of Bev Hills 90210 high school drama and you’re well on the way to a hit movie about vampires at high school; a theme never before touched. Joss Whedon – the dude who created Buffy – should sue.
A young woman falling in love with a vampire? “Hello? This is Mr Whedon calling for Khan Wee Suyem & Howe…”
OK, Bella was no Buffy. Buffy could more than handle herself one-on-one with a vampire. But take away her powers and we’re back to Twilight.
There’s that touching scene where Bella and Angel, er Edward, are together and Edward says: “And so the lion fell in love with the lamb”. How romantic. It’s a misquote of a misquote from the Bible (Isaiah 11:6) where it is popularly reported as: “…and the lion shall lay down with the lamb.” In honesty that particular passage says the wolf and the lamb should be together (which really messes with the Twilight story when you think about it), and the lion is destined to lie with the calf. Not so romantic if Edward says: “And so the lion fell in love with the cow”.
All that aside, a lion lying down with a lamb? In the biblical sense? That’s definitely in the “Thou shalt not!” category, people. And I think any pervert lion that tried it would do that lamb some serious physical damage in some very sensitive areas. That’s all I’m saying. Take that back to the Twilight scenario anyway you please.
Enter evil vampire James: The exact same close-up shot we’d seen of Brad Pitt in Interview With The Vampire. That was the film where Brad’s poor, brooding vampire Louis spent many miserable years eating animals instead of people on principle. My gosh, that sounds familiar.
Then there was the subtle wolves versus vampires antagonism going on which I’d been completely unaware of – at least until first seeing Underworld with Kate Beckinsale in 2003.
Anyway, enough picking the film apart. It has, after all, melted the hearts of women of all ages all over the world. Women who now plan to leave the dark, dangerous, brooding introvert they have been living with to go fall in love with a vampire.
I have not read the books, which I accept are probably a whole lot better than the film. And I cannot criticise the film, because it was a good, solid effort. And I also liked it the other seven or eight times I’d seen bits of it in earlier films.
First, let’s take a look at Mr Pattinson. Why are women of all ages attracted to this guy? What could it be about the perfect mix of angst and danger and haircut that’s so original it hasn’t been seen since the 1950s when it was first pioneered by James Dean?
The theme music; wow, how did I know it was going to be a supernatural flick when the theme was a bastardisation of The Smiths’ How Soon is Now, which had been previously used in 1996 film The Craft and the theme music to TV series Charmed.
Now mix in a bit of Bev Hills 90210 high school drama and you’re well on the way to a hit movie about vampires at high school; a theme never before touched. Joss Whedon – the dude who created Buffy – should sue.
A young woman falling in love with a vampire? “Hello? This is Mr Whedon calling for Khan Wee Suyem & Howe…”
OK, Bella was no Buffy. Buffy could more than handle herself one-on-one with a vampire. But take away her powers and we’re back to Twilight.
There’s that touching scene where Bella and Angel, er Edward, are together and Edward says: “And so the lion fell in love with the lamb”. How romantic. It’s a misquote of a misquote from the Bible (Isaiah 11:6) where it is popularly reported as: “…and the lion shall lay down with the lamb.” In honesty that particular passage says the wolf and the lamb should be together (which really messes with the Twilight story when you think about it), and the lion is destined to lie with the calf. Not so romantic if Edward says: “And so the lion fell in love with the cow”.
All that aside, a lion lying down with a lamb? In the biblical sense? That’s definitely in the “Thou shalt not!” category, people. And I think any pervert lion that tried it would do that lamb some serious physical damage in some very sensitive areas. That’s all I’m saying. Take that back to the Twilight scenario anyway you please.
Enter evil vampire James: The exact same close-up shot we’d seen of Brad Pitt in Interview With The Vampire. That was the film where Brad’s poor, brooding vampire Louis spent many miserable years eating animals instead of people on principle. My gosh, that sounds familiar.
Then there was the subtle wolves versus vampires antagonism going on which I’d been completely unaware of – at least until first seeing Underworld with Kate Beckinsale in 2003.
Anyway, enough picking the film apart. It has, after all, melted the hearts of women of all ages all over the world. Women who now plan to leave the dark, dangerous, brooding introvert they have been living with to go fall in love with a vampire.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Blog without purpose
Of course the purpose here is to entertain, and hopefully I will not disappoint. But you’ll notice there’s usually a topic or focal point to my rants. Alas, not this time.
I aim to blog at least once a week, and since time is up (so to speak) this week, I felt I had to make some contribution. But nothing has pissed me off this week. I have nothing to complain about. It’s been a good week.
Wait! Don’t hit the back button on the browser just yet, because two topics did spark my interest. One was Samantha Kerby’s trials and tribulations when trying to learn about Spiritual Monism in her philosophy class; and the other was Jupiter.
In an effort to help my friend Sam, I tried to learn something about Spiritual Monism – having previously believed it was simply a description of when you pray for money.
You know the joke about the Zen master who pulls into the Subway store and says: “Make me one with everything”? That’s essentially Spiritual Monism; the belief that everything, thoughts and energy and physical reality are all part of one giant, universal fart that is even now expanding into hallways of some giant unknown where it will be inhaled by truly unsuspecting beings and possibly kill them.
That’s my new theology, incidentally, that the universe is a really bad, wet God fart that He is trying to blame on someone else. “And God saith unto the peoples of The World: `He who smelt it, dealt it’. And it was So.”
Have you noticed how the Bible puts capital letters EVERYWHERE? It’s like they’re saying: “It’s all important. But we're not sure What is Important, so we'll just Capitalise Everything that seems like Somebody might find it Important 2000 years from now.”
Except Numbers. I never could get my head around Numbers. All that begetting. It probably represents the most sex there is in the Bible and yet there was no vivid descriptions of seduction or anything. That really would have improved sales, God. You needed a better Editor.
Oh yeah, Song of Solomon is meant to be all about seduction; but it’s all romantic shit – the fig trees of wherever and hold you like a tree and your body is as a Big Mac unto the senses of Jerusalem etc etc. It never even specifies whether it’s talking about a woman or a man. It could be the greatest gay seduction scene ever written. A thought which has no doubt caused several Bible Belt readers to go into cardiac arrest.
Woah, biblical outburst. Where did that all come from? Rambling again. And I never even had a point to make about Spiritual Monism. Except that it’s not what happens when you pray for money. That's called a Lotto ticket.
Jupiter. Let’s give it a hand. As a planet all I’ve known is that it’s big. Like BIG. We’re talking like pro-wrestler ego size here. Like if King Kong had his own aircraft carrier built to scale and it contracted a bad case of giganticism big.
But Jupiter, it turns out, is also our friend. Isn’t that nice? A big tough friend in the neighbourhood who's just floating around, looking out for us. You see, Jupiter's high gravity pulls in comets and meteors and random big floaty-in-space things and hurls them off out of the solar system. It is an effective guard against inter-stellar bullies.
In fact, scientists looking for life on other planets are now initally looking for a "Jupiter" which will provide it with the necessary protection.
Without Jupiter, the movies Deep Impact and Armageddon? Well, let’s just say “is it that time of the week already?”
And here endeth the lesson. Hope you’ve been entertained and educated. Though I’m pretty sure nearly everyone knows about the Jupiter thing already. All I want to know is why didn’t you bastards tell me?
I aim to blog at least once a week, and since time is up (so to speak) this week, I felt I had to make some contribution. But nothing has pissed me off this week. I have nothing to complain about. It’s been a good week.
Wait! Don’t hit the back button on the browser just yet, because two topics did spark my interest. One was Samantha Kerby’s trials and tribulations when trying to learn about Spiritual Monism in her philosophy class; and the other was Jupiter.
In an effort to help my friend Sam, I tried to learn something about Spiritual Monism – having previously believed it was simply a description of when you pray for money.
You know the joke about the Zen master who pulls into the Subway store and says: “Make me one with everything”? That’s essentially Spiritual Monism; the belief that everything, thoughts and energy and physical reality are all part of one giant, universal fart that is even now expanding into hallways of some giant unknown where it will be inhaled by truly unsuspecting beings and possibly kill them.
That’s my new theology, incidentally, that the universe is a really bad, wet God fart that He is trying to blame on someone else. “And God saith unto the peoples of The World: `He who smelt it, dealt it’. And it was So.”
Have you noticed how the Bible puts capital letters EVERYWHERE? It’s like they’re saying: “It’s all important. But we're not sure What is Important, so we'll just Capitalise Everything that seems like Somebody might find it Important 2000 years from now.”
Except Numbers. I never could get my head around Numbers. All that begetting. It probably represents the most sex there is in the Bible and yet there was no vivid descriptions of seduction or anything. That really would have improved sales, God. You needed a better Editor.
Oh yeah, Song of Solomon is meant to be all about seduction; but it’s all romantic shit – the fig trees of wherever and hold you like a tree and your body is as a Big Mac unto the senses of Jerusalem etc etc. It never even specifies whether it’s talking about a woman or a man. It could be the greatest gay seduction scene ever written. A thought which has no doubt caused several Bible Belt readers to go into cardiac arrest.
Woah, biblical outburst. Where did that all come from? Rambling again. And I never even had a point to make about Spiritual Monism. Except that it’s not what happens when you pray for money. That's called a Lotto ticket.
Jupiter. Let’s give it a hand. As a planet all I’ve known is that it’s big. Like BIG. We’re talking like pro-wrestler ego size here. Like if King Kong had his own aircraft carrier built to scale and it contracted a bad case of giganticism big.
But Jupiter, it turns out, is also our friend. Isn’t that nice? A big tough friend in the neighbourhood who's just floating around, looking out for us. You see, Jupiter's high gravity pulls in comets and meteors and random big floaty-in-space things and hurls them off out of the solar system. It is an effective guard against inter-stellar bullies.
In fact, scientists looking for life on other planets are now initally looking for a "Jupiter" which will provide it with the necessary protection.
Without Jupiter, the movies Deep Impact and Armageddon? Well, let’s just say “is it that time of the week already?”
And here endeth the lesson. Hope you’ve been entertained and educated. Though I’m pretty sure nearly everyone knows about the Jupiter thing already. All I want to know is why didn’t you bastards tell me?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Tyred And Worn Out After A Long Sqwark
John Cleese, talking about writing the sitcom Fawlty Towers with Connie Booth, said they basically took a big piece of paper and wrote down a plot outline where they essentially tortured this poor hotel owner.
They were designing Basil Fawlty’s life based on Murphy’s Law. The result was side-achingly funny.
So, in the interests of your entertainment, I shall relate my weekend tyre adventure.
I’ve had my car about 18 months and so far haven’t even had to open the boot, let alone change a tyre. That was until Saturday when I decided to go visit my nephews at my sister’s house in Mana (about half-an-hour’s drive up the coast).
I started out, but was fairly quickly aware that something was wrong. I drove about 500m and then pulled over, got out and discovered, yes, the rear left tyre was flat. Well, there was air in there, but slightly less than an asthmatic one-lunged geriatric with emphysema.
No worries, I thought: There’s a garage not far away, I’ll go there and inflate it. If it goes straight down again then I’ll just put the spare on.
So I drove slowly down to the garage, only to find that it was not only closed, but it was closed down! At this point the tyre was on its last exhausted puff. So I pulled into a car park to put the spare on.
I opened the boot and was relieved to find the spare was fully inflated. Phew. However, I was less enthused to discover that the bastard that sold me the car had neglected to leave me with a jack.
I had no choice but to drive home. Just after pulling out of the car park a woman walking past waved and pointed to the flat. I told her my predicament and she walked off.
Just as well we had this exchange, because I ended up following her about three-quarters of the way home. Eight kilometres an hour. Walking pace. About five metres behind this woman all the way. Had she not known my problem, she would have thought “Oh God! Psycho serial-killer!”
Meanwhile, I was having to wind the window down every few seconds to wave traffic through. These were quiet back streets which suddenly seemed like State Highway 1. There were cars lining up just for the view, I’m sure.
I get home and call up my nephews. One of them comes to pick me up. I go out there for the evening, and when they drop me back off they lend me a spare jack.
Fast forward to Sunday afternoon. I’m waiting for a moment between rain squalls to get out and change the tyre. Finally I pick my moment and head out there. First things first; loosen the wheel nuts.
I get the tyre iron and take to the first nut. It won’t budge. So I end up standing on the tyre iron to get it to turn. It does. Relief. But then I cannot get the tyre iron off the nut. It’s jammed half-way around the iron’s star-shaped hole.
The wind chill factor now is -3000 degrees and it starts to rain again. I take the tyre iron and wedged nut and retreat inside. I try hammering out the nut, without luck, then reckon perhaps the way to fix it is simply to reverse what caused it.
I venture back out and sure enough, tightening the nut back up easily lets me get the tyre iron off. And so I start on nut number two. It moves with some reluctance. Nut three – like it’s welded on. Then the tyre iron gave way, allowing it to turn around the nut with only an arm-numbing clunk each time it slipped.
I called my nephew.
He kindly drove half-an-hour in to help me change the tyre in Antarctic weather. His tyre iron makes short work of the other nuts. I haul out the spare tyre. He jacks up the car.
We take the flat tyre off. We go to put the spare on… except the wheel hub is too low. The car needs to be jacked higher. But the jack is now leaning at an awkward angle. Jack it up any further and the whole car could come down on us.
We put the flat tyre back on and lower the car. Then we put the nuts back on and I roll the car back to more solid ground. (Did I mention that we were trying to do this on a hill? The nearest flat ground being about 200m away.)
Eventually – third try – we managed to jack up the car. It went fairly smoothly from there; flat tyre off, spare tyre on, everything good. Though now I have to find the money to get the flat fixed, buy a tyre iron and a new jack.
Many thanks to my nephew, Anthony, for his help. I’m sure the dose of hypothermia we both gained from the experience won’t be fatal. Seriously, it took me over an hour to warm up again after the adventure, and another three hours before I was anywhere near approaching “hot”.
So, please, take this moment to salute my ineptitude.
They were designing Basil Fawlty’s life based on Murphy’s Law. The result was side-achingly funny.
So, in the interests of your entertainment, I shall relate my weekend tyre adventure.
I’ve had my car about 18 months and so far haven’t even had to open the boot, let alone change a tyre. That was until Saturday when I decided to go visit my nephews at my sister’s house in Mana (about half-an-hour’s drive up the coast).
I started out, but was fairly quickly aware that something was wrong. I drove about 500m and then pulled over, got out and discovered, yes, the rear left tyre was flat. Well, there was air in there, but slightly less than an asthmatic one-lunged geriatric with emphysema.
No worries, I thought: There’s a garage not far away, I’ll go there and inflate it. If it goes straight down again then I’ll just put the spare on.
So I drove slowly down to the garage, only to find that it was not only closed, but it was closed down! At this point the tyre was on its last exhausted puff. So I pulled into a car park to put the spare on.
I opened the boot and was relieved to find the spare was fully inflated. Phew. However, I was less enthused to discover that the bastard that sold me the car had neglected to leave me with a jack.
I had no choice but to drive home. Just after pulling out of the car park a woman walking past waved and pointed to the flat. I told her my predicament and she walked off.
Just as well we had this exchange, because I ended up following her about three-quarters of the way home. Eight kilometres an hour. Walking pace. About five metres behind this woman all the way. Had she not known my problem, she would have thought “Oh God! Psycho serial-killer!”
Meanwhile, I was having to wind the window down every few seconds to wave traffic through. These were quiet back streets which suddenly seemed like State Highway 1. There were cars lining up just for the view, I’m sure.
I get home and call up my nephews. One of them comes to pick me up. I go out there for the evening, and when they drop me back off they lend me a spare jack.
Fast forward to Sunday afternoon. I’m waiting for a moment between rain squalls to get out and change the tyre. Finally I pick my moment and head out there. First things first; loosen the wheel nuts.
I get the tyre iron and take to the first nut. It won’t budge. So I end up standing on the tyre iron to get it to turn. It does. Relief. But then I cannot get the tyre iron off the nut. It’s jammed half-way around the iron’s star-shaped hole.
The wind chill factor now is -3000 degrees and it starts to rain again. I take the tyre iron and wedged nut and retreat inside. I try hammering out the nut, without luck, then reckon perhaps the way to fix it is simply to reverse what caused it.
I venture back out and sure enough, tightening the nut back up easily lets me get the tyre iron off. And so I start on nut number two. It moves with some reluctance. Nut three – like it’s welded on. Then the tyre iron gave way, allowing it to turn around the nut with only an arm-numbing clunk each time it slipped.
I called my nephew.
He kindly drove half-an-hour in to help me change the tyre in Antarctic weather. His tyre iron makes short work of the other nuts. I haul out the spare tyre. He jacks up the car.
We take the flat tyre off. We go to put the spare on… except the wheel hub is too low. The car needs to be jacked higher. But the jack is now leaning at an awkward angle. Jack it up any further and the whole car could come down on us.
We put the flat tyre back on and lower the car. Then we put the nuts back on and I roll the car back to more solid ground. (Did I mention that we were trying to do this on a hill? The nearest flat ground being about 200m away.)
Eventually – third try – we managed to jack up the car. It went fairly smoothly from there; flat tyre off, spare tyre on, everything good. Though now I have to find the money to get the flat fixed, buy a tyre iron and a new jack.
Many thanks to my nephew, Anthony, for his help. I’m sure the dose of hypothermia we both gained from the experience won’t be fatal. Seriously, it took me over an hour to warm up again after the adventure, and another three hours before I was anywhere near approaching “hot”.
So, please, take this moment to salute my ineptitude.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
A very sensitive subject
A couple of days ago I saw a programme about an issue that I really think it needs nipping in the bud. So to speak.
There was a documentary on TV about the increasing number of women having cosmetic surgery on their vaginas. Writer/presenter Lisa Rogers was curious about this trend and asked the simple question: WTF!
I’d read a preview of the show where Rogers quoted her father on the subject: “The thing is, Liz, if you’ve got a house you want to do up for a prospective buyer, you don’t start by decorating the cellar.”
There was one 21-year-old woman who had a chunk cut off her labia because her sister started spreading rumours her vagina was, well, excessive. This led to the woman being teased by blokes about labial inadequacy.
To paraphrase Jesus: Let he who hath more than two inches cast the first stone.
Anyway, the procedure was shown in full on the documentary and Lisa made the pre-cut comment: “Looks pretty normal to me”.
I agreed.
What I also found curious was that, in watching this programme, there was a lot of huhu on screen and I was watching with a kind of clinical detachment. There was no sense of getting jollies or anything like that.
So Liz talked to some male mates, who said pretty much that it’s not something men even think about. In fact, in the whole programme, it was only one arsehole toothless painter who said: “I like giving oral sex, so it’s important to me what it looks like”.
I guess you can afford to be that picky if you’re having to pay for every sexual encounter.
Anyway, I just wanted to reassure any women reading this, on behalf of sane hetero men everywhere – we really don’t care. If it’s clean and accessible, we are more than happy.
I have never, ever been in a group of men where the conversation has turned to labial proportions. There has been a lot of sexist and off-colour conversation, but never has this particular issue been at issue.
Generally, I think men just consider it an honour to be gazing upon one. It’s almost at a genetic level that a voice says: “Let’s not go looking a gift horse in the huhu.”
Simply: You don’t go to Disneyland and say: “I’m going home, I don’t like the colour of the gate.”
There was a documentary on TV about the increasing number of women having cosmetic surgery on their vaginas. Writer/presenter Lisa Rogers was curious about this trend and asked the simple question: WTF!
I’d read a preview of the show where Rogers quoted her father on the subject: “The thing is, Liz, if you’ve got a house you want to do up for a prospective buyer, you don’t start by decorating the cellar.”
There was one 21-year-old woman who had a chunk cut off her labia because her sister started spreading rumours her vagina was, well, excessive. This led to the woman being teased by blokes about labial inadequacy.
To paraphrase Jesus: Let he who hath more than two inches cast the first stone.
Anyway, the procedure was shown in full on the documentary and Lisa made the pre-cut comment: “Looks pretty normal to me”.
I agreed.
What I also found curious was that, in watching this programme, there was a lot of huhu on screen and I was watching with a kind of clinical detachment. There was no sense of getting jollies or anything like that.
So Liz talked to some male mates, who said pretty much that it’s not something men even think about. In fact, in the whole programme, it was only one arsehole toothless painter who said: “I like giving oral sex, so it’s important to me what it looks like”.
I guess you can afford to be that picky if you’re having to pay for every sexual encounter.
Anyway, I just wanted to reassure any women reading this, on behalf of sane hetero men everywhere – we really don’t care. If it’s clean and accessible, we are more than happy.
I have never, ever been in a group of men where the conversation has turned to labial proportions. There has been a lot of sexist and off-colour conversation, but never has this particular issue been at issue.
Generally, I think men just consider it an honour to be gazing upon one. It’s almost at a genetic level that a voice says: “Let’s not go looking a gift horse in the huhu.”
Simply: You don’t go to Disneyland and say: “I’m going home, I don’t like the colour of the gate.”
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