Wasted (even if I do say so myself)

Just occasionally, when something comes along like this piece of video featuring Dubya's latest comic blunder, I think I'm really in far too straight a line of work.

The obvious, scream out loud, killer line is one about the president showing that of all the lessons he may have learned from Iraq, the importance of developing a proper exit strategy isn't one of them.

I suggested a severely toned-down and much more circumspect version to colleagues writing the text story and while they cooed and shouted "Yes, thank you! That's got to be our line" in the end they took a safe route, as I always suspected they would.

Hopefully Jon Stewart and friends will think along similar lines and I'll be able to feel smug, clever and witty vicariously.

Slipper came to us in December 1989, a tiny stray by way of a student who'd been temping in mum's office.

She was such a wee scrap of a thing that we thought she was only a matter of weeks old. The vet told us she was actually a few months, just small. And she never grew into the biggest of cats.

At first we worried about how she'd get on with the dog, Boot. Or more to the point, how he'd get on with her. But it was never a problem. In spite of his natural disdain for all things feline, he seemed to understand that she was part of the family. Indeed, there were times we thought she was being brought up more dog than cat. Even when Boot died and Boggart arrived on the scene, she was the boss. Sure there were times when the pup would try his luck, but he'd never push it too far, fearing a scratched nose or worse.

When my parents moved to Wales in the mid 90s, she stayed with me in Yorkshire to look after their house. During this period of a year or so, we became particularly close, forming a bond that was never really broken, even after she moved down to Wales and I struck out on my own.

We could always pick up where we'd left off. We had this routine, wherein she'd lick my fingers and I'd use them to stroke the crown of her head. I never knew exactly what she got out of it, but I like to think it reminded her of being groomed by her mother.

She was fearless for such a small thing. She took on foxes in the middle of the night, warning them away from her territory. Once she even jumped on the back of my grandmother's dog, Sally, after she attacked Boggart. She knew where her loyalties lay.

In later years, she seemed to go a bit dappy. Mum was convinced she lost her marbles a couple of years ago. But she was always in good spirits, happy to come on late night walks with the dog - a habit which always mystified and amused us.

And the end came quickly, in a matter of a fortnight or so. Apparently she probably had end-stage kidney failure. Her muscles had wasted away, so that in recent weeks she'd barely been able to walk. She ate very little, Mum feeding her her last couple of tiny meals on the end of a teaspoon.

Slipper died this morning at the age of 16, the vet's doing, but something he didn't have to talk my parents into. A cat of such calibre deserved something of a dignified ending, and it seems that's what she got. Quick, peaceful, in my mother's arms. I'm only sorry I didn't get to say goodbye when I last saw her in August.

So goodbye princess. I love you.

The reason for the current silence is that I'm currently on retreat, recharging my anecdotal batteries. High time, some might say. I'm inclined to agree. Stories aplenty when I return in a couple of weeks. So if you wouldn't mind popping in to water the plants, I'd be ever so grateful.

More animals for you. This time, dolphins - fitting, considering my American Football allegiance. My modest contribution to the flood of Hurricane Katrina stories. Short and sweet, quick and easy.

And fluffy is not the sum total of what I do, honest, however much that might appear to be the case. My other, bigger contributions to the newsroom's effort are just less tangible.

One of these days I promise to share something people don't automatically want to cuddle...

Who needs football?

Kylie, Skippy, Rolf Harris, Chopper Read, Bob Hawke, John Howard, Mick Dundee, Shane Warne, Ricky Ponting, Rupert Murdoch, Donald Bradman, Harry Kewell, Olivia Newton John, Harold Bishop... your boys took one hell of a beating, I said your boys one hell of a beating.

(With thanks to a certain Norwegian football commentator.)

It's not big and it's not clever

It struck me last night that I've not had a hangover in more than a year. This has been through choice, admittedly, but for someone who used to suffer quite badly on more than a strictly healthy regular basis, it's still quite a lifestyle change.

So in honour of the headaches and DTs that I've consigned to the past, and in no particular order, here are my top five most memorable hangovers:

Warning: graphic description of shameful drunkenness and bodily functions follows.

Yorkshire/Manchester, January 1995
It had been Thomas' last night in the family home before he and Lizzie were due to set off for six months in Tanzania. The two of us decided to mark the occasion - a school night - with beers and vodka depth charges. It got messy, natch. And unsurprisingly I didn't feel much like work the next day. But I managed to make the hour or so's journey from home to the office - just about five hours late. Finally rocking up at New Broadcasting House in Manchester at about 2pm, I slumped in my corner for a couple of hours before excusing myself, blaming a bug or something. But these were hard-bitten and sozzled media people I was working with - I'm fairly sure not a single one of them was fooled.

Sweden, July 1995
Officially my Worst Hangover Ever. Developed while on holiday with University friends Andy, Matt and Chris, at the latter's grandfather's log cabin in the woods of back of beyond Sweden. Mix a very hot summer, closed windows to keep the mosquitoes out, no TV, several hundred hands of pontoon (matchsticks one credit, 10 matchsticks = one bottle top, five bottle tops = one loo roll) and two litres of duty free. With two of the boys already nursing a hangover, much of the drinking fell on me. When I went outside for a pee and fell over backwards with the force of zipping myself back up (my head missing a breeze block step by a matter of inches) they decided it was time I should go to bed.

Several hours later I woke up lying across the bed, my head lolling backwards, unaware I'd just escaped death for a second time that night, this time Hendrix-style. However, I had just managed to, err, revisit the bedroom's interior design during the night (and as a former library student, I'm still quietly proud of the fact that I managed to miss the bookshelves completely).

Although my friends tried taking me to the seaside for some fresh air, I couldn't actually handle being anything other than horizontal until late afternoon, Chris nursing me with tonic water, fruit salts, and blueberry soup - traditional Swedish hangover cures.

And when my dear friends decided to clean up my mess, they found that the combination of alcohol and stomach acid had eaten away at much of the bedroom wallpaper. Chris' father had to drive the 100 or so miles from his home to redecorate. And while Chris' parents must have known what had happened, I'm not sure whether they knew exactly which of the four of us was responsible. Even if they did, publicly at least, they just smiled and put it down to the high jinks of young men.

I've not drunk Southern Comfort since.

Yorkshire, March 1996
Not so much memorable for the hangover as the manner in which I got it - locked in during a snow storm with Paul and Laura waiting up for the Tyson-Bruno fight. Paul and I worked our way through a box of bottles of French lager, plus one shot short of two bottles of Bourbon - all supplied by me. Well, I had said I'd bring drinks.

I can't remember whether we actually saw the fight (I've never actually liked boxing), but we were still going at six the next morning, and after nodding off for an hour or so, I decided that what with it being Mother's Day, I'd better go home. My mum's first comment? "You reek of booze. Fresh booze." The fact I'd left her card and present at Paul and Laura's didn't help. Not that she appeared to mind, particularly. The day with her, dad, the brothers and my grandmother felt pretty gruesome, but I made it through in one piece.

Paul, on the other hand, stayed on his living room sofa all day, before eventually deciding he had the strength to stand up at about midnight. Problem was that once he'd achieved vertical status, he couldn't stop going, falling over and breaking his ankle.

This has been known ever since as "the time I hospitalised Paul."

Yorkshire, Summer 1998
Another one of the many sessions with Paul and Laura that ended far too messily. I was due to meet Thomas and his then-girlfriend Gina at a pub in Hebden Bridge, half an hour or so's bus journey from Laura's house. Everything was going fine until we got halfway, and I had this urge to be sick. I hit the bell requesting the next stop. But it didn't come quite quickly enough. Although I attempted to stem any flow by putting my hands over my mouth, unfortunately my fingers only served to act as a kind of spray attachment. This must have been particularly gruesome for the two elderly ladies sitting in front of me, presumably off to something nice, sociable and wholesome on a Sunday morning.

I managed to get off the bus at a small industrial estate, find a tap and clean myself up a little. I think I may even have had a change of clothes with me. Still, nothing could disguise the fact that I must have met Gina for the first time smelling of vomit. It was something of a strained meeting, and as it happened, our only one. I'm not saying it was anything to do with me, but Thomas and Gina didn't last long enough for me to meet her a second time.

Wales, November 2003
Possibly the best hangover ever, the day after my mum's surprise 60th birthday party (and England's rugby world cup victory). A group of very old friends - Joseph, Lizzie, Robin, Hugh - who mum just happens to love, waking from our slumbers all around the living room (we'd been left where we fell), being very silly, playing word games (fish-based quiz shows), being scared by modern television for pre-school children, and generally just laughing until our sides were fit to burst.

Of course, this list is not to be confused with the top five times I've been plastered (as if such a compilation could even exist). There are many drunken afternoons and evenings I've enjoyed - weddings, stag nights and birthdays included, as well as spontaneous sessions, very special (and sometimes somewhat hazy) memories all - which would otherwise be recorded here.

Now I'm more about restraint, quality not quantity, the quiet pint or two of something good, rather than litres and litres of whatever gets the job done quickest. Yeah, I sometimes miss those raucous days and splitting headaches. But not really enough to want them back.

Oh glorious day.

Cue manic laughter.

Look, kittens!
At work it's good form to create the odd "original" package occasionally, taking pictures fed by one of the agencies, knocking out a short script and putting it all together to provide something the rest of the Beeb doesn't have time or possibly interest to cover. It mixes up our work, helps us hit our objectives for creativity, and sometimes proves very popular with the site's users.

This piece about a pair of baby snow leopards born at Berlin Zoo is my first production in 18 months. Not exactly hard news, I know, but it's the first offering since the Great Gorilla Disappointment of 2004, which knocked my confidence and put me right off packaging material.

I'm something of a reluctant broadcaster, feeling much more at home expressing myself in type. I tend to seize up in front of a microphone. Strange for a kid who grew up on the stage, I know, but there you go. Besides which, I think there are people better and more naturally suited to this kind of work - Sam, for one.

Despite the fact I hate listening to my voice, and think there's still room for improvement, I'm quite pleased with the way it turned out. Hopefully the next thing (for next there must certainly be) will be another notch up the scale. After all, practice makes adequate.

Oh please!
Pleasepleaseplease, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease, PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEZE!

If all has gone according to plan then today Mr Danny Fantastic should have set off on his journey to India.

"Big wow," some might say, "India's so 90s." Or, "Terrific! What a place to visit. Not the best weather at this time of year, but hey, who needs the sun?."

But for those who don't know the thing that makes Dan's trip a little different is that - but for the little matter of the English channel - he's planning on cycling pretty much all the way from Barnet to Bombay (and maybe a little bit further) with just 40GB of iRiver music and a big book to keep him from losing his marbles.

Having packed in his job with the evil Murdoch Superglobomegacorp, he'll ride through Europe, Turkey, Iran, and on to India, camping where he can, relying on the kindness of strangers when necessary, and maybe giving the odd dusky local beauty a story or two to tell about her night with the strange English boy who rode through town one day.

He even has the ambition of providing local news outlets with the occasional outrageous "And finally..." along the way.

Whatever he gets up to, he's promised to document at least some of it along the way, on his specially built blog.

We're not expecting him back for about nine months, and he'll leave a big hole behind. As a founding member of Albatross his reliability, intelligence and steadying influence will be missed at the pub quiz. And it's strange to think that we won't be seeing his big smiley face, listening to another of his seemingly endless supply of fresh anecdotes, hearing him play sax, or just talking crap over beer for a long while.

I think I'm right in saying we're still building our friendship after a fairly slow, tentative start that dates back several years, but this much I know: he's a good man, a good friend, and he'll be missed.

God speed, Dan. Travel safe, and come back soon.

Things I mistakenly never thought I'd do (number something in an occasional series)

Play the voice of Diego Maradona in a professional broadcast. Honest.

Hello, by the way. Sorry about the lengthy silence. I've had a lot on my mind. Hopefully that's all out of the way, though. Good to be back.

Wot no terrorists?
According to the house style guide at work, use of the word "terrorism" and derivations thereof should be avoided in copy on the BBC News website unless attributed to a reported individual or organisation. One man's terrorist, the thinking goes, is another man's freedom fighter, especially on a site read the world over.

So yesterday's attacks on London were apparently not the acts of terrorists. Yes, more than 50 people are thought to have died. Yes, they came out of the blue. Yes, a self-proclaimed affiliate of al-Qaeda has admitted responsibility for them. But is it terrorism? Apparently not.

The anti-terror line of editorial thinking obviously has some merit. In the case of most Palestinians, for example, they are simply fighting for autonomy and equality in a land that used to be their own. The methods employed by Hamas and their like may be deplorable, but they are born of frustration and hatred of the people they see as their oppressors. Ordinary Israelis, on the other hand, are being made to pay in blood simply for occupying the land they were taught was theirs by divine right, however archaic that may seem to those who don't share their faith (as well as some who do).

And the British people were clearly against the US-led invasion of Iraq, even if Mr Tony didn't appear to give a toss what we thought.

Al-Qaeda's main aim, on the other hand, appears to be devoted to anything but increasing liberty. Yes, they want to end the West's involvement in the Arab world, but they want to replace Muslim secular states with a single Islamic leadership. Government on their terms, not those of the people.

Not exactly my definition of freedom.

And just as the Crusades weren't exactly a great idea, I don't think the slaughter of innocent Britons is how the majority of Muslims would really want to achieve an Islamic utopia, however desirable an ideal that may actually be.

As for the people who attacked London yesterday and what we call them, well if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck... it's probably got explosives strapped to its chest.

My friend Chris, in Malmö, Sweden, sent me this message after hearing I was okay.

It’s a violent world.

Today, during my lunchbreak I walked with Ulla-Karin, Signe and a Client on the main shopping street in Malmö.

We walked into a crowd of people who were looking at a murdered man on the street.

He was shot by two guys as he sat having a cup of coffee.

The Client works with marketing at The Sydsvenskan Daily News and took this picture with his mobile which is now a news picture on the web.

Violence is everywhere.

Idiots are everywhere.

I won't include the picture.

Times like this make you realise how much you miss your friends.

For anyone worried about me and the bombs, I'm okay. At work, busy, but okay.

Fuckin' yes!

Please pardon the French, as the unfortunate saying goes, but this has to have been one of the most exciting days I've ever had in the newsroom, if not my whole time in the BBC.

All morning we'd been hanging on every word to come from the International Olympic Committee meeting in Singapore, as we caught the tail end of the presentations. At first glance Seb Coe's very simple presentation looked almost apologetic next to the extravagance of Luc Besson's mini-movie for the Paris bid. I wthought we were sure to lose.

Then the painful minutiae of the voting system explained time and again for all those IOC members who hadn't quite caught it the third time over.

And the votes themselves with hearts in mouths as one by one Moscow, New York and Moscow were knocked out of the competition.

Then nothing but silence for an hour or more, as the bastards kept the results of the final ballot to themselves until they could set up the big reveal. After the break: if it's good enough for Who Wants to be a Millionaire, it's good enough for the IOC.

So when Jacques Rogge announced the games would be coming to London, it was just a magical moment.

Cries of "Yes!" and applause went up spontaneously across the office. (This has to be one of very few places of employment where the watching of television at one's workstation is actively encouraged.)

For months, battles have been raging between those excited by the prospect of London 2012, and the doom merchants and naysayers who could see only congested public transport, irritating tourists, and inevitable humiliation as incompetent Britain drops the most keenly contested Olympic ball in front of a world audience.

But I believe London 2012 will be phenomenal. Apart from the compelling sport, massive urban regeneration, radically improved infrastructure and very likely rise in house prices, the truly exciting thing is the fact that the whole world will be arriving in our city. The already cosmopolitan nature will be magnified a hundred fold as the entire globe focuses on our backyard. What could be more exhilarating than that?

In the long run, I'd very much like to be part of the Games, even just a tiny speck, hopefully from within my current organisation - host broadcasters, of course.

Seven years and counting. There's a lot to be done. And I want to see that it's done right.

But for now, just fucking yeah...

Puny creatures, tremble before your destroyer!
The unfortunate thing about trying to keep a garden in shape is the number of battles in which one gets involved.

Mum gave me a lovely little rose bush for my birthday. "It's disease resistant," she advised me. Not being that green of finger, I took this to mean it would be relatively low maintenance - regular watering and feeding during summer, maybe the odd bit of dead-heading, but otherwise something that could be left to its own devices.

Oh no.

Having been back to Wales for a long, hot weekend, I thought my garden was in need of a little attention. Most of the rose bush's flowers had died as a combined result of the sun and the fact that they'd come to the end of their natural life. So this morning's task was the removal of dessicated blooms.

Something else didn't look quite right, though. Didn't the bush used to have more leaves? Looking closer, I found the little culprit responsible - green, squirmy and enjoying a feast of foliage.

And he wasn't alone. Why dine on your own when you can throw a party? Upon thorough inspection I found dozens of the little buggers had stripped several of the branches as good as bare. Evidently I was facing the massed ranks of the caterpillar army.

So dead-heading became bug-chasing, as I scoured the rose bush for my herbivorous foes, picking them off and throwing them onto the decking for birds to find, or maybe for an appointment with the frog/toad/amphibious thing that seems to be resident in my garden (of whom more another time, hopefully). But eventually, much like sniffer dogs with drugs, a kind of caterpillar blindness develops, and the initial sharpness fades. Even so, by the end of the session about 50 had been forcibly evicted.

And still I can't be sure I got all of them, can't be sure that my rambling rose will be allowed to recover without the threat of being eaten alive. I read the Very Hungry Caterpillar enough times as a child to appreciate the scale of the appetite I'm facing. And why can't they eat something ugly and useless like weeds? Why does it have to be the pretty, delicate stuff that gets devoured?

Yet, knowing that the caterpillars are just following the course of their nature as flutterbys-in-waiting, I can't help but feel a little guilty. I didn't squish the little critters, but by separating them from food and camouflage I can't deny being guilty of conspiracy to murder. Genocide, even. Insecticide!

But what else can I do? It's them or me.

In the words of another great bug hunter, I say we take off and nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

This might appear very cheap of me, but...

My, if young William's squeeze Kate Middleton isn't a very attractive young woman.

With genes like those on show at Buck House, I could be persuaded to put the Republic on hold for a year or two.

Hang on, though. Is this actually just a monarchist ruse to quell the people?

Brothers, sisters (although mostly just the brothers), it is vital that we do not allow ourselves to be distracted from the cause.

(I strongly deny any allegation that rather than being discussion of a serious constitutional issue this post is actually just a thinly-veiled excuse for publishing a picture of a hot girl.)

A Sunday stroll
Arrive at the National Theatre on the South Bank at 1330. Despite the formidable heat in London (33c/91f) the place is thronging with people ready for Crusaid's annual Walk for Life fundraiser.

Hotties for people of all persuasions abound. DJ is playing a medley of tunes with the word walk (and derivations thereof)in the title: Bangles, Mellencamp, Aretha, Katrina and the Waves, Run DMC and Aerosmith of course, to name but a few, but no Nancy Sinatra or Johnny Cash, as far as I notice.

The appointed departure time of 1400 approaches and people make a last dash for the loo, eager to balance the intake and output of fluids correctly. Two o'clock comes and goes. Still, the collection of gay activists, charity workers, compassionate corporate teams (in t-shirts which delicately balance understanding and branding), and other concerned individual seem to be happy enough.

The compere keeps promising we'll be under way in "just five more minutes", but the DJ's run out of fresh tracks to play. Ignore Susanna Hoffs' advice. Emulating Egyptians for 10km is not viable.

Eventually, quarter of an hour late, the MC introduces the guest "stars" who are to cut the ribbon and start the walk. Sir Ian McKellen's place in history is assured and I'm suitably in awe of his presence. Dannii Minogue's presence is less inspiring, but I have a soft spot for her as Kylie's sister. AS for the others, we have a ghost of Big Brother past, Captain Jack from Doctor Who, and some bloke from Eastenders. Good job I'm here for the exercise rather than the autographs.

Finally, at 1417, we're sent on our way. But with thousands of people trying to filter out of the narrow exit from the National's square it is, as one wag observes, more like the shuffle for life.

The early going proves heavy as the crowds prevent me from setting my own pace. If there's one thing I hate, it's walking slowly. I have an optimum rate, and much below that I start losing my balance. But as we move past the tourist traps on Westminster Bridge, I get the chance to start cutting through the dawdlers.

Turning east onto Whitehall, I start getting into my stride. As we pass a protest outside Downing Street, a mother and son who'd obviously been at the front of the group are arguing about who was going to carry the child's silver scooter. There's about 9km to go. Will these people never learn?

Passing through Trafalgar Square, we turn down Northumberland Avenue towards Embankment. As we reach the north bank, a group of corporate girls enjoy a flurry of excitement.

"We're halfway there," says one, "that official lady just told me." I look at my watch. 1450. We've been walking barely half an hour. Either we're breaking records or these girls have a nasty surprise in store.

The Embankment goes by without much worthy of comment, although I notice more than a few fellow walkers taking a rest or grabbing an ice cream. Every now and again we pass the walk's stewards who greet us with varying degrees of enthusiasm, ranging from disinterest to a one-woman extravaganza of whooping, applause and encouragement for each participant who passes.

We cross the Thames for a second time, over Southwark bridge and back onto the South Bank, where the buildings are starting to provide a little more shade for the savvy to walk in. It's about this time that I notice I'm regularly trading places with a couple of girls, a veritable Little and Large. As patronising as this may sound, the big girl's pace and stamina are impressive.

Another volunteer, a lovely lady of Latin extraction, assures us we're over halfway by this point. It's good to know, but I think she's missed her cue. Wonder how the corporate girls are doing.

Then back across the Thames over Tower Bridge. This is the start of our trip back west. The heat's really beginning to tell now. I'm thirsty, in spite of the litres of water I've drunk, my legs are tired, and my eyes are stinging from all the sweat that's run into them.

But there's fresh impetus when the girls ask a volunteer how many people have already passed her. A couple of hundred, comes the reply. The girls seem surprised and a little disappointed that it's so many, but I'm quite pleased with my position - not that it's a race, of course.

My pre-race banana has worn off by this point, so it's time for number two as I approach Cannon Street and pass St Paul's. A cheery Irish fella assures us we've passed the three-quarter distance mark, another piece of good news.

And so it's one last crossing of the river, south across the Millennium Bridge. I still rue the day they decided to amend the architect's original plans and de-wobble it. The big girl gets caught among sloth-like pedestrians, and I make a little ground on my adopted rivals.

But then we all fall victim to the tourist traffic that surrounds Tate Modern and the Oxo tower, and hit much worse when we get to the charming wharf near Coin Street. Which just happens to be having its annual festival.

Can't really blame them, but with less than a kilometre to go, extra crowds and stalls to avoid are the last thing this walker needs. However successful this Walk for Life may have been as a fundraiser, the practicalities of the route seem to have been given surprisingly little thought.

Still, with the National looming, the finish line is in sight. Despite having lost ground to the girls around the festival, the celebratory balloon arch is a welcome reward.

My time? Two hours, 10 minutes. Not too shabby, especially considering the conditions and the cattle-run nature of the start. And confirmation that I've come home "well within the first 200" is cause for extra celebration.

But my journey's not quite over. It's off to Battersea Park (my first visit, and a pleasant surprise to find it beats Hyde Park - reminds me of Vancouver's Stanley Park, but with less ocean and mountain) to meet Thomsk, Josh, Jane and Thea, and finally relax.

As a result of the schlepping, I've managed to raise more than £400 for Crusaid to put towards various HIV and Aids causes, thanks in no small part to many of you.

I've been warned not to make a habit of it. Possibly good advice, but never say never again.

As Naomi said...
I don't get out of bed for less than 10k.



















Full report to follow.

Good night last night watching Danny Fantastic's new jazz combo play their debut gig. First time I've actually heard him play his sax - and he's good. Particularly pleasing that he failed to keep it together during the closing reggae version of a Mingus classic (at least I think it was - but my jazz knowledge is poor).

Unfortunately with Dan's impending cycle path cycle to India (yes, two wheels all the way), it seems like it's the only set they'll ever play. Stories will be told in hushed voices of the Rhythm Centre sax man who wowed the lucky two dozen brave enough to venture to a little basement bar in Stoke Newington, and then disappeared, never to be heard blowing his horn in public again. (Until he comes back, of course). And we finished the night eating in a Turkish cafe in a borderline dodgy area at one in the morning, discussing Scientology. Only in London. Or Istanbul, of course.

Also, why do people say "I could care less" when what they actually mean is that they couldn't? Presumably the saying had its original meaning (i.e. that it would be possible for them to care less than they actually did, that they actually cared quite a lot), but some lazy people thought it sounded cool, and the fact that they ended up talking nonsense was an acceptable price to pay. Don't cite evolution of the language. It's not going to wash. These people should be stopped.

And if this post seems a little lacklustre, it's because I'm not writing what's on my mind. But that's maybe just as well because, as Jane once remarked, throwing up on a public street may provide instant relief for the one doing the chundering, but in the long run things rarely work out for anyone.