Guys, I know self-improvement for a man ends at toilet training…but what’s with this sexting business? Why do you feel compelled to send pictures of yourself in various states of arousal to women you haven’t slept with? It’s a particularly inexplicable quirk.

There I was, having a meal with my friend Kate the other night when, Ding, her phone beeped. ‘Another cock pic?’ I asked. She took a slurp of red wine, glanced at her phone and nodded.

‘Yep. Hang on, I’d better tell him it’s big and hard,’ she replied before giving me her attention again. Well, it seemed the deeper I dug, the more I opened a whole can of phallic worms.

Talk Dirty To Me

‘He wants to do FaceTime now,’ she continued. Oh, what happened to good old-fashioned courting, eh? Making overtures and then spiriting a girl through a pantry door. That final dash of ceremony up against the shelves before the butler returned..

Well, technology has opened a new window – a window to a potpourri of willy pictures. Welcome to the lurid carnival of sexual texting. Or sexting, as it’s been dubbed. But inevitably this technology is going to change relationships, isn’t it? People are getting addicted to sexting. It’s easy to have sneaky phone sex whether you’re single or not.

It’s live; it’s exciting; and the unpredictability of the response is far more motivating than a porn mag. It’s negotiating on the fly, if you like, or rather with your flies open. Flick through any trashy magazine and you’ll see celebrities are being exposed as sexters left, right and centre.

Are You Horny?

‘Essentially,’ I probed, ‘He wants you to get your bangers out on screen, does he?’ She swallowed a mouthful of fajita. ‘Probably,’ she agreed. ‘He’ll sit there and have a wank, I suppose. Oh, and I’ve had videos as well.’ Eh? She didn’t mention that bit before dinner.

‘Yeah, one of him wanking, and another one from a guy called Rob, just gyrating with an erection.’ Who are these guys? What does she know about them? Well, they’re 28 and 30; they’ve messaged her online using www.pofcom; and then she’s given them her number. They’ve sounded nice.

But, sure as eggs are eggs, during a blizzard of imagined pussy (as Nick Cave once wrote), they send a photo of their manhood standing to attention. And generally from an advantageous angle.

These guys aren’t underconfident or insecure, though. They can hold a phone conversation; they have toned bodies and are proud of them; and I daresay they can waltz a woman out of a bar and into bed. So why are they showing such a misunderstanding of women in the sexting arena?

Quick to Come

The problem, I’d venture, is that when a guy has one hand wrapped round a super-powered hard-on from Krypton, he tends to lose foresight. He forgets that, although women certainly get off on fantasy, they don’t actually want knob pics delivered to their phones.

How does Kate feel when she receives an unsolicited cockshot by text? Disappointed? Let down? ‘Yes, I  just instantly think, “Oh, this is just a sex thing.” Maybe it makes me feel a bit naive sexually. You know, should I be turned on by that? Maybe it turns some women on, so why not me? Should I be getting used to this new technology?’

Well, is she alone? Later that evening, I had a ring round – to see how rife this practice is. And it is rife with a capital R. Every woman I spoke to had been sent a photo of a cock at some point. Next week, let’s speak to some guys about why they do this, but I’ll leave you with a quote from Adele:

‘Tell me about it, sure I have so many pics saved on my phone, in all different shapes, sizes and colours! haha  But I much prefer the real thing!  What a turn off getting sent a pic like that……men are feckin eejits!!’

Ladies, help me out with this one. Have you been sent lewd pics? And how did they make you feel? Comments below, please.

Driving along the M25 the other day, I saw a huge billboard advertisement. ‘PUSSY,’ it read. ‘An energy drink that actually tastes good.’

Clever? Or clinching proof that society has degenerated even further? In fact, is it a bad thing, do you think, that few people would bat an eyelid nowadays when ordering a “screaming orgasm” to round off the evening in a bar?

Well, let’s check out your sensitivity. Hands up if you’re offended by the pussy ad? No, well what about the old joke that the smartest thing ever to come out of a woman’s mouth was Einstein’s cock?

Theory of Relativity

 

No, well how about… Einstein was jolly clever, if you’re frowning. Tell you what, I’ll move swiftly on, without stopping to pick daisies by the wayside.

This billboard got me thinking about the marked dichotomy between today’s ads and yesteryear’s. It seems incredible now, for example, to think that sanitised tape worms were once marketed at the podgy element of society. ‘EAT! EAT! EAT! & ALWAYS STAY THIN!’ ran the mission statement. ‘No Exercise! Easy to Swallow! No Ill Effects!’

WeightWatchers

 

Yes, I daresay it boosts one’s ego at Fatty Club when there’s a round of applause instead of a chorus of ‘Pig’, but come on. Isn’t it a bare-faced dereliction of duty not to mention the deadly parasite bit?

These pictured ads are laughable now, of course, and would join the banned list. But at the time, they were perfectly acceptable…which got me wondering what people will think in another fifty or even a hundred years when looking back at botox, Xboxes and eating pussy. Drinking pussy, rather. Sorry about that.

Anyway, amongst all this cut and thrust of commerce, I’m doing my own advertising. Should you wish to read a properly researched, well-organised and thought-out article by yours truly, the September issue of TRUCKING magazine will be out in all reputable newsagents today. In it will be my feature on Royal Saan, a company specialising in both cranes and events logistics.

And while you’re rushing out to WHSmith, what will you buy if thirsty and need uplifting? Yes, that’s right – water. It’s far too early in the day for PUSSY..

There is a science to luck. I mean, take those so impoverished that they have to share a helicopter with another family. Tragic, eh? They could be deemed unlucky in life. But odds can be coaxed and cajoled.

Guys, write this down. The following is a tried and tested method – devised by me in my heyday as a bachelor – for having fun with girls. And it can work in either conversation or text messaging. Ready?

OK, so you ask a few innocuous choice questions to get warmed up. For example, does she prefer red or white wine? Chicken or fish? Then, just when she’s thinking you’re a punctilious ass and is regretting that impulse buy of saucy underwear, you throw a curve ball. We can’t have the poor poppet forever bewailing her dissatisfaction in the boudoir, can we?

Make Your Move

 

No, we jolly well can’t. So, that’s when you look her in the eye and say ‘Chocolate or sex?’ Naturally, unless you’ve chosen a hooker on her lunch break, or your mottled temptress is in her eighties, her cheek will mantle with shame. She’ll demurely mumble ‘The second one’, or words to that effect.

Your pithy rejoinder? ‘Naughty girl! Well, there’s a Twix in the fridge just in case.’ Works every time. Well, it used to, but I daresay in modern day, binge-drinking England, your turtledove might very well turn the tables by sassily crushing her cigarette with a stiletto heel, and saying ‘Depends how big your cock is.’ Course, if she just says ‘chocolate’, you’re fucked as well.

Right, well how was that for an introduction to Turin’s chocolate industry? Yes, perhaps a little elaborate. But then so are the delicacies here. Even more so at Easter when the chocolatiers’ window displays are bulging with hand-crafted marvels.

Piemont’s Gianduia Cream

 

Girls, write this down. Forget Belgium and Switzerland; Turin’s Gianduiotto chocolate is yummy. To give you the bare history, during the Napoleonic wars, when England’s powerful fleet was hampering sea transport like the dickens, there was a scant supply of cocoa in these parts. Did the chocolate makers puff their cheeks, succumbing to despondent lachrymosity? No, they showed spunk and resourcefulness, adding toasted hazelnuts to make up the deficit. 

Anyway, now we’ve got the sex out of the way, let me take you to Cafe Mulassano for a chocolatey, post-coital treat. It’s the sort of olde-worlde haven where one’s croissants arrive on silver platters to marble-topped tables. Marble being sturdyish, you’d think, then, that a mere brush with my thigh wouldn’t have dislodged a top from its exquisite wrought-iron stand. Whoopsydaisies. Pesky things, tables.

Stockinged feet..

 

Comfortable in those heels, by the way? Kick ‘em off if you like – I’ll distract the waiter. And then I’ll order you a bicerino. God, not another Italian coffee, you groan? Ah, but this one is special. The French writer Alexandre Dumas, on a visit to Turin in 1852, wrote ‘…in Torino, I shall never fail to remember bicerin, an excellent beverage consisting of coffee, milk and chocolate that is available from all bars and cafes at a relatively modest cost.’

Cafe Mulassano, before I forget, is also responsible for importing the first toaster from the US in 1925. The significance being? The toasted sandwich duly arrived in Turin. Hooray! Actually, that’s not very interesting, is it? Let’s head back to the room instead – the Bollinger should’ve chilled nicely by now. Oh, you are insatiable, Darling – I see the Twix is still unopened..

The touring season has begun again in earnest; a pantheon of feted legends are soon to be gracing stages Europe-wide.

Springsteen goes out at the end of the month; Bon Jovi’s trucks head down to Sofia (Bulgaria) in a couple of weeks; and I’ve ended up tottering about for superstar Beyonce. Yes, obviously I had to look her up on Youtube to see who she is. For those that also live in caves, she’s an American girl with a dazzling smile, soaring in popularity in the last ten years since leaving Destiny’s Child and going solo.

Last week, at East Midlands airport, UK, over 200 tons of gear arrived from America on two jumbo jets, and was trans-shipped onto Transam’s trucks. Before going airside, however, truck cabs had to be emptied. And when I say “emptied”, I mean stripped of all personal effects: clothes, gas stoves, testicle stretchers etc. The full monty. It’s amazing what one accumulates.

Naturally, given the inordinate amount of red wine, trombone music and tourist brochures I carry, this was potentially problematic for me. Solution? The fellows in

the office very kindly instead sent me (and a colleague) to Sound Moves near London Heathrow – a specialist in freight forwarding solutions to the entertainment industry – to pick up the 22-ton overspill.

Irreplaceable

 

Heaven knows what a DB25 Analog Output Fan, a L5-15 Rack Box, or a Blazon-3 Intercom Beacon is, but we chucked these items in the back, tooted the lorry horns to signal our departure, and raced off to Beyonce rehearsals in Belgrade, Serbia.

Well, I say raced. All this nonsense of nine hours driving every day is such a bourgeois convention, much like using cutlery at mealtimes and getting out of the bath for a piss. What I say is if you’ve got a week to complete a journey, why not visit chums on the way – take Crazy Sandra in Germany, for example, who happened to have just bought a Harley Davidson Dyna Super Glide 1600.

Run The World (Girls)

 

‘The Harley’s custom made,’ she enthused, replete with excitement and looking as animated as a small child might do if handed both a lollipop and a ticket to a fairground ride. ‘It’s a bit lower, look, for a pig with short legs. I really am a pig, actually – sometimes, when my snoring’s too loud, I wake myself up. Ha ha. You need more tea?’

Anyway, we’ve arrived at Belgrade Arena now – all 25 or so trucks. So let’s dump these blasted Expanded Beam Fibre Optic Cables, Cat5 Snake 4-ways and suchlike, and set off on an adventure. Ooh, Sarajevo’s not far away if you look at the map…

‘More roasted songbirds,’ an Elizabethan dignitary might once have bellowed. Mauve of cheek, with honey-glazed venison protruding from his pendulous jowls, he cuts quite the powerful figurehead. But this is only the hem of the garment, so to speak.

Eels seethed in wine are brought to the table by a curtsying maid, her skin the colour of bleached parchment. As she clasps her hands unctuously, his embittered mind is dreaming of overpowering this frail creature, swooping like a Valkyrie to defile her sanctuary.

And if she opposes the union? Simple. Off with her head! You see, beneath all this glittering authority lies a craven, insecure ballbag worthy only of despisement and scorn.

No More Mr Nice Guy

 

And what of the incorrigibly gossipy scullery maid? An intractable, quarrelsome woman that once had the temerity to voice an opinion on the running of the household hierachy. Tut tut. Yes, an iron mouthpiece for her, permanently mutilating the tongue with sharp spikes and blades. Obviously befilth her in her own excrement, too. 

Gruesome? You betcha. And do you know why this chain of events evolved? All because the royal, gout-ridden oaf had a tiny penis. My words, admittedly, not those of the San Marino Torture Museum, and not necessarily an argument you’ll find confirmed on Wikipedia – nor that his Eminence had the brain the size of a squirrel’s – but the reasoning is sound.

San Marino Cliffs

 

Anyway, then she’s branded “Slattern” across her forehead, given a good wheeling and chucked off Mount Titano – there are some perfect spots between the first and third towers – and all before the next flagon of mead. Ooh, but hang on, why selfishly hurl this maid into the abyss when the new trainee needs a few practise swings with the headsman’s sword.

‘A young aspirant’, reads the Museum blurb on beheading, ‘whom we must certainly forgive occasional errors of inexperience, is wont to slice off a few shoulders. But sooner or later he will earn his keep on the third try, and in good time on the first.’

Hmm, less mead at lunch, more heads first go, would be my advice here. Of course, one hopes that young aspirants are breathalysed before clocking on nowadays. Health and Safety, and all that.

Beheading Facts

Now, here’s something you probably didn’t know. A freshly severed head is, apparently, fully aware of its fate as it rolls along the ground. Granted, perception is extinguished in a matter of seconds, and it must be an appalling sensation, but I’d definitely favour a neat guillotine execution over a wally from the Job Centre hacking thrice to find the right spot.

Well, having uplifted your mood, I’ll sign off. We’ll talk about flowers or something next week..

 

I’ve been thinking about punishment this week. No, not devising a ladder rack large enough to dislocate Namibians; more like dwelling on that San Marino Torture Museum. It was a grizzly experience, and I’m chagrined by the depths of human cruelty.

Don’t get me wrong. Leaning marginally to the right, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over a vile murdering rapist – as opposed to the caring, magnanimous kind – going to the scaffold. Persona non grata; saves taxpayers’ money. But what I don’t understand is why a crowd would turn out, barbarously relishing the spectacle? And to take matters to the next logical step, why would anybody waste valuable energy thinking up ways to make death more painful?

Romanian Evil

 

‘Vlad the Impaler was your man,’ said my friend Simon, artfully dissecting an orange at my door this morning. ‘He was kidnapped by the Turks and taught as a child how to use a donkey to push a stick up one’s arse. Needs practising, that sort of thing. Nothing worse than a poor impaler.’

He scoffed another segment, discarded the peel beneath my trailer whilst murmuring something about it being biodegradable, and continued. ‘Course the other favourite is covering a fellow’s feet in goose fat and setting fire to him. Can’t be very pleasant, can it? Right, on that note, I’m going for a dump. Have a good day.’

Charming. Don’t mind Simon – he’s still a bit tetchy after England’s whitewash defeat in the Six Nations rugby thingy on Saturday. All gobbledygook to me, of course; I follow the croquet.

Medieval Torture Chamber

 

Anyway, back to the Torture Museum. Now what’s with these mendicant friars inserting red-hot pokers up the botty? It’s inhuman and there’s no need for it. Bottom line – ahem – so what if a “heretic” hadn’t converted to the “true faith”? A) it’s nonsense and B) did that really make him a follower of Satan? You can’t force people, by pulling out their fingernails, to believe something; gentle cajoling over a cuppa, surely, is far more efficacious.

Try offering your adversary a hot drink. Sure, throw in a muffin if you’re flush, and see whether the results are more forthcoming than the stint on a rectal pear proved to be. In a nutshell, let’s stop torture; instead, how about we spread a little love and forgiveness around the world. Having said that, of course, it’s always a good laugh to stick a colleague’s head down the loo and steal his dinner money. Middle ground, folks – it’s all about compromise..

I’m spoiled, really. How many men can boast of owning a helicopter? Holy Cow, very Fifty Shades. It comes with its problems, naturally – e.g. time to fly it – but these are by no means insuperable.

But in order to fly such a precision machine, one must don goggles, pervert gloves – Holy Fuck, what’s he going to do with them? – and remove all loose clothing. Hair, if one has any, must be tied in a bun. Strict instructions such as these (possibly augmented with artistic licence) must be adhered to at all times.

The non-gyro indoor helicopter from Aldi also comes with a recommendation that it shouldn’t be flown outdoors.

 

Airborne Dog Fight

Far down below, the winking lights of Dad’s USB ports fade out. The choppers are fully charged and we are going head to head for the great British rag-off in the Sitting Room of Humiliation. Holy Crap, charged choppers? The tension is palpable; two of the nation’s adrenalin titans prepare to battle it out in loose clothing. ‘These aren’t pyjamas,’ says Dad, an injured expression playing around his eyes. ‘This is a lounge suit.’

And we’re off…to a shaky start. Dad’s chopper is out of trim immediately, scuttling and spinning wildly into the fireplace like a demented beetle – possibly owing to a rotor malfunction or a substandard Tesco Value battery. Holy Smoke, lined up next to the woodburner is an array of prods and shovels. What sort of a pervert?

Ooh, I’ve actually managed to get mine up, though. That’s it, ease her gently off the carpet before upping the power, channelling waves of electricity pulsing through her delicate plastic frame. Steady now, keep a firm hand on the controls. Holy Shit. Think where those hands have been. Desire pools in my belly, and lower, deeper…down there.

 

Seattle or Seaton?

Wow! The view of the television from up here is incredible. Far below, Dad’s inferior machine spasms, putting in one last valiant attempt at the high-jump before giving a sickly Phut. But my ride is timeless, the Humiliation Room my oyster, domination within my grasp… Oh bollocks, I’ve crashed. The strong fluorescent lighting from the newly built Tesco in Seaton must have affected my flight controls.

Hey, if you haven’t yet read Fifty Shades of Grey, the world won’t collapse. Check into a hotel or two and, chances are, there’ll be a copy left in the room.

Barnaby Davies CEO

‘That’s why they get this boat,’ said the ship’s barman. ‘So they can behave like arseholes.’

The Viking Line XPRS nudged out of Helsinki – a market town founded in 1550, currently celebrating its 200th year as capital – bound for Tallinn, Estonia. Outside the windows lay rocky, low-lying islets; inside lay karaoke.

‘I don’t even hear it anymore,’ he continued, as the ballyhoo grew louder. An Eastie Beastie, dressed in ripped stonewashed jeans – groovily fastened with a white fabric belt, no less – had taken the microphone. ‘But you’re right, it is terrible.’

He handed me a pint. I reeled when he wanted actually paying; surely alcohol ought to be offered as some sort of recompense for the din? Sitting on a sofa, pondering how social inhibition, pride and moderation have failed to reach this part of the world, I sipped frugally – partly because of the price.

Karaoke Club

A menagerie of middle-aged Finns sat slavering around the bar, bound by a love of hard spirits and misplaced esprit de corps, each awaiting his or her diabolical turn at the microphone. Luckily, I didn’t have long to wait for another corking melody. The next fellow was already stumbling up to the stage, entangling himself beautifully in the PA cable.

‘I did it my way,’ he crooned, out of tune and smashed off his tits. He canted backwards at a dangerous angle, squinted at the screen and put everything into a ripsnorting finale, blissfully unaware of either intonation or the concept of decorum.

Now, ignore the fact for one moment that whoever invented karaoke ought to have their skull cracked like a brazil nut; what is it about Finnish guys and drinking?

Jazz Story

Last night, I popped my head into Storyville Jazz Club to catch Nat Newborn’s Tribute to the Rat Pack. (It’s worth clicking the Storyville hyperlink; there’s a picture of a Norwegian giant that caught me off-guard and stuck her tongue down my throat last time I was in.) And the second I’d sat down amid this demi-monde of idlers, I was grinned at by a young man with halibut-like eyes and a ponytail. Late twenties, I should say.

‘That’s not my lady,’ he’d slurred, wobbling vehemently and gesturing towards a 53-year-old woman I’d assumed was his mother. Then he fell down the stairs.

Still, Tallinn was jolly nice, thanks for asking. All sixteenth-century walls, erotic massages, and medievally dressed wenches serving hot wine and sugared almonds. Oh, and Skype was invented there, too..

There is a certain protocol to be observed when a man is taking a piss.

Yes, a conversation can be held – e.g. ‘Have you found it yet?’ or ‘Hurry up; more than three shakes is playing with yourself,’ – but one must conduct this discourse in a certain fashion. That is to say, eye contact is permissible but it is reprehensible to let one’s gaze fall.

Now, three days ago – in a Swedish lay-by – I was stretching my legs, shirtless and with hardly a care in the world. Nearby, a nondescript gentleman in khaki shorts, spectacles and a baseball cap was loafing idly, but I assumed he was simply another truck driver taking a breather from changing gears and murdering prostitutes. I took little notice…but he certainly noticed me.

Queer as a nine bob note

 

After a couple of lay-by lengths, I paused on a nettle-strewn bank to enjoy a soothing wee-wee. Yet no sooner had I commenced than the nondescript gentleman – now known to be of base and despicable origins – was upon me. Well, not upon exactly, but he encircled me, stopping six feet in front. And his eyes, far from betraying uneasiness, shone. In fact, one could say they were addled with excitement.

Strong emotions engulfed me as his mouth formed an O. In fact, it rather put me off my grapefruit, a treat I’d been looking forward to since leaving Oslo.

Now, as you’ve probably discerned over the years, I’m not homophobic – I’ve even bought my own home – but I felt this behaviour needed a stern dressing down. So I shot him one of my fiercest glances, but he blinked calmly and continued looking at my willy. Not even a smile or an apologetic gesture or, indeed, a suggestion of shouting me a Crème de Menthe with an umbrella in it.

 

Here, Kitty Kitty

 

Rather reviling the nondescript gentleman by now – but moderately mollified by my ice-cold grapefruit from the fridge — I continued my pacing in the sunshine. Yet I was to be persecuted further. Scarcely had I begun again when the nondescript gentleman, now lolling on a railing next to a weighbridge, pursed his lips and sucked air as I passed. It was the sort of noise one makes when summoning or bestowing affection upon a pussycat.

Well, I got cross at this. Words flew unbidden into my mouth and I balled my fists. ‘Fuck off, knob jockey,’ I cried, frightfully out of character – after all, I couldn’t care less if fellows over the age of 21 fancy a cuddle in the back of a van. I smashed my right fist menacingly into my left, cupped hand. Ouch! Still, he finally got the message that my penis, much like great aunts, wasn’t to be trifled with. He skulked off in his Volvo, no doubt to the next parking area.

Such is the tenor of life on the road this week. Funny though, the Swedes. Fancy being named after a vegetable…

The other evening I received a text message from a pal. It read: ‘Been on www.grannyslappers.co.uk? The lecturer from Putney is gonna get my knob asap.’

Well, I was touched at his evident warmth for this girl, a creature that he would no doubt run a mile in tight shoes for. In fact, wanting to know more about this turtledove to whom he’d plighted his troth, I set up a quick profile on the website immediately.

I hit “Return”, the browser refreshed and a phalanx of mature, discerning ladies filled the screen. What a smashing idea, I reflected, to cater for experienced, minxish women knowing what they’re looking for in a man – the Mrs. Robinsons of today, if you like, smouldering seductively in hold-ups and driving their soft-top motorcars.

 

Older women..

My pulse raced. Salaciously, as though truffling for treasure, I clicked the mouse…and a large fissure began to form, the proverbial knell of doom ringing out aloft. Seldom in the annals of heady adventure has the sweet aroma of sexual promise smelt more like stale urine. There, sitting before me, astride the catchy slogan of “An Easy Shag is a Granny Shag”, was an androgynous blonde carcass. Tut, I thought, and popped the kettle on.

Returning, I gloomily read a front-page testimonial – just while the tea brewed, you understand – written by Joan. ‘I’m 48 and Grannyslappers is a great place to meet guys who appreciate me,’ she stated. Call me cynical if you like, Joan, but if my chum’s intentions towards his infernal Putney lecturer are anything to go by, our definitions of appreciation may differ just a soupcon.

The best testimonial, however, was yet to come.

 

Love at First Sight

Before shutting down the PC for the day, I briefly found myself in insalubrious waters. In one window was www.plentymorefish.com, for naughty, open-minded  “fish”; in another lay www.fuckbook.com, a community platform for adults; and in yet another – www.colombiancupid.com – I found the mother lode. ‘Wow!’ Steven had written. ‘What an amazing feeling to find your soul mate just one continent away.’

Have a little think about that statement. Just imagine, for those of you in the UK, that within the eminently narrow confines of Asia’s breadth – yes, amongst a mere couple of billion people or so  – that somebody compatible could exist. Coo, Steve’s a pretty lucky chap, huh? I mean, what were the chances?

 

The Yellow Peril

But, guys, before you go ordering yourself a bride from www.chineselovelinks.com, why not see if you can order, I mean find, a girl round the corner? Need some help writing a great dating profile? Check out Marni’s blog – trust me, it’s worth reading if you’re a single guy uncomfortable with walking up to a random girl and saying, ‘Whatho, give me five minutes and I’ll be free for coffee.’

That, I’m afraid, is my final word on the minefield of online intimacy; I’ve come over all unnecessary and need a lie-down. Ooh, but hallo, what do we have here? “Www.analloverdating.com – the eighth deadly sin?” Oh, for goodness’ sake. Still, it ties in rather neatly with this news article on Sinead O’Connor..