The Beti* and the Babe (Adapted from ye olde fairy tale, The Beauty and the Beast)
Once upon a time, since well before there were GTalk and Facebook, Orkut, MySpace, Flickr, Hi5, WAYN, LinkedIn (let’s call them Snow White and the Seven Fads), people got together in much more social ways than any of the current social networking sites promise to. It was pure and simple and quite efficient as it were. Since it necessitated that there be personal, face-to-face interactions, and that awareness of proximity and hence comfort be developed over a specific period of time, it ensured that all people involved in the social gatherings which eventually led to relationships of some sort being developed, knew beforehand what the score was. To cut a long story short, if both Adam and Eve hadn’t been hot, we would not be here.
But, with the advent of Snow White and the Seven Fads, it is now no longer paramount that the above conditions be met. This is markedly noticeable in the kind of interaction between opposite sexes, especially among the age group of 16-24, the period when all of the human species undergoes what is commonly known as Coupling. This background having been provided, we are now able to introduce the protagonists of our tale- the Beti* and even more importantly, the Babe.
The Beti, by very nature of his being, shouldn’t be able to occupy too much space by means of a description. And yet, in the classic manner of scientific paradoxes, where emptiness usually gets the most attention (Black Holes, Large Hadron Colliders, pretty girls’ heads**), so too shall we devote considerable time and effort into describing the Beti. Basically, every sentence begins with a Basically. But, basically, the Beti is that boy-next-door-but-you-wish-were-million-doors-away type you meet (or just encounter) who makes you realize why the world is so screwed up. Ideally, he wouldn’t be there, wasting the resources that would feed other poor families. But he very much is there, with his short shirt, faded jeans, decidedly tawdry sunglasses and pink sneakers. Sometimes the sneakers are brown, but that’s usually because it’s been raining heavily for the past week and the Beti has to ride through puddles at 60kmph, on his silencer-removed Pulsar. Or Gladiator or Karizma or Apache.
The Beti is someone you’d normally associate with the “Hiiii h r u?????” scraps on one of the seven fads mentioned above. These, it turns out, are not random shots thrown at the world but actually enquiries of well-being. Most of the times, the Betis have prodigiously long contact lists, developed carefully from school, college, classes at Alliance Francais (due apologies to those who actually went there to learn French) and general friends-of-friends and all such other six degrees of separation meetings. While most others with other things to pursue in life, wouldn’t be able to keep track of all the 473 friends gained from such experiences, the Beti, to his credit, does. (This is all the credit I’m going to give him, so there!). Eventually, all other conditions remaining favourable, one of the 473 friends (preferably one from the opposite sex) becomes interested enough in the Beti that they consent to find time to share a cup of a suitable beverage, depending on the average ages involved. This one interested being, is what has been referred to in the title, as The Babe.
The Babe is... well... a babe. All else is irrelevant.
And thus it is, while sharing this suitable beverage in a suitably public spot in the glare of so many other on-lookers, that the title of the fable becomes self-evident. As all passersby notice the distinct lack of a match of any kind between the two people sitting together, as the disharmony of the whole arrangement jars in one’s ear even in the quietest of places, there is only one constant though running through all their heads- “How did a Beti like him get something like that!”**
Well you know what they say, the World, isn’t fair.
*Beti – Short for Beti Ch*** (appropriate Hindi word that rhymes with clothe) **Women’s Groups needn’t bother suing me. This girl, she took my heart and she took my money. So in a sense, you’ve already won.
(Note: Bonus Points for cracking the funda of the title ;) )
As he looked around the bar, he felt a glow of satisfaction was over him. This moment alone, was worth all of the hardships, the nights of frustration and the scores and scores of wasted test‐tubes and DNA samples. This moment, where social gatherings were once again populated by the young and the restless. Just like it had always been, till around 200 years ago, when suddenly the population pyramid began to completely invert itself. He thought about the weird chain of events that his life had been.
Birth control and increased life expectancy had come together with wholly unexpected consequences, and now there were just not enough young people in the world, and too many old ones. And the world was worried. The response was swift, and quite unnatural. The world’s governments got together and started a research station where they brought together ‘representative specimens’ of all the ‘diverse’ people from the world, to use all the politically correct terms. He had been one such chosen specimen, taken from his home when he had been 2. Or so the records he had been shown claimed, he had no memory of anything of course. Millennia of human evolution still hadn’t figured out a way to make the brain remember things from its first 2 years of existence. The important‐looking people at the research station had then proceeded to conduct a battery of tests on them, in an effort to separate the elusive ‘youth’ gene. The idea therefore was simple. Make all the old people younger.
All the nights of frustration, the scores of wasted test‐tubes and DNA samples later, the important-looking people proclaimed importantly, that they had it. People could now retain their youth forever, eternally, indefinitely. The pill would not mess with their aging process itself, but their vitality and appearance would be restored to that of a 25‐year old. Everyone agreed that this was the age that could be best described as the ‘prime of the youth’. And he had finally been released from the research station, along with the rest of the ‘representative specimens’. They were thanked profusely for their role in saving the world, in their selfless submission to all sorts of invasive procedures and characterization techniques. For having gone through the program to the end, with courage, even as they watched half the people they had grown up with in the station die around them from various effects of radiation, gene mutation and psychoanalyses. They were given a new start to life, set up in the biggest cities from their respective parts of the world, large house, high‐paying job, the works. And then, just as they were about to leave their home of the past 25 years, the most important-looking person had come up to them gravely and said ‘And remember, this research station never existed’.
Sure, it never existed, he thought to himself. He really had no complaints about the one year of his life after that. They really had taken care of him as they had promised. He didn’t especially feel for lost childhoods and missing the joy of growing up and all such. He lived for the moment, and this current moment was looking very promising indeed, with the girl smiling at him from across the bar. He finished his drink and started towards her, preparing the smile of his that just always worked.
As they were putting their dresses back on in his room, he had an uneasy feeling in his stomach about the past hour. It was not that the girl was familiar, he got that feeling with almost every girl, and he put it down to his growing up in a secluded environment. It was something else, something more involved than her, it was more about them. It was as if their intimacy was strained, was held up by something else that had happened before. And yet, nothing had happened before, he was sure of it. If there was one thing he was good at, it was remembering the faces of the ladies who had been in his room. And she most definitely hadn’t.
“Hey”, he called out to her, just as she was preparing to leave, “I didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Anna”, she smiled back, “Anna Chrystoweilen, and yours?”
He felt like he had been kicked in the gut. His head swam, as she faded in and out of his vision alternately. His stomach went for a toss, and he clutched at it involuntarily. He held on to the side of the bed to steady himself. He looked up at her; she was still smiling, looking enquiringly at him, with a hint of concern on her face. Maybe she’d noticed the marked change in him, the colour draining from his face. He hurriedly tried to regain composure, or as much of it as he could. He managed a weak smile and whispered “Philip”.
“That’s a nice name”, she said as she walked towards the door. She stopped at the door and looked back, a wistful look on her face, and for a moment the wonder pill or the youth pill or whatever it was they were calling it, lost all its effect, and she looked all of the 50 years she was. “That was the name of my son before...”, she shook her head, closing the door behind her.
He collapsed on to the floor, retching, a mixture of tears and saliva flowing down his face. No air would go in, as hard as he tried, and his heart was hammering away like it was putting in one last mighty effort before giving away. He punched the floor in front of him till his knuckles bled, and one of them showed the white of the bones. Blinding flashes of memory seared his brain, from his time at the station. He remembered the record, the same record where he’d seen he’d been admitted when he’d been two years old‐
Admitted: 20 December, 2235; Age: 2 Years; Name: Philip Chrystoweilen
While the plagiarism of the title from this could have been avoided, it's the discussion about this book that lead to this post in the first place, and so it's only fair that there's a reference to it. The book itself is a take on how chance plays a role in almost all aspects around us, or to put in Douglas Adamsian terms how chance has a big part in The Life, Universe and Everything. And that's quite true, if you think about it.
Life, by its very structure, can never be in equilibrium. By Life, I mean,the whole bloody large piece of jigsaw puzzle that the roughly 6.3 billion people in this world are attempting to solve(from here on, Life, with a capital L shall refer to this macro-state, while life shall refer to the thing that an IITian doesn't have). In purely Engineering terms, when there's equilibrium achieved, all the components are in their most 'satisfied' state and are not going to (or even want to) move to any other position. Now, in Life, if there was a force that pushed everyone towards this ideal point, and it was doing its job perfectly then at some point of time t in the Universe's existence, Life would have equilibrated. This raises the question, what next. What happens at all times t+, if at t, everyone has achieved what they wanted to achieve. This is where Chance comes in. Or to stick to engineering, Chaos. Or Randomness.
Since Life itself is made up of each of the single lives, each of these lives has the potential to disrupt entirely, the overall design that is Life. Even if each person's life is tending towards its own micro-ideality, the ideality may not be what that person set out to achieve in the first place. This might be a bit of a ramble, but imagine you could break down each of your achievements into its smallest logical unit. For every pragmatist out there who believes in 'My life is what I make of it 'or 'There's no such thing as Lady Luck, I've never been good with ladies anyway', it's fairly simple to show that there was at least one point in their path of life where whatever happened was not a planned act of the person in question. Anywhere there is a question of choice, there's a bit of chance involved, as no amount of logical rationalizing can ever pick a 'better' choice, at least between two near-similar options. And every life always has its moments of picking between choices. And every life then follows the path that such a choice leads to. And thus every life, at its smallest opening step, is adulterated by chance.
Which then leads to the question of whether, once this initial disturbance from equilibrium has been set in motion, there is only one place it can lead to, and whether if the other choice had been made at that point, there is another path which will lead somewhere else, a sort of a parallel universe. Like in the whole concept of movies like The Butterfly Effect and Sliding Doors and, closer to home, 12B. Three months with an Equity Research firm has also only strengthened my belief that overall, it's just one big gamble. There can be reams and reams of reports from the classiest analysts in the business, and pages of code written by Math Ph.Ds from the Princetons and Dartmouths of the world, but eventually, it's the call of the man on the floor on whether to put in or pull out the billions of Dollars. And that's, basically, a chance. A chance backed up by thirty pages of reports and innumerable Partial Differential Equation simulations, but a chance nevertheless. And if the decision is to pull out, and made by 5 or 6 such people together, each taking a chance on the other being right in pulling out, we end up with something like this.
Eventually, somebody has to get lucky, of course. In an overall 10:1 ratio of misses:hits, there have to be enough lucky people in the world to convince the other 9 that if you try hard enough, you can too. Something like Colbert's claim, if you may. And so the world goes around, with everyone in the 9 trying to become the 1, in spite of the obviously futile exercise that the 1 in 10 is a fixed number, and that Chance is a zero-sum game. But oh well, something has to make the world go around, and love simply doesn't work anymore. So, cool.
The roads of Chennai witnessed a a new phenomenon a couple of weeks ago. Children of ages ranging from 5 to 10 swarmed the major signals of the city, which is quite common. But for a change they were not offering to wipe the dust off your windshield, or sell you clothes that could, or pointing at the 2-year old, starved baby on their hips and then extending their arm out in the universal gesture for help. Now they were holding out items which everyone felt compelled to, and were even proud of buying and displaying, and they parted with their money for the same with a broad grin. A grin of the same intensity with which they would've scowled at the same shabby-haired, ragged 6 year-olds if they had simply asked for alms.
For this time they were buying Indian flags. Pin-up varieties, stand-up varieties that you could place on your dashboard, stick-on varieties you could paste on your doors. For we are all Indians and are very proud of proclaiming that we are, especially on Independence Day.
So, there is a point to Independence Day after all. It makes the fight for survival of the 100-odd shabby-haired, ragged 6 year-olds around the city easier. It's not much, but the flags would've got them through the week. And something else would get them through the next week. And then something else. And so on and so forth, getting them through enough weeks, at least till Republic Day.
The Circuit of Kottivakkamheim is a 4.2 km street circuit, and one of the oldest on the Chennai Traffic Grand Prix calendar. Actually, it was not even a circuit originally. The history goes that there were first all the houses and buildings and the 15 temples all along the route. With the odd Onyx (or Neel Metal Falanca, whoever gave the lower tender) dustbin thrown in along the way. And then someone realized that it would indeed be a good idea to have some sort of opening in between all of the above mentioned buildings. You know, sort of so people could get from Point A to Point B. And viola, the opening became a regular, Grand Prix-fit road, and thusly Kottivakkamheim was born. Of course, as births go, this one would have probably been called a Cesarean.
A flying lap of Kottivakkamheim starts with the First Main Road straight, before breaking down into 2nd gear, 30 kmph into the right and then the left leading into the Second Avenue. This sweeping, 3rd gear right turn is also the widest part on the circuit, and sets you up very nicely for the Signal, where you break hard down to zero kmph. This novel part of the circuit tests not how fast you can go, but how patient you can be. For the true test of a Jedi, is not in how fast he can be, but how he can choose when to be fast. Anyway...
From the Signal, you take off into the MG Road straight, up through the gears till you hit 4th at 70 kmph, and then flat out up the hill before breaking to a near stop at the Vannandhurai Bus Stop chicane. Though originally designed as a right turn, an inspired act of median-placing ensures that this turn is as challenging as it's more illustrious namesake at Spa-Franorchamps. You climb up a gear into 30kmph as you negotiate the tricky gravel (and sand and bricks and mortar and old papers and vegetable peels and discarded slippers) traps on either side of the circuit to ease into the Anna Street Ascari chicane.
The Anna Street Ascari, named after the 7-time Chennai auto-driving champion, Annatha Ascari, is unique in that it's simultaneously a left turn, a sweeping left-hander and then a right turn, all rolled into one. Holding on to third, at 40kmph before breaking into the blind right which forms the end of the chicane requires driver control of the highest degree. For the back-marker in front of you, that is. Because if he's not going to cooperate, no amount of standing on the horn will make you go any faster than 20 kmph through this tight part of the circuit.
Safely negotiating the chicane leads into the longest unbroken sequence on the Grand Prix calendar, full 2.6 kms down the Kalakshetra Parabolika. Going up through the gears into 4th, this part of the circuit is not for the faint-hearted. With enough pits (as in, the depression kind, not the refuelling kind) strewn along the path, an overtaking maneuver is pulled off only with inch-perfect slipstreaming and acceleration. On a clear piece of track, this narrow but fairly straight piece of circuit can be taken flat out at 70 kmph, before one slows down for the final chicane at the Marudeeswarar Temple complex. This second gear, 25 kmph chicane (if the Maami does not choose this as the opportune moment to cross the circuit to go towards home of the Lord) leads into the East Mada Hangar straight. Another part of the circuit where the car in front of you determines your speed rather than your own driving skills. Especially when the car in front is not a car at all but a Corporation Garbage lorry which leaves behind an oil(y) spill behind it. So, this always-yellow flag part of the circuit is a strict no-overtake zone, as you trundle along at 35 kmph in a part that would usually be a straight horsepower shootout.
Out at the end of the straight, you break into La Rascalasse, a tight, sandy right-hander which has floored quite a few two-wheelers in its time and is often referred to as the most expensive spare-parts dump on the circuit. This first gear, 20 kmph turn leads into the home straight as you go up through the gears to top speed, and past the start-finish line.
Or to be precise, into the office. Where one has to come to a complete standstill, if one is to not bang into a wrought-iron gate.
Circuit of Kottivakkamheim Lap Record: 12:34.53 Anand Natarajan, Novafax (2008)
The little boy wouldn't have been a day over 8. He had a round face, with equally round eyes and hair that fell all around the round stopping just short of the eyes. He was uniformly dirty, a common situation when you're from one of those million families all over India where the one pot of water a day is better used for drinking than other unimportant tasks like bathing. His T-shirt had once been a light cream in colour, but now it was closer to brown. The brown was in patches though, unlike the uniformity of the dirt on his body. Possibly an effect of the previous day's rain which had washed down the stains, leaving areas of different shades of brown over the shirt. He had stepped out of his house, if it could be called that, in search of his mother. His little round eyes spotted her in the shop across the street, and like all kids his age who spot their mother after a search, started running towards her without a care in the world.
The Toyota Innova on that street clearly did not belong there. It was one of the automobile industry's greatest coups to convince Indians that there was such a thing as a city-friendly SUV. And SUV is not city-friendly. It is most certainly not side-lane, cross-street or gully-friendly. However, these are the most common connecting sections that are found in India, where first the houses are built and the remaining area is called the road. As a result of all these reasons, the Innova on this little street was finding the transit very difficult indeed. Hence, when the driver saw a sudden stretch of nothingness open up in front of him, he gunned the engine. And if there's one thing an SUV can do, it is accelerate. The car gathered speed, the driver intent on making up the most ground in the least time. Totally oblivious to the little boy running towards his mother.
The boy heard the roar of the engine too late. There was nothing he could do except turn away and cover his face instinctively with his hands, the commonest reaction when a human is face with any kind of threat. The car also had no option of slowing down, and even if it did, it didn't look likely the driver would take it. In a moment of blurring motion, the car dropped its left tires, both front and rear into the puddle left by the previous night's rains, covering the little boy in a mixture of water and mud, and sped on.
The boy looked up after the car passed, and gingerly ran his hands over his face, collecting all the mud and grime left there by the Innova. After satisfying himself that his face was clean, he rubbed both his hands straight down the middle of his shirt, to remove from his hand what he had removed from his face. Thus completing the transfer of the mud from his face to somewhere it would be less noticeable, the boy merrily ran on towards his mother and jumped into her arm.
After all, it was only one more patch of brown in an already soiled shirt.
Life, they say, is a learning experience. Learning itself though is a life-changing experience. After having been through 21 years of it, this would seem about the right time to write a denoument for that chapter of my life. A point to stop reading and start doing. With a brief summary of how it's all been of course, the journey from a bumbling, salivating toddler to an assured, still-salivating (but at totally different things) man.
Of all the years of the 21, it's probably the 4 in college that have the steepest learning curve. For one, in college, you're pretty much on your own. You're past the totally arbitrarily-defined age where the society deems you an adult and are hence supposed to know what to do when a 'situation' arises. With this comes a freedom, one that you never had before and one that urges you to question, explore, understand and master things at a pace which you never could have before. For before now, the potter's hand that is the society and the family and the relatives was still closely around the clay that was you, restricting you from flying in all arbitrary directions so that you have one basic shape defined. That job done, the hands move away, and now the pot is ready to take any shape it wishes to.
The adult world brings with it,its share of emotions that weren't present before either. And thus form the feelings of 'me' and 'I' and other such things which are bracketed conveniently under the single category called ego. Ego is not such a bad thing, as long as it stays at self-respect. But it almost always does not. An inherent desire to assert one's views in a hall of equals is where it all begins, and there is no way that all opinions are going to be concurrent on any issue. On a minor scale, it is funny, and mostly people end up laughing. Sometimes it snowballs, and people become, well... others. And when such things happen, it's a scary, but timely reminder of how this is just the tip of the iceberg in the world that lies ahead. And at such times, you wish you never did grow up.
It's not all bad though. Experience, I believe, is truly the greatest teacher ever. You can read and listen and observe and note down a variety of things from any of the innumerable sources available to the techno-savvy person today, and yet, none of them would do anything to you as experiencing it first-hand would. Because if you don't try, you don't really know. And that is why the curve of four years of college has the slope that it has. It is a world which leads to innumerable other worlds, most of which you didn't even know existed. And you find that people of these worlds are not aliens either, they're just you, a couple of years ago, a couple of years hence, those you wish you can become, and of course, those you wish you'll never be.
The most important thing is what you take away from your experience and it is now that you take away only the good. You're still fearless, the world has still no scarred you so much that you are afraid to commit the smallest error in life, and you've just got into thinking big. Thinking big, that amazing feeling you get when your fundamental stance towards life changes from 'Why' to 'Why not'. Enlightenment is epiphanic. Experience just prepares you for it. And that moment on, you know you're ready to take on the world, and whatever it may throw at you.
There's so much more that affects you during the journey that is college life. New friends and acquaintances, trying out things you thought you could never do, going places, playing games, eating and sleeping together (in a strictly gay sense)... things you can be sure can never be experienced again. But then, that's what they say about the only thing constant being change and all that. Thus it is, that while the blood is young, the body is eager and the mind is willing to go out there and take over the world, one part of the heart knows, deep within itself, that these will be 4 years you'll never get back.
And that's why there's that lump in your throat when you realize that this is where it ends.
Same time two years ago, this came out.Clearly a case of juvenile excitement and childish yearnings (not that I'm all Zen now.) But two years down the line, cynicism has entrenched itself firmly in every part of the system, the rose-tinted glasses have become grey and Saarang is no longer a free-for-all Swayamvara. Well actually, you still hope the fairy-tale sequence of 'bumping into hot girl-spilling your coffee-apologizing-getting talking-doing things with her-doing her' within the 5 days of Saarang happens. But mostly, you're just concerned about getting through the day without collapsing right in front of the stalls just from the force of the sound waves of their speakers. And of course, if you do collapse, a concerned, helpful damsel, again necessarily good-looking, will immediately come to you aid, and then... You know. Hope lives.
This account encompasses a time period of 120 hours in which I got exactly 19 hours of sleep. Hence, there may be a fair bit of extrapolation in parts, to make up for parts of my memory which have got Eternally Sunshined. A few incidents, such as the above mentioned ideal cases actually happening, may even be hallucinatory. You are therefore advised to proceed with a pinch of salt. Or cocaine, whatever works for you.
The allusion in the title is of course to the famous series by C.S.Lewis. Ironically, this was the book that dealt with Gluttony, of the seven sins - something that I can hardly be accused of during Saarang. My staple diet was a cycle between 3 types of Veg. Sandwiches at a stall imaginatively named 'Sandwiched' Apart from being the least messy and quickest to eat, it was also the most compatible with my digestive system, which, for some vague reason, would work at only 1/5th its usual capacity. This is an interesting piece of study for all those medics out there - Effectiveness of the digestive system (or lack of it) as a function of sleep lost. So anyway, none of the Biryanis or Noodles or burgers or even good old Venpongal would go down (the oesophagus) without a fight. And since I'm a peace-loving person, I mostly brought them out the same way I put them in, at the slightest hint of a fight. And then surrendered to the Sandwich-Effect diet.
So, I participated in 8 events, missed the finals of one as it was clashing with another, went to the finals of another as a replacement for another person who had a clash (what goes around, comes. And all that) and placed in the other 6. In the course of which, I would've probably made up enough lines with innuendos and double and treble and quadruple meanings that Shakespeare would be turning in his grave thinking 'I should've done Stand-Up'. The thing about lines is you have to time then so they come just at the climax. As with any other line, this one is left to the imagination of all you pervy people to interpret in any which way you want, but you get the point. Take your daily Orkut Fortune, add 'in bed' at the end, and it's pretty much your daily dose of One-liners right there. Like this one- 'A well-directed imagination is the source of great deeds'. Some are even prophetic, like after-the-fact accomplices- 'Happy events will take place in your home shortly'. What I'm basically trying to say is, funny lines and Dada's cover drives are the same. It's all in the timing.
Now that we're done with the lines and the sandwich, you would naturally expect me to expand on the wardrobe malfunction part of the title. But this is where, like all those ads that claim to be offering 50% off and then put a line in fine print 'on select products only', I claim that it's mostly only about the wardrobe. Mine, to be more specific. And the mess that it was in over the 5 days of Saarang. So, wardrobe malfunction, see? The only thing that could be conclusively determined from looking into my wardrobe after all of Saarang was done was that sweat can also drain the dye off clothing, and spread it nicely on the rest of the stuff in the pile. So now there are 5 uniformly pink vests and one very dull-coloured shirt which used to be red. Apart from that, I only remember thinking that the wardrobes of all the members of the fairer sex during Saarang were functioning very nicely indeed, and nodding appreciatively.
So, now you know, what really goes on behind all those stories, pictures and numbers about the largest student-organized cultural festival in South India. Blood, tears, sweat and toil. And sandwiches, one-liners, dark circles under the eyes, stained shirts. AND, one great big feeling of satisfaction.
I know it's been a while and all that. So, by popular demand (even the title is not original!), a small look into my verbal diarrhoea @ Saarang '08. Just so some of you don't feel lucky that you were spared this...
JAM - Camels are humped. Horses are ridden. - Too many wives spoil the froth. - If at first you don't succeed, try second base. - My mother likes eighteen year-old girls... as daughter-in-law (this is the one that got misquoted all over the papers, I know what I said!)
Extempore - Perhaps the grass is greener on your side ('Kurt Cobain' to 'Fred Flintstone'. Discussing grass, of course) - When you say Moods, most women are thinking- PMS - Silicon is NOT 20th century's greatest invention. This is because it was invented in the 19th century.
Not to forget, Ranjiv's now-immortal quip at Extempore 'There has to be cummation for summation'
And just to prove there is humour in everyday life as well, couple of days ago, this was overheard from a chap who'd just got a lift from another chap till his hostel- 'Macha, thanks for riding me da.'
Thank You ladies and Gentlemen, that will be all for now, I promise I'll be back with a booker-winning post soon.
