We have a few birthdays coming up lately and it is always a bit of a struggle to come up with a suitable way of celebrating which doesn’t involve the expense and, more importantly, sheer unadulterated Hell of children’s parties. There are a few options. An afternoon at the Ten Pin Bowling is fun and a football match or the like would be fine if it wasn’t February and the weather such a variable factor (at least not that variable as it is pretty predictably wet, windy, cold and miserable).
My preference is for a trip to the movies. In part, this is because I was always so enamoured with the local picture house as a child and also because it is a fairly straight forward, stress-free family night out. Unfortunately, it is no longer the cheap night out that it once was. I’ve just checked out two local multiplexes and the prices just for the tickets are extortionate. In Falkirk, the prices are (just for 2D films) £10.10 for an adult ticket and £7.60 for a child. There are no family discounts so for us (with 3 children) that would be £43 even before anyone suggested dallying with the ice cream stand or the pick and mix. A 3D film (which I personally avoid like the plague) including the glasses would be a shade under £58. It’s not just that chain, either. In Stirling the similar prices would be £42 and £54 even with their family discounts.
For the most part, I tend to stick with a couple of independent cinemas whose family ticket prices are about half of the multiplexes and who actually offer a pleasant cinema experience. Generally this tends to be the cinema at Stirling University which has a nice relaxed family experience and the Bo’Ness Hippodrome which is a proper old-fashioned picture house with that certain feeling of expectant magic that a night out at the cinema should have (and also a selection of ice cream that doesn’t require an overdraft facility). In fact it is that sense of magic that small independent picture houses still manage to create: the multiplex chains just show a film without offering that special feeling of going out for the night. And they don’t do it cheaply, either.
The annoying thing is that a going to the cinema used to be a cheap night out. I still miss the old ABC cinema in Falkirk even if calling it a fleapit would cast aspersions on to the quality of accommodation that the typical flea would aspire to. At one time pretty much every town of any size would have its own cinema but most of these were killed off by the advent of TV. I’m actually wondering whether the tides are turning with this one because with digital projection technology the set-up costs of running a small scale cinema are coming right down. I can’t see the multiplexes relinquishing their stranglehold on Hollywood blockbusters and overpriced popcorn but there must be a market for a local community with a civic hall to spare?
Sunday, 31 January 2016
Sunday, 24 January 2016
Double Entendres
I managed to make something of an idiot of myself this week. This all relates to a work colleague based in the USA called Robin. I have never met him or seen a picture of him as most communications have been via email. So it came as a surprise to discover that Robin was actually a woman. Now I am happy enough with the feminine spelling of the name being Robyn but to me “Robin” is the name of a hairy-arsed rugby player from Perth and not a woman from Boston. Americans seem to make a habit of this as can be seen in the names of actresses such as Cameron Diaz, Sean Young or, for that matter, Robin Givens; none of whom are, to my knowledge, either hairy-arsed or rugby players.
There are, in fact, a great number of differences between British and American English that can cause this kind of confusion. I can remember visiting the United States a number of years ago and discovering quite a number of examples over which it is difficult to keep a straight face. Mainly this is because the British are rather puerile and love nothing better than a good, solid, smutty double entendre. For example, the word “spunk” in American English means spirit, pluck, determination and so on whereas in Britain it is a slang term for seminal fluid. This caused huge amusement in a public park in Ohio when a woman protested with her pet dog “Spunky”, a spirited, plucky, determined character of indeterminate breed, as it proceeded to mate with her leg. The precise cause of this amusement was completely lost on our American friends.
Another such misunderstanding came at a baseball game when the subject of a “fanny-pack” came up. Now to me this sounds like some sort of slang expression for a feminine hygiene product but it turns out that “fanny” is the US colloquial phrase for one’s buttocks and a “fanny-pack” is the name of a small bag that is worn around the waist, often rear facing over the buttocks. The more common British name for this is a “bum bag”.
Of course, the phrase “bum bag” would cause confusion in the US as this would seem to describe a battered holdall used to contain the possessions of a poor person of no fixed abode, probably sleeping rough, possibly with some level of alcoholism and certainly a high level of vagrancy – such an individual in the US is referred to as a “bum”. The British colloquial term for such a homeless person is “tramp”. However in the US, a “tramp” is a woman of easy virtue.
This is where it starts to get complicated because, as well as the differing meaning for the word “tramp” there is also another word that Americans use for a prostitute which is the word “hooker”. Although many British people will be familiar with the word “hooker” meaning prostitute from US crime dramas, the word “hooker” in Britain is more commonly used to describe the burley individual who forms the centre point of the scrum in a game of rugby. The “hooker”, in Britain, most likely has a broken nose, cauliflower ears, a hairy arse, lives in Perth and is called Robin.
Of course sometimes the languages can converge. In parts of Northern England, the word “Trump” means a loud, odious and unwelcome emission from an anus. Interestingly, in America, this now means exactly the same thing.
There are, in fact, a great number of differences between British and American English that can cause this kind of confusion. I can remember visiting the United States a number of years ago and discovering quite a number of examples over which it is difficult to keep a straight face. Mainly this is because the British are rather puerile and love nothing better than a good, solid, smutty double entendre. For example, the word “spunk” in American English means spirit, pluck, determination and so on whereas in Britain it is a slang term for seminal fluid. This caused huge amusement in a public park in Ohio when a woman protested with her pet dog “Spunky”, a spirited, plucky, determined character of indeterminate breed, as it proceeded to mate with her leg. The precise cause of this amusement was completely lost on our American friends.
Another such misunderstanding came at a baseball game when the subject of a “fanny-pack” came up. Now to me this sounds like some sort of slang expression for a feminine hygiene product but it turns out that “fanny” is the US colloquial phrase for one’s buttocks and a “fanny-pack” is the name of a small bag that is worn around the waist, often rear facing over the buttocks. The more common British name for this is a “bum bag”.
Of course, the phrase “bum bag” would cause confusion in the US as this would seem to describe a battered holdall used to contain the possessions of a poor person of no fixed abode, probably sleeping rough, possibly with some level of alcoholism and certainly a high level of vagrancy – such an individual in the US is referred to as a “bum”. The British colloquial term for such a homeless person is “tramp”. However in the US, a “tramp” is a woman of easy virtue.
This is where it starts to get complicated because, as well as the differing meaning for the word “tramp” there is also another word that Americans use for a prostitute which is the word “hooker”. Although many British people will be familiar with the word “hooker” meaning prostitute from US crime dramas, the word “hooker” in Britain is more commonly used to describe the burley individual who forms the centre point of the scrum in a game of rugby. The “hooker”, in Britain, most likely has a broken nose, cauliflower ears, a hairy arse, lives in Perth and is called Robin.
Of course sometimes the languages can converge. In parts of Northern England, the word “Trump” means a loud, odious and unwelcome emission from an anus. Interestingly, in America, this now means exactly the same thing.
Saturday, 16 January 2016
The Man Who Fell To Earth
I read the news today, oh boy! At least, on Monday, I put the breakfast news on the telly and felt numbed by the announcement that David Bowie had died. I’m not exactly sure why this shocked me so much but it did. I had a look over this blog and noticed the posting I wrote three years ago at the time of his last album release. At that time I had seen the news and wondered if he had died after a decade of very little public activity and, in a way, I don’t think I would have been as surprised then at his passing. This time I had been listening, intently, to his new album, Blackstar, and had considered posting my thoughts about it last weekend but wanted to have time to properly appreciate it. I’ve had the CD playing in the car all week. In fact, when I last pushed it into the dashboard on 8th January he was still alive.
As for Blackstar, the lyrical content now makes much more sense given events over the few days. The CD notes consist of black ink on black paper so it is very difficult to make anything out but the clues were really there all along – particularly considering the stark video he made for Lazarus which I can’t bring myself to watch again. The album, as with the other projects that he was working on, are presenting his death as a work of art. In parts this makes for an occasionally harrowing but strangely inspirational experience and, as I discovered after Amazon initially presented the streaming tracks in the wrong order, this is a musical experience that works best as a whole. That’s not to say that the individual elements are not as good. I was very taken with the title track, Lazarus, Girl Loves Me and particularly the closing track I Can't Give Everything Away which is both melancholic and yet uplifting at the same time. In fact it was only the second track, 'Tis a Pity She Was a Whore, that I found remotely jarring but in the context of the entire album it works fine.
The odd thing with Blackstar is that I found myself constantly back-referencing old songs and thinking that a particular track sounded very similar to a previous work only to then listen to what I thought was its doppelganger and discover that any resemblance was merely illusory. What I have noticed, though, is that many of the tracks would have fitted in perfectly on earlier albums. For example, Girl Loves Me with its futuristic Nadsat argot would have worked superbly in the middle of the Diamond Dogs album. There are hints and teases like this throughout the album but it makes for a fitting tribute to a remarkable career. Even so, comments from Tony Visconti indicated that as late as last week Bowie had plans for further work. One assumes that the end came faster than anyone, Bowie included, could have predicted.
The outpouring of emotion on Monday rather surprised me. I would regard myself as a second wave Bowie fan. I was aware of his songs but didn’t really appreciate them until later but what surprised me was that the age of many of those interviewed on the news and those laying floral tributes seem to cross generational boundaries. In fact, many of them must have first encountered Bowie’s songs either when he was on his extended post-2003 sabbatical or certainly when he was a lower profile artist. He really seems to have touched the nation but this did get me wondering as to when I first became a Bowie fan.
Many people have great recollections about what their first single or album was. I’m never quite sure but one thing I do know is what the first CD I bought was. I already had a fairly extensive collection of vinyl albums and many recordings dubiously taped off the radio or from friends (to this day I am still trying to source some of the originals on CD). However, in 1990 I was saving the pennies from my job working at BT to buy myself a CD player. Come payday, I duly went down to the local branch of Richer Sounds and bought myself a CD deck (which actually lasted for some 20 years) but having made what was a major purchase at the time I actually didn’t have anything to play on it. I made the decision to forgo Friday night’s drinking session and headed on down to HMV. On display, at the front of the shop, was the compilation album Changesbowie which I took home and listened to solidly over the entire weekend. I was both blown away by the quality of the sound (particularly the opening Space Oddity now devoid of the crackles of my ancient vinyl) and also rather irritated at the selection of songs with many early classics missing and a messed around version of the Fame single with John Lennon. To have an opinion about what goes on a compilation album rather indicates that I was something of a fan by then.
Casting my mind back, the single that really got me into Bowie in a big way was Fashion. There were Bowie songs that I knew and liked before that: Space Oddity, Oh! You Pretty Things and Rebel, Rebel amongst them; but Fashion appealed to me with its heavy funk-rock riff and unusual, distorted guitar solo. The lyrics, however, really struck a chord with me: here was a style icon poking fun at the sheer senseless, herd-mentality of the fashion industry. It was how I felt, how I still feel, and somehow Bowie was a kindred spirit because, after all, we are all a bit weird really. I think my next purchase was a compilation album of some sort which opened up an array of his previous work – often not particularly to my taste to begin with but which somehow seeps into the consciousness over time. Other albums were a revelation: Hunky Dory was not a commercial success on its original release but it is an amazing collection in itself – the craft of creating the perfect pop song taken to a high art. Low was an album that I played constantly whilst revising for exams – somehow its ethereal electronica seeping into the surroundings and creating an alien soundscape in the confines of one’s bedroom. Over time his extensive catalogue opened up a labyrinth of musical possibilities.
I’ve been slowly completing my collection of Bowie albums on CD. As an artist who seemed to appreciate the digital format it is worth doing (he remastered his entire catalogue in 24-bit) but I still have quite a few surprising gaps. I have most of the 1970s covered but have yet to get Aladdin Sane or Young Americans in a digital format. I also have very little from the 1980s other than a “Best Of Bowie 1980/87” collection which covers the excellent singles from that period - many of which were not on his main album releases. Over time I do plan get the full set although I do wonder if we will now see a flurry of demos and unreleased tracks emerging. I hope his family protect this legacy and appointing someone like Tony Visconti to curate it would be a good move.
There seem to have been an awful lot of deaths recently of artists who have connected to their audiences very closely. First Lemmy and now Alan Rickman who was everyone’s favourite villain (I remember when Robin Hood came out that the only criticism that anyone made of his performance is that we all wanted the Sheriff of Nottingham to win). As I mused on Lemmy’s death, this is what we have to expect now and whilst it is sad to see the passing of such loved performers it is better to concentrate on the artistic legacy that they leave behind. Bowie’s final works may have been fighting against his inevitable mortality to the very last but he has left a cycle of work that can last eternally.
As for Blackstar, the lyrical content now makes much more sense given events over the few days. The CD notes consist of black ink on black paper so it is very difficult to make anything out but the clues were really there all along – particularly considering the stark video he made for Lazarus which I can’t bring myself to watch again. The album, as with the other projects that he was working on, are presenting his death as a work of art. In parts this makes for an occasionally harrowing but strangely inspirational experience and, as I discovered after Amazon initially presented the streaming tracks in the wrong order, this is a musical experience that works best as a whole. That’s not to say that the individual elements are not as good. I was very taken with the title track, Lazarus, Girl Loves Me and particularly the closing track I Can't Give Everything Away which is both melancholic and yet uplifting at the same time. In fact it was only the second track, 'Tis a Pity She Was a Whore, that I found remotely jarring but in the context of the entire album it works fine.
The odd thing with Blackstar is that I found myself constantly back-referencing old songs and thinking that a particular track sounded very similar to a previous work only to then listen to what I thought was its doppelganger and discover that any resemblance was merely illusory. What I have noticed, though, is that many of the tracks would have fitted in perfectly on earlier albums. For example, Girl Loves Me with its futuristic Nadsat argot would have worked superbly in the middle of the Diamond Dogs album. There are hints and teases like this throughout the album but it makes for a fitting tribute to a remarkable career. Even so, comments from Tony Visconti indicated that as late as last week Bowie had plans for further work. One assumes that the end came faster than anyone, Bowie included, could have predicted.
The outpouring of emotion on Monday rather surprised me. I would regard myself as a second wave Bowie fan. I was aware of his songs but didn’t really appreciate them until later but what surprised me was that the age of many of those interviewed on the news and those laying floral tributes seem to cross generational boundaries. In fact, many of them must have first encountered Bowie’s songs either when he was on his extended post-2003 sabbatical or certainly when he was a lower profile artist. He really seems to have touched the nation but this did get me wondering as to when I first became a Bowie fan.
Many people have great recollections about what their first single or album was. I’m never quite sure but one thing I do know is what the first CD I bought was. I already had a fairly extensive collection of vinyl albums and many recordings dubiously taped off the radio or from friends (to this day I am still trying to source some of the originals on CD). However, in 1990 I was saving the pennies from my job working at BT to buy myself a CD player. Come payday, I duly went down to the local branch of Richer Sounds and bought myself a CD deck (which actually lasted for some 20 years) but having made what was a major purchase at the time I actually didn’t have anything to play on it. I made the decision to forgo Friday night’s drinking session and headed on down to HMV. On display, at the front of the shop, was the compilation album Changesbowie which I took home and listened to solidly over the entire weekend. I was both blown away by the quality of the sound (particularly the opening Space Oddity now devoid of the crackles of my ancient vinyl) and also rather irritated at the selection of songs with many early classics missing and a messed around version of the Fame single with John Lennon. To have an opinion about what goes on a compilation album rather indicates that I was something of a fan by then.
Casting my mind back, the single that really got me into Bowie in a big way was Fashion. There were Bowie songs that I knew and liked before that: Space Oddity, Oh! You Pretty Things and Rebel, Rebel amongst them; but Fashion appealed to me with its heavy funk-rock riff and unusual, distorted guitar solo. The lyrics, however, really struck a chord with me: here was a style icon poking fun at the sheer senseless, herd-mentality of the fashion industry. It was how I felt, how I still feel, and somehow Bowie was a kindred spirit because, after all, we are all a bit weird really. I think my next purchase was a compilation album of some sort which opened up an array of his previous work – often not particularly to my taste to begin with but which somehow seeps into the consciousness over time. Other albums were a revelation: Hunky Dory was not a commercial success on its original release but it is an amazing collection in itself – the craft of creating the perfect pop song taken to a high art. Low was an album that I played constantly whilst revising for exams – somehow its ethereal electronica seeping into the surroundings and creating an alien soundscape in the confines of one’s bedroom. Over time his extensive catalogue opened up a labyrinth of musical possibilities.
I’ve been slowly completing my collection of Bowie albums on CD. As an artist who seemed to appreciate the digital format it is worth doing (he remastered his entire catalogue in 24-bit) but I still have quite a few surprising gaps. I have most of the 1970s covered but have yet to get Aladdin Sane or Young Americans in a digital format. I also have very little from the 1980s other than a “Best Of Bowie 1980/87” collection which covers the excellent singles from that period - many of which were not on his main album releases. Over time I do plan get the full set although I do wonder if we will now see a flurry of demos and unreleased tracks emerging. I hope his family protect this legacy and appointing someone like Tony Visconti to curate it would be a good move.
There seem to have been an awful lot of deaths recently of artists who have connected to their audiences very closely. First Lemmy and now Alan Rickman who was everyone’s favourite villain (I remember when Robin Hood came out that the only criticism that anyone made of his performance is that we all wanted the Sheriff of Nottingham to win). As I mused on Lemmy’s death, this is what we have to expect now and whilst it is sad to see the passing of such loved performers it is better to concentrate on the artistic legacy that they leave behind. Bowie’s final works may have been fighting against his inevitable mortality to the very last but he has left a cycle of work that can last eternally.
Sunday, 10 January 2016
The Family Photo Album
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| In the 1960s I was a far more serious individual |
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| Back in the day the typical pram was bigger than a car. |
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| Early colour: the pram was bigger than our Austin A40 |
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| My great-grandfather in his Dad's Army uniform. |
Of course what is interesting in many of the photos is not so much the photo itself but what is on it preserved from that time. Unfortunately, it is very difficult to determine exactly what is of interest at the time as the eye is always drawn to what is new and shiny rather than what is about to be lost to half-forgotten memory. This picture is interesting. It was taken in 1977 and shows the clean and pristine Liverpool waterfront which had been cleaned up in time for the Queen’s Silver Jubilee celebrations. Of course, what would have been more interesting now is a picture from 1976 when the Liver Building was still jet black from soot accumulated from the city’s coal fires. The photo is now of more interest as it shows what the city’s 20th Century skyline looked like: since the turn of the century many new buildings have been erected which have radically altered the look of the city.
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| Liverpool 1977 - all the soot removed in time for the Queen's silver jubilee. |
Sunday, 3 January 2016
Born To Lose, Live To Win
When I was growing up, the obituaries section of the news often contained the names of iconic celebrities from their respective fields. I can vividly remember the deaths of the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Gracie Fields, Arthur Askey and numerous Jazz greats such as Duke Ellington or Charles Mingus whose names I was familiar with but whose work I would not appreciate until much later. The common factor amongst them is that they had reached the natural end of their lives. Any deaths amongst the Rock and Roll generation tended to be due to accidents (for example Mark Bolan), substance abuse (Keith Moon and far too many others to contemplate) or other tragedies (John Lennon). Rock and Rollers went out in a blaze of fury; they didn’t, in the words of John Le Mesurier, simply “conk out”.
I think this changed in 2001 when George Harrison succumbed to cancer, probably related to his years of smoking but as one commentator pointed out at the time he had died not of the Rock and Roll lifestyle but of the ravages of life that we all experience. I was actually surprised in 2012 when Deep Purple’s Jon Lord died that he was aged 71 having surpassed the biblical allotment of “three score years and ten”. The Angry Young Men with the long hair and big amplifiers were starting to get old. It eventually comes to us all but I was still saddened this week by the death of Lemmy from Motörhead: known to his friends and fans simply as Lemmy.
In a way he was the most unlikely of heroes. I first came across Motörhead with the album “Bomber” (and later discovered that I also knew him from Hawkwind, particularly Silver Machine). Their fast, loud and often nihilistic music appealed to me as did their somewhat unorthodox appearances on Top Of The Pops. However, Lemmy seems to have an appeal far beyond those that appreciate his amphetamine fuelled interpretation of Rock and Roll: Lemmy seemed to appeal even to those that would regard his music as “just a noise” (and as much as I like Motörhead I don’t think that is an unreasonable position). The fact that he owned his own life is an inspiration to many but looking past his gruff image and no-nonsense language was someone who was well read and had opinions that were both unconventional and of considerable intellectual depth.
I think it had become increasingly obvious over the last year that he was not a well man. The fact that he kept performing to a gruelling schedule is a testament to his never say die attitude. I saw Motorhead back in the 1980s in North Wales. They were a four-piece at the time. The venue was small (capacity was something like 500 or so) and the band appeared to have brought along enough amplification for a football stadium. In spite of this it was not “just a noise” as I was able to hear all the songs and their lyrics quite clearly although this was pretty much the last thing I could hear clearly for several days afterwards. The memory lives on: not so much the music but the adrenalin, the exhilaration, the bruises from the mosh pit.
I’ve been listening to some of Motörhead’s old albums over the last few days. They weren’t always consistent although the most recent, Bad Magic, is surprisingly good. To a point, I think Motörhead albums are a bit like your favourite Doctor Who: your first is always your favourite which for me would be Bomber but if I had to pick a favourite it would be Orgasmatron from 1986. Musically, it is up there with anything they had done previously with the fast catchy riffs but the title track’s lyrics show Lemmy at his venomous best spewing his disgust for the hypocritical worthlessness of religion, politics and war. The papers have printed many of Lemmy’s quotes in recent days but possibly my favourite appeared in Sounds (or possibly Kerrang!) in the 1980s: Do unto others as they would do to you; but do it first!
Receiving much less coverage in the news but actually happening on the same day was the news that former Czech republic goalkeeper Pavel Srníček had died. This was the football player that I used to be mistaken for when I lived in Newcastle (Srníček was the Newcastle goalkeeper at the time and lived not that far away from me.) I suppose it’s one thing when a 70 year old, hard-drinking rocker like Lemmy reaches the end of the road but when it is a 47 year old professional sportsman like Srníček it does make one wonder at the nature of mortality.
I think this changed in 2001 when George Harrison succumbed to cancer, probably related to his years of smoking but as one commentator pointed out at the time he had died not of the Rock and Roll lifestyle but of the ravages of life that we all experience. I was actually surprised in 2012 when Deep Purple’s Jon Lord died that he was aged 71 having surpassed the biblical allotment of “three score years and ten”. The Angry Young Men with the long hair and big amplifiers were starting to get old. It eventually comes to us all but I was still saddened this week by the death of Lemmy from Motörhead: known to his friends and fans simply as Lemmy.
In a way he was the most unlikely of heroes. I first came across Motörhead with the album “Bomber” (and later discovered that I also knew him from Hawkwind, particularly Silver Machine). Their fast, loud and often nihilistic music appealed to me as did their somewhat unorthodox appearances on Top Of The Pops. However, Lemmy seems to have an appeal far beyond those that appreciate his amphetamine fuelled interpretation of Rock and Roll: Lemmy seemed to appeal even to those that would regard his music as “just a noise” (and as much as I like Motörhead I don’t think that is an unreasonable position). The fact that he owned his own life is an inspiration to many but looking past his gruff image and no-nonsense language was someone who was well read and had opinions that were both unconventional and of considerable intellectual depth.
I think it had become increasingly obvious over the last year that he was not a well man. The fact that he kept performing to a gruelling schedule is a testament to his never say die attitude. I saw Motorhead back in the 1980s in North Wales. They were a four-piece at the time. The venue was small (capacity was something like 500 or so) and the band appeared to have brought along enough amplification for a football stadium. In spite of this it was not “just a noise” as I was able to hear all the songs and their lyrics quite clearly although this was pretty much the last thing I could hear clearly for several days afterwards. The memory lives on: not so much the music but the adrenalin, the exhilaration, the bruises from the mosh pit.
I’ve been listening to some of Motörhead’s old albums over the last few days. They weren’t always consistent although the most recent, Bad Magic, is surprisingly good. To a point, I think Motörhead albums are a bit like your favourite Doctor Who: your first is always your favourite which for me would be Bomber but if I had to pick a favourite it would be Orgasmatron from 1986. Musically, it is up there with anything they had done previously with the fast catchy riffs but the title track’s lyrics show Lemmy at his venomous best spewing his disgust for the hypocritical worthlessness of religion, politics and war. The papers have printed many of Lemmy’s quotes in recent days but possibly my favourite appeared in Sounds (or possibly Kerrang!) in the 1980s: Do unto others as they would do to you; but do it first!
Receiving much less coverage in the news but actually happening on the same day was the news that former Czech republic goalkeeper Pavel Srníček had died. This was the football player that I used to be mistaken for when I lived in Newcastle (Srníček was the Newcastle goalkeeper at the time and lived not that far away from me.) I suppose it’s one thing when a 70 year old, hard-drinking rocker like Lemmy reaches the end of the road but when it is a 47 year old professional sportsman like Srníček it does make one wonder at the nature of mortality.
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