This Is This

There’s nothing I like setting myself up for more than a fall.

As any blogger will tell you, we aim to please. Sometimes my sights are off, some days I’m just not feeling it at, there are times when there’s not much to tell, and occasionally I just feel like the face people make when they’re walking in light rain.

But there’s a responsibility that comes with writing and it’s a commitment and a pleasure and I enjoy the responsibilty of doing a challenge.

OK, example. Hannah Bridgeman, 1985 – about fourteen years old, 11 o’clock on a Springtime morning. We were in Mr Lill’s gym class and I noticed the date on her watch was wrong. I pointed this out, thinking that she might be impressed at someone whose attention to the details of others spilled over to a willingness to assist them in their lack thereof. Right? No?

Anyway, I pointed this out and she grumbled that the date was wrong for half the day and then at lunchtime it changed to the right one.

Now you don’t have to be a genius, or even me, to know that her date switcheroobob thought that twelve noon was really twelve midnight.

“Oh, I know why,” I said with a confident nod, but giving nothing away, implying an essential and mysterious understanding of modern timepieces.

“Can you fix it?”

“I think so. Can I have a look?”

She took off the watch and handed it to me. God, she had great thumbs.

I looked at the watch. “Yeah, there’s your problem,” I said.

“I can leave it with you if you want,” she said hopefully.

“I’ll fix it tonight and bring it back tomorrow.”

“Really? Thanks!”

Fact is I could have changed it there and then by winding the time on twelve hours and resetting the date, but I make it seem like a big deal that I could fix because I was excellent.

Stupid isn’t it? I made it seem like a big deal that I had no problem with, all because but I was so eager to be helpful and impress her.

We didn’t, by the way.

I’m aware how my actions and thoughts affect others, but what I sometimes struggle with is how my thoughts affect myself, because sometimes if others aren’t affected, I’ll give it less importance.

Here’s a small example of it. Over the last week I’ve been listening only to classical music and getting early nights and maybe reading a little in bed. Not that normally I crawl into bed at 3 am after rocking out, but I can be up late for no good reason and wake up feeling guilty that I’ve done nothing to help, each morning vowing to be better the next day.

And  each day I would promise myself to help myself as much as I could while having no idea what that was.

Last week anyway, it was early nights, reading and classical music. Just for the dick of it, just to see what would happen.

And guess what? I feel better. I feel clearer and brighter and it has spurred me to go on to do more, because my actions do influence my thoughts and I can influence my actions.

Sometimes I think the wrong thing, straight away. For example today, on the way to the train today I saw a guy in a Philadelphia 76ers basketball tank top. It was a fake, and I did a mental sneer. The Sixers are in the playoffs at the moment, and I know this because I follow them. I follow them because I used to live there.

I sneered because even I am not wearing a fake rip-off Sixers jersey. I sneered because he has probably never been to Philly.

Only a couple of moments later (it may have three moments, I didn’t count because I was too busy sneering) I thought “Maybe that guy back on the platform was a Sixers fan. Maybe he has been to Philadelphia.”

And what does it matter if he has or he hasn’t? Everyone who has a Stone Roses album doesn’t need to have been to Manchester.

No, these things do not have to rear their ugly heads and it makes me less happy when they do, but as long as I keep doing it, I have to keep myself in check, because it’s possible that one day I’ll be so used to it that I won’t notice it any more.

I need to be less cynical and start enjoying life more. And the only way to do that is to try. It’ll take some doing, but you won’t see the sunrise unless you get up early, and the day’s going to happen whether you do or not.

Something within me is deeply unsettled when it comes to the Daily Mail.

Even with my rubber gloves and salad tongs I still find it disturbing to read.

So it’s quite fitting that their new website is one of the ugliest sites I have ever seen. In fact it’s so horrible, it is only on view in office hours from Monday to Friday. Even then I would advise a pinhole camera setup to project it onto a wall where you can look at it though smoked glass.

Even the advertising is disturbing. Take this ad, shown this week.

It’s not me, is it? It’s a baby version of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

Last week’s Weekend Song was a feat of arrangement in that it shouldn’t have worked. This week, here’s one that has no reason not to.

Opening guitar riff, drums and bass bursting in, rock keyboards, ripping into the vocals and everything tearing through the gears to get us where we’re going.

This one’s by my pals A at their finest. I have friends in loud places, and rock though they may, this song would have a rightful place here even if I didn’t know them.

I love the ending of this song because it goes bounding off in another direction, shaking its big rocking arse as it goes like you want some of that action.

Hey this is a love song, hands up if you feel it.

Listen: Rush Song

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

At school I often used humour as a defence mechanism. This was mostly because my defence was often a humour mechanism, but I was a popular kid without being into exclusive groups as such.

I’d always been an all-rounder. I was never particularly cool, overly brainy, I was above average in sport and what I lacked in academia I made up for getting along with people. I was good in some areas, like English and music, but bad in others, like maths and chemistry.

I moved around a bit and changed schools, and often countries, every four or five years, which meant the curriculum never changed with me and I was always trying to fit in with the programme.

Which brings me on to Nazis.

Every time I changed school, the history teacher would announce in the first lesson of that yeat that we were going to study the rise of Hitler and the Third Reich. This was cool right after Raiders Of The Lost Ark came out and I realised that my uncle had kicked Nazi butt across southern Europe, but by the time I was eighteen, I was ready to give Nazis das boot.

I yearned for Vikings or modern African history, McCarthyism or the colonial wars of south east Asia. No one gave me the opening of the Northwest Passage, there were no Conquistadors, proud and misguided on armoured horses, the Santa Maria never left the dock for me because it was always Nazis, Nazis and more fucking Nazis.

Nazis who were gay, Nazis who didn’t trust Hitler and were killed, Nazis who studied in London, people who used the Nazi movement to cover their own.

What I’m saying is that if I never hear anything about Nazis for the rest of my life I’d be closer to a happiness I’m not entirely sure exists but could at least imagine myself nearer.

Have a good weekend and I’ll be around on Monday if you are.

It was St. George’s Day yesterday, my national day, and like most Englishmen, I forgot until about a few days before that it was coming up.

I was reminded by subtle alterations put in place by people who put things in place out of a need to attach themes to their changes. Television programmers, pub menus, carpet salesrooms. I didn’t notice the changes at first. I would have noticed that Radio Three was playing more Elgar and Vaughan Williams if someone had asked, but I wouldn’t have spotted that it had anything to do with national identity.

In fact it was only yesterday morning that I knew for sure it was actually that day, when St. George balloons flew above scones and cream in the café at work.

If I was supposed to feel stirrings of national pride, I didn’t notice above the low rumblings of my stomach brought on by the prospect of baked goods and dairy produce.

What did I write about instead?  Having a poo.

Hmmm. Maybe previous looking at previous posts from this time last year will prove to be more patriotic.

2005 – Shoes Life, the one where the guy confidently buys shoes
2006 – BREASTS!, the one where I smile back at a woman on the beach but find out its wrong when she discovers I am English and and I realise she is too
2007 – Overheard In New York, the one where I hear something over in New York

Nope. In fact, two of them happened overseas, amid Jonny P. Foreigner.

And 2008 – You Do Not Talk About Book Club, the one where I worry if people think I done a poo.

The French even have their own word for it. National pride that is, not doing a poo, although I’m sure they have many. In fact, there’s a great mild insult in France which is “Tu me fais chier”, or literally “you are making me shit”, although not literally literally – that would seem more like a cry for help than an insult, and one unlikely to result in any assistance anyway.

No, they have a word for national pride, which is “cocorico”, which is an onomatopoeic word after the cry of a cockerel, France’s national symbol. To demonstrate “le cocorico” is to display a sense of unity and allegiance with one’s French countrymen. There’s no equivalent among the English, but you get the idea.

One obvious example of this in France would be to unleash a live cockerel onto the pitch at a sporting event. This always provides a respite to proceedings and one tolerated by both sides as a patriotic if slightly disruptive interlude to proceedings.

Again, the English have no such gesture. This could be because our national symbol is a lion, and we all remember what happened in Rome - we’re short enough of Christians as it is. Instead we have people dressed up as knights with chain mail, although it’s normally ring pulls stuck on to a grey hoody with an apron over it and they look like nobs, although this says as much about our national pride as anything you’d learn here.

So I hope your St. George’s Day was everything you hoped it would be, the chances being that it was because you weren’t hoping for anything and that’s probably what you got.

Often at work I’ll go downstairs and have lunch in one of the canteens. I don’t get much time alone so it’s nice to step out, grab a coffee and read a book for half an hour.

The toilets are next to the lifts and some way from my desk, so I’ll grab by book and head out.

The problem is that I don’t like walking out of the toilets with a book, because it suggests that you have done a poo. Carrying literature out of the toilet shows a level of planning and consideration not normally reserved for calls of nature, especially ones at work.

But what can I do? Why should I have to walk back to my desk to get my book and then head out.

What makes things worse is that the toilet blocks at work are unisex, which throws up a whole new protocol of shitiquette.

A woman as she goes in could look at me coming out of the toilets with a book and think I done a poo, for which there is no terms of engagement.

“I’m heading out to eat.”

No.

“I’d give it a couple of minutes if I were you.”

No.

The best you can do, is not to hide the book, avoid all eye contract and head for the canteen, hoping you are not sharing a table with her later. Which is my school days all over again.

Everyone: Awwwwww.

Last week saw me writing under the guidelines of the British Association of Slow Writers. BASW aims to redress the balance brought on by advances in communication techniques which has lead to a rapid decline in the quality of modern writing. Its purpose is to encourage its members to write less and write better. My attempt was, I’m afraid to say, a failure. Not only has the standard of my writing failed to pick up but I’m still writing too fast and I am, suffice to say, no longer a part of the Slow Writing movement. It was a hard decision, but they can go fuck themselves. And now, back to our programme of stuff that gets bashed out both willy and nilly (technically it’s a 60/40 willy-heavy split) and let’s start today’s post.

Someone: Jesus Christ. For fuck’s sake. What did I just say? Cliff.

Me: Um, you said “For fuck’s sake.”

Someone: Before that.

Me: Oh. “Jesus Christ.”

Iiiiiiiiiiii admit it. Not my words, reader, but those of Eddie Vedder at the start of Pearl Jam’s landmark debut album Ten, but you know what? So will I, because I’ll admit that I’m an arrogant pain in the arse.

I must be, because most days I’ll assume that I’m going to write something and you’ll read it and validate my need to write something. I won’t bore you with this again today. I’ve written about the mechanics of blogging before on this site. But if you’re doing your own bit on it and want my opinion, then I’ll happily give it.

OOOH. You see?!?

To which end, I’ve created a Facebook page to both regale you and adorn, if not festoon, your own pages. No, not festoon. That sounds mucky.

Technically, it’s a fan page, but that’s Facebook’s term, not mine and should be considered as what in legal circles is referred to as by the by.

But if I want to create a web page for this site on Facebook, I have to either create a “fan page”, or make a personal profile page and pretend my name is “This Is This”. First name “Thisis”, second name “This”. Like Missus This, except it’s Thisis.

Mr Angry did this and I have already been over to call him Ian Livid. Never one to resist a funny, it was either that or Iams Livid, which sounds like food for angry cats. OK, a narrow audience there among UK blogging cat owners, but nevertheless - I have to take the laughs where I can get them these days.

What’s more, when I create a fan page, I have to become a fan. There’s no way around it. Me. So it is written in the Book Of Face.

So, I’ll just tell you what I think and you’ll read it and then we’ll all become fans of it. If anyone wants me, I’ll be up my own bum. I may stay there if I can get network access sorted out.

No, seriously, it’s just another outlet for this site to reach a wider audience of people who mooch about on Facebook, because it’s very good at pulling together all your stuff like email and pictures and message boards, so why not blogs you read?

It’s got a feed on it so these posts will go on there automatically (although many hours later for reasons I don’t understand), and people can send it round to their friends and talk and stuff. It’s got a message board on there, but then there are message boards here. It’s up to you, but I realise people use their web stuff in different ways.

Like any blogger, I check the stats to this site and keep an eye on how things are going and if anyone’s reading, but until yesterday I’d never checked how many feed subscriptions there are to this site. You know - people who set up readers so they can download posts to their GPtouchpods and MacPs and things.

Well, it turns out the site has one hundred and twelve people subscribers. One hundred and twelve, mind you! I’d never thought to check. And that’s not counting the readers who visit the actual page, which may or may not be you depending on how you read this. So hello to the feed readers and sorry I didn’t know you were out there.

This Is This. How do you eat yours?

That would have been a good closing line if I didn’t have this bit on the end:
This Is This on Facebook.

I went shooting recently. Proper shooting - 12 bore double-barrelled shotgun shooting. I have a very sore shoulder from it still, but it’s a good feeling.

As with all adventures, the more fun they are, the more sedate the instructors. I don’t mind this, I’m just making an observation.

When you go for your first flying lesson, you have a guy who is as calm as he is collected while he tells you about ailerons and thermals and he answers questions by saying: “That’s correct.” And: “If it’s necessary, yes.”

What you don’t want when you’re taking control of an aircraft or a firearm is a caffeinated Australian going: “Aw yeah, mate, go for your life. Here’s a case of ammo-o.”

I don’t know why I picked on Australians just then, it’s just they seem bubbly and informal, but it’s not the kind of reassurance I’d want to keep me the right side of life or death.

And guns kill. The instructor said that. He described how the shot scatters and what it would do to a person, which I already knew, but it really made me want to shoot a tree just to see what would happen. To the tree, I mean. I know what would happen to me, and it would involve the instructor being a lot less sedate.

The instructor said people like shooting because adults are just big kids, the difference being that grown-ups can pay attention and follow instructions. Then he said something about safety catches and stuff maybe about loading but I was busy looking at the shiny cartridges in the ammunition cases. Blah blah blah - is it my go yet?

Like most men, I will pretent I know more about guns than I do. In the same way I will pretend I know less about Patrick Swayze than I do. It’s just a front. I’m regular, but believe me - shooting a gun is fun. They are heavy, they feel nice, all brushed thick steel and walnut, they go bang and they have an impact. It’s almost grotesque how much power you have in your control, and for that reason, even imagining pointing a gun at a person feels revolting.

But smashing a clay pigeon to smitherines as it flies by at forty miles an hour, thirty feel from where you’re standing? It feels great.

I don’t have to overcompensate my liberal credentials here, partly because I don’t really have many, but it’s satisfying. I’m a big kid at heart. I can fly and I can shoot and most superheroes can only do one of those.

World War 2, eh? What was that all about?

And since you’re here, I’ve added a few more things to the Recommended page.

Tomorrow we get the big guns out, then Tuesday I’ll talk about my own arrogant self importance.

I will. OK?!?!

If you’ve been here a while, you’ll know I like songs that shouldn’t work. Well, this one’s to songs what bumblebees are to aerodynamics.

Keyboards and mandolin intro, cheesy lyrics, slow bass. Meh.

But hang on - how much space are the drums giving everything? And isn’t he singing about getting back on his feet again? And isn’t that a melodeon? And is that James Taylor on backing vocals?

Well, a lot, yes, possibly and fuck yes.

The lyrics were written by Will Jennings, who wrote for BB King, Eric Clapton and Roy Orbison. Not only should the song not work, but it nearly didn’t start. Jennings said about the recording session:

“Steve had not written the music to it yet and he at that time was going through a divorce. And because of the divorce, his wife got everything in the house, this big house in England. So he came up from London and went out to this house, which he still lives in and he had for years before he was married, and everything was gone, except there was a mandolin over in the corner of the living room. It was winter and it was dreary. He went over and picked up the mandolin, and he already had the words in his head, and that’s when he wrote the melody. He went back and not only cut a big hit which still is played so much today, but it was the title track of the album. And if I hadn’t asked about it, it would have just gone by, so that’s one that was saved at the last minute.”

We’ll be back in the high life again
all the doors I closed one time will open up again.
We’ll be back in the high life again
all the eyes that watched us once will smile and take us in.

Listen: Back In The High Life

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

There’s a view held by some, although others use it to prop themselves up, that there are an infinite number of souls all lined up ready to be born, like gumballs in a machine, and when someone’s ready to be born, or at some stage during the proceedings of pregnancy – I don’t  know exactly which – the spirit wisps in and becomes a person.

It follows then that if you had been born some other time, then you’d have ended up being another person entirely.

It’s just as well that I got me, because I’m not sure I would want someone else walking around as me. That seems a lot to take on, plus I’ve grown accustomed.

But it’s good to know that a few minutes either side and I could have been a triplet from Lima, a juggler from Saskatchewan, a preacher from Taipei, or a pig farmer from Darfur. I don’t even know if they have pigs in Darfur, so it’s just as well that one missed me. Although I can juggle, so I probably would have been OK there.

No, I ended up getting me, which is more than I would have hoped for, and you got you, and if you’ve enjoyed reading this then it’s worked out fine, for now at least.

Have a good weekend, right?

I’d like to welcome a couple of new readers and explain that normally I’d post most days. I’ll pick that back up, along with the quality, because I have a feeling that the best I can do is about to get better. We’ll still have the weekend song tomorrow, etc.

Thanks for the comments about my dad, too – he got a kick out of that.

Anyway, I’m going this way, so I’ll see you, OK? All right. Take care – bye.

Best thing I have read all week from the Jonesosphere (sorry):

Rivierawriter, my dad, wrote:

I once had dinner with Gilbert Northcote Parkinson, author (this for those under forty) of Parkinson’s Law. In awe of the best-selling humorist, I spent days preparing for an evening of merry banter. The food was excellent, but it was a long and tedious meal: I assumed my repartee had failed to bring out his latent humour, but later consoled myself with the thought that funny writers are not funny in person because they’re too busy worrying about what funny stuff they’re going to write next or in which tax haven they’re going to live. Over the years I have derived much comfort from assuming that the converse is equally true: that the reason I can’t write funny is because I’m such hilarious company.

I saw Anna Nalick a year ago on Letterman and was certain I was witnessing the next big thing.

I hope that still proves to be certain, but if not, I’ll take heart in her relative obscurity should my own best efforts go unnoticed. Which they largely have, by the way, present company excepted.

Also, I’m a sucker for confessional ballads in 3/4 time.

Norwegian Wood by The Beatles, Release by Pearl Jam, (You Make Me Feel Like A) Natural Woman by Aretha Franklin, Daysleeper by REM. Don’t underestimate a good shmaltz waltz.

May he turned 21 on the base at Fort Bliss
“Just a day” he said down to the flask in his fist,
“Ain’t been sober, since maybe October of last year.”
Here in town you can tell he’s been down for a while,
But, my God, it’s so beautiful when the boy smiles,
Wanna hold him. Maybe I’ll just sing about it.

Listen: Breathe (2AM)

This morning, to person on the train playing music on their mobile phone speaker.

Me: Excuse me.

He looks up.

Me: What would happen if you turned your music down?

Him: What?

Me: I’m assuming you have some kind of mental condition that means you have to listen to music regardless of your surroundings.

Him: What?

Me: And today you forgot your headphones so you have to play your shit rhythm and blues - and it’s neither, by the way - through the speaker on your phone.

Him: What?

Me: OK, what I’m going to do is read my book out loud. I really think I’d like to share that. You like Billy Cosby?

Him: What?

Me: “Anyone, even Weird Harold, could do a slow dance: you just leaned on the girl and moved as if you were leaving a crowded bus, but you needed either Astaire of Johnny to teach you the Bop and the Strand.”

Him: What?

Sometimes I don’t consider other people’s feelings. It’s probably because I’m not in touch with mine. Not properly, anyway. I might write on their facebook walls occasionally, but it’s not meaningful contact. And they rarely respond. Fuckers.

God I’m wound up by the phone music guy.

Well, they say leave them laughing, but it’s either one or the other round here. Take it or leave it - you know the rules. I don’t force you to read this blog, but while you do, it’s either my way or the Ebay. Are we clear?

It’s kind of “leave them and/or laughing”. You’re probably a glass-half-full person anyway. Of course, I’d point out that you’re using too big a glass, but that’s for another time.

Take it easy, relax and breathe.

Have a great weekend.

I spend a lot of time walking between buildings for meetings. In fact, I get a lot of work done moving around and I have discovered how unproductive it is returning straight to my desk after a meeting.

Personally, when I get back to my desk, I’ll check email, make a cup of tea and start working (very hard) on something else. No headspace at all. But after a meeting, in a different building of a different part of a very large, round building, I’ll walk back to my desk and make a call or two along the way, and grab a coffee while I walk.

This, by the way, is bad on my nerves and wallet, because in the office corridors here there are stalls which serve proper cappuccinos and cakes and everything.

Anyway, walking around, getting a coffee on the way back to your desk sounds like not working, but what can I do? I can’t move my desk around with me, and if I were sitting at it, I’d have made myself a cup of tea while working.

My point is, walking is great headspace time, because I’m not distracted, and I’m thinking about work with a clear head, guilt-free and taking in fresh air and/or coffee. And when I get back to my desk, I’m refreshed and in a focused place I wouldn’t normally be in.

And this happens several times a day.

A downside of my rootless peripateticism is that my phone is often going flat, because I’m not at my desk long enough for it to charge and I need it with me because I make a lot of calls. These can get dropped because the broadcast equipment knocks out the signal so it plays billy-o with my battery life.

And then it hit me.

“What if you could have a device that charged your phone while you carried it around?”

Genius! Finally, busy people like me could be truly mobile.

“OK, it would have to be small – possible smaller than the phone itself. Like it, like it.”

I started getting excited by the concept. I was clearly on to something.

“It would have to be charged, obviously, because it would need to contain power, but you could plug that in at your desk and then when it was ready to go – hey presto! – you swoop by and take your portable charger with you and set about refuelling your mobile while you are out.”

Then I realised I was describing a battery.

“… in conclusion, let’s just be clear: I admire your resolve, you are made of better stuff than me, but I want it on the record that I am sponsoring you to stop asking me.”

Click picture for bigger version.

Those are my feet. Like the woman in the Tom & Jerry cartoons except without the stripey socks.

So, so easy indeed.

I’d like to apologise for the previous post. There is no direct link between a British tennis player and a homegrown would-be terrorist.

One is a person desperate for fame on a short-lived suicidal mission for glory supported by fanatics who will not accept that his cause will fail.

The other is Tim Henman.

‘Airline plotters played tennis’

The mother fuckers.

Whatever happened to Elton John?

He had that one good song, then he just kind of disappeared.

Only joking, reader. You know me. I like to have a laugh. It’s just my way.

This ties in with yesterday’s post when I did the lyrics thing. Continuity, that is. You’ll be seeing a lot more of that.

So here’s a song which is a little slice of brilliant. Harmonica part by Stevie Wonder, which kills, by the way. Kills. Just like he does at the end of the The Eurythmics song Must Be Talking To An Angel. It’s the best thing about that song, and it’s a good enough song already, so it always annoys me when the DJs crash it on the radio.

This song’s got a great neo-shoowap (nice) verse, a really cheesy lift into the chorus and therein a list of wonderful possibilities, because sometimes possibilities are all we have. I wouldn’t fancy your chances without them, at least.

And while I’m away dust out the demons inside.
And it won’t be long before you and me run
to the place in our hearts where we hide.

Listen: I Guess That’s Why They Call It The Blues

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

Bee costume for small animal for purposes of web journal-based comedy sidekickery. No timewasters.

I had this dream where it fell to me to polish the moon. This notion probably came from me having a new job, increased personal responsibilities and more fresh air than I’ve been getting for a while.

It was my responsibility to me to take the moon down every evening and give it a good shine. That was no problem – it was about the size of a large dish when I was holding it, although I knew it was much bigger.

After buffing it to a shine I could see my face in, there was the problem of putting it back. I was really worried about getting it wrong, because it had to be placed just right in its exact orbit.

Night after night, in my dream I would steady my hand and nerve as I resolved not to mess up what I didn’t really understand: the tides, the navigating moths, the phases. I didn’t even know the names of the phases. Waxing gibbons? Heh. That can not be right.

Yet there I was taking the moon down every evening and somehow it was going OK.

Puppy is good, despite a very difficult week.

And you can tell everybody that this is your post./This week was quite tricky but now that it’s toast/I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve put down in a blog/how wonderful life is now I’ve got a dog.

HAGW.

…a little earlier than I would have hoped, maybe, but it has begun.

Humans United Against Robots was designed to educate and make aware the citizenry of the world the impending attack that computers and robots will put into affect against people. HUAR is the collection of human beings, myself included, that spread the word of this opposing doom as well as doing what they can to help minimize the threat.

Between computer programs that identify human speech and match that up with their computerized dictionaries in order to understand our weaknesses to jokester scientists building robots specifically made to breathe fire from their mouths and shoot lasers from their eyes, it is evident a task force had to be formed of members that take being at the top of the food chain seriously.

Robots will uprise. HUAR will be there.