Sunday, 14 June 2020

The past has passed


    We, as a nation, have now gone officially crazy? Never mind locked-down, it appears there are a number of people out there who should be locked-up? When was it that wanton violence and damage to public property stopped being a criminal offence? But instead of doing what our fore-fathers would have done and given these protesters a clip round the ear or a kick up the backside, we pander to their ridicule of trying to erase our past! What nonsense. You can't change the past. That's like trying to un-eat your breakfast! No matter how many times you throw-up, you ate it, plain and simple! You can't even change the present! Only thing we can change is our future, and we do that by learning, planning, and then rolling up our sleeves to make a better life for ourselves.
    So, you thought after last month's sermon, my fire had gone out? Think again. I can just about cope with biased media, corrupt politicians, eco-mentalists, even vegans, but this surely is the last straw - a tale of the tail wagging the dog - when we allow ill-educated numpties to go around defacing and removing statues of those who built and shaped the land we live in, a land of free enterprise. Not only that, but to gather together in thousands, when we are all told to stay home and save lives. People who think they are above the very law they hide behind? My greatest concern is where will this all end? How soon will they pull down the churches citing that religion was built on power and corruption, not to mention invading and colonising half the world? Will they burn down farms, where fat-cat land-owners once profited from cheap labour under poor conditions? My grandfather had a team of Italian prisoners of war, digging drains and picking fruit to feed a nation, and I highly doubt they got paid anything other than board & lodgings. Am I embarrassed by that? No, not at all! It was legal, during a time of war, and thus acceptable. It wouldn’t be now, I agree, but then, it doesn’t happen now, so what's all the complaining about? What's done, is done, so, for dad's sake, move on!
   
    Right. Deep breath.

   Meanwhile, back in France our lockdown has eased somewhat and we ventured out earlier this week in the camper. No, it wasn’t on a jolly, just to collect some building materials from a depot in a town called Montauban, 150 kilometres away, as we couldn’t source them locally. We stayed overnight by a canal and were there to witness a very nice local restaurant re-opening, which was subsequently crammed with revellers, although we did maintain our discipline and distance. I now have the unenviable task of tiling an entire terrace next week, subject to my knees holding out. Couple that with last week's building work, roof repairs, staircase upgrade and painting, we will shortly be in need of a holiday. All this is ongoing, as this year, for the first time since we have been here at Chauffour, we have some paying guests taking over the house in August. While they are here, we will take-off in said camper and hole up somewhere different and relax in surroundings new for a month, as we have enjoyed doing the past couple of years. Admittedly, we may need to pop back at weekends, to clean the house before the next 14 guests arrive, but we are hoping to canvass some local help on that front. It may be that we get to UK and even to Scotland and view the new extension on our house, dependent on whether this retched Covid has calmed down a bit. Let's just hope that the recent selfish gatherings haven’t re-opened those wounds. 

   On the subject of our house in Scotland, what was a full calendar of holiday bookings over the summer is dwindling fast as many of our guests are from overseas and the cancellations are ramping up. As I write, and quite rightly so in my opinion, anyone visiting the UK from overseas will need to remain in quarantine for 14 days, making a week's holiday rather impossible. If only that law had been implemented in February, but hindsight is purely a thing of the past. We hope we may refill some of the voids with holidaymakers from within UK shores, so if you fancy a few days in a sleepy village on Fife's east coast, give me a call! Take your golf clubs. You may even get to see a local statue of the fictional Robinson Crusoe who allegedly hailed from those parts, before he headed off to collect some slaves, and then got shipwrecked near Trinidad among a tribe of cannibals. If it's still there...

    In fact, if you do get to stay in our house, send photos please, we would love to see it ourselves!
https://www.airbnb.co.uk/rooms/33090871 


Friday, 15 May 2020

Hiding in plain sight


Well this is rather tedious, isn’t it? Three months locked down; predicted to go on for a lot longer; masks, gloves and paranoia; impending financial meltdown; governments that can do no right; world recession - it's hard to see an upside really? That is, unless you sit with the window open and listen to the birdsong for a while?
It used to be only in the dawn hours that the privileged few could really do this, but now we all get to appreciate nature all-day long, as the roads and crowds are still. Moreover, thankfully, we get the time to do this too, as we are not out being stressed at work, or spending hours getting there, or scrummaging around in shops buying things we don’t need to top up our material kingdoms. Or going to the supermarket everyday, as we are not organised enough to write a full weekly shopping list like our mothers and grannies used to. We eat and drink at home, for a fraction of the price it costs to queue for Costa-lot-latte or a seven-quid glass of Chardonnay in the local Beefeater beer-garden. Surely we eat better food too? Boil the spuds instead of greasing them up; maybe throw in some greens, or make a curry from things in the fridge instead of paying fifteen quid each for a Bhuna and enduring all that awful eastern music and carpeted walls? Who needs a new car, when we don’t use it? We don’t spend a couple of grand on holidays, because, even through the darkest days, we can't really convince ourselves that we are tired, worn-out or deserved of two weeks of lavishness at the seaside - even if we could. Instead, we go for walks everyday rather than twice per year, to places on our own doorstep we hardly knew existed, and we do it willingly, and enjoy it. And, unlike the monthly membership at the gym, it's free. It always was. Including the weekly quizzes and catch-ups on Zoom with friends and relatives.
And it was always there. All of it. Hiding in plain sight.
I am no guru. In fact, my constant flippant remarks in this column generally have very little substance, I am the first to admit that. But this month, I really do believe something rather good may have unexpectedly come out of this disaster. Even when it's over, millions of people will still experience the pleasures of a ‘work-from-home’ environment. Thousands of offices will close as the realisation sinks in that we don’t actually have to be all in the same room for meetings, or bickering around the coffee machine. Children, older ones anyway, will continue to be able to school online, as well as learning valuable life-lessons of self-discipline. Without this overly-closeted environment, maybe we will all stay healthier. Let alone passing on Corona virus, even the common-cold should be contained.
Town centres will see an evolution of unprecedented proportions, as high-street shopping spirals past us into history, as it was always destined to do since the invention of the internet. So will high-street banks. We won't even need the cash-machines any more. In fact, it won't be so long before we are explaining to the next generation what a fiver looked like, and how a fifty pence piece had corners on it! And, with all this comes a massive financial saving, surely? Hell, if we don’t spend so much, and don’t need to go out to impress everyone else, perhaps we could work less hours, or even part-time? And if we all worked less hours, theoretically, there would be more jobs? Am I sounding like a politician now? I hope not.
And here’s another thing, while I am at my lectern of eternal optimism: what about all that global warming malarkey? Hasn’t it been a pleasure not to have Chris Packham spouting his drivel on every headline, telling us that our cows are killing the planet? Or that irritating school-child in her yellow plastic mac accusing us of stealing everything? And all those sanctimonious Vegans? Don’t get me wrong - I am not saying climate-change and its problems will suddenly go away, but it certainly feels like its slowed down a little, if only because it can't get a word in edgeways, while Laura Kronenberg and her BBC cronies spend their time character-assassinating the government at every opportunity. But without cars, planes and business travel, I believe those in the know are suggesting the difference to the environment is starting to show in just a few short months. Surely we can benefit from that knowledge? Incidentally, Mr Monnibot, there are still just as many flatulent cows in the world! And, while we are on that subject, as well as clapping our hands for all the doctors and nurses out there doing their job, let’s hear a should-out for our farmers out there doing theirs? No, we don’t need to stand and clap for them too on Thursday night - just buy your food locally, that’s the reward they deserve.
OK. Before you say ‘who wrote this, and what have you done with the Fraz we know and laugh at?’, I just want to remind any of you insomniacs out there, there’s only three sleeps left until Christmas!
As my local baker says : Stay Sane - Save Loaves!


Pomp to you too


   Firstly I have to sincerely apologise for my column last month. Tucked away on top of the Pyrenees mountains, I grossly underestimated this deluge we were about to endure, which by the time the R&DN went to print two weeks later had escalated beyond all belief. We arrived back to France on Friday 13th March and I have been out of the gate only once since then, on my old tractor to mow the grass verges in the village.  Wendy gets our weekly shopping and drops some in for a few of our older and more vulnerable friends, en-route. As yet, this part of the world has seen only one case of C19, but still we obey the rules and bunker down.
   Like everyone else, I have glanced at the TV News from behind the sofa, seen the cases and death-toll rising with both dismay and sadness. I am sure this subject will be discussed in more detail than I am prepared to offer, and for once will keep my offensive comments to myself about those without enough intelligence to stay home, lock the door and keep this wretched thing in confinement.
    Meanwhile, back on the ranch, our daily exercise consists of 'best of five' competitions of table-tennis, non-stop gardening and beating a path to the fridge, much the same as it has done for the last 14 years. We have also taken to amusing ourselves with 'bored-games' such as Rummikub, Backgammon and Scrabble, the latter being played online 'With Friends', something that irritates me when folks take ages to play their move! How can it take her 24 hours to come up with POMPADOUR, and what the heck does it mean anyway?
   Out in the fields, one of the best crops of lambs we have had in a while continue to grow themselves into freezer condition although, as I write, we are in desperate need of rain. Early potatoes in 'Le potager' won't be long now, as the last of the frosts disappear, and I have re-opened my old potting-shed this year, growing dozens of seeds, as young plants are not available from my usual supplier. I have to admit it is quite therapeutic, although my first attempt did fail due to my planting from out-of-date packets - a lesson learnt. It may be a few more months before we see tomatoes, but I am sure they will be well worth the wait.
    With the aid of modern technology, we keep in touch with friends and families through video calls, all of whom, I am glad to report, are safe and well. However, a few weeks ago my niece was having a 'house-party' and dialled me around midnight. Rudely awaking from my sleep and assuming something was wrong, I flicked on the light and hit the green button, only to hear the gasps on the other end as my naked body was displayed on the screens of some twenty or so other guests! Hopefully a few weeks of alcohol-therapy will help them get over the shock! 
   Stop press...as of today, we are in extended lockdown here in France, until May 11th, by which time I suspect it will start getting a bit tedious, and I will more than likely need a haircut.  Due to my previous life as a cattle-hairdresser, this is something I am quite happy to contend with and using my electric cattle shears in the mirror has been commonplace for me over the last few decades. However, not so with my wife who is a regular client of one of Edinburgh's more exclusive salons and takes a lot more pride in her appearance that this author. Inevitably the day is getting closer when she will have to relent to my skilful coiffing efforts. But little does she know I always secretly fancied Sinead O'Connor?
   Ha! POMPADOUR is just an eight letter word?


Wednesday, 19 February 2020

Storm Eddy


Clara and Dennis? Sounds like the landlord and lady at the Rovers Return! But boy, did they do some damage between them, storming their way through UK. Not that we were there to witness any of it, having got out just in time a few weeks ago. And just in time it was, as our camper coughed its way from Scotland to France at 50mph and we arrived about 10 minutes after our first pair of lambs were born. Call it irresponsible if you like, but it was a failure of mechanics that caused it. No, not the machine itself, but they who were supposedly repairing it, who were about as reliable as our builders had been. Anyway, we are here now, and my local mechanic in France is coming soon to scratch his head over the problem. Having just had the turbo replaced, he'll probably say we need a new shu-shu valve, or engine, or whole camper! If only I had listened when Tony Butcher used to spanner our farm diesel engines when I was a teenager, instead of racing round the farm tracks in the family Land-rover!  He'd have it fixed in a jiffy!
Back to the subject of flooding, I do have a theory and that is that Chris Packham is to blame! Yes, he of the do-good, save-every-animal, BBC-warbling persuasion. You see, farmers who have lived and worked the land near rivers and low ground will tell you that ditches and main water-courses not only need dredging, but the banks need keeping clear so the water can flow freely. Every tree that hangs into the moving water will slow it down with eddy currents. See, I did listen in physics at school. So basically, we need to clear the river banks so Dennis's rain-water can shift itself quicker towards the sea. Except we can't do that because, as we all know, rivers harbour a whole eco-system of wildlife, including voles, mice, rats, and those lovely looking otters which would steal fish from your table faster than my greedy cat.  And, obviously, wildlife is far more important than human endeavour, especially if you live in a city and watch Countryfile every week, where the only flood you endure is the tears of politicians.  Good people of Tenbury, if you are in the midst of building an Ark, never mind saving the animals two-by-two, save the people first, except Packham and Kate Humble, obviously. 
Yesterday morning, a black cat crossed the road just missing my wheels, and then I found a four-leaf-clover in the sheep field. And last night a beautiful rainbow poked its glorious colours into our other field. Today, with fingers crossed, I am hoping to get lucky, because we have a plasterer starting work on our never-ending extension in Fife. Anyone who has employed a plasterer will concur, those guys are harder to find than plumbers, who, as it happens, are also at work in the same building. Our massive window is now in place, and sealed against the next stupidly named storm to arrive, although it was quite a Herculean effort to get it there, using enough man-power to build a pyramid. The inner wall has been removed and, although the house is un-inhabitable at present, the pictures look magnificent. To you un-believing locals Fifers, I quote James Baldwin:  'Those who say it can't be done are usually interrupted by others doing it!'
As I write, today is the nineteenth anniversary of the first outbreak of Foot-and Mouth earlier this century. There are many who will recall the sights and smells of dead animals around the country at that time, and many more who would rather not. As a sheep breeder, I had some pretty first-hand experience of the disease both in Cumbria and nearer home when it hit in the middle of lambing. For days, the stench of carcasses burning at Heightington drifted through Rock village and into our sheep shed. Through a contact I got a daily slot on ITV's 'Good Morning Britain', speaking on a web-cam from the farm about the management of the problem. The patronising presenter was so desperate to see my tears when all our animals were lined up to be shot, she was practically peeing herself.   Thankfully our pedigree flocks did survive the disease itself, but then we were imposed with a curfew for nearly a year which negated us from moving or selling stock, something which added a massive expense to us and many more. In discussion with a substantial network of friends around the country back then, I pointed the finger of mishandling of the situation, that let it spiral hopelessly out of control, directly at the government. In the end, 6 million - yes SIX MILLION! - animals were slaughtered, most of which could have been prevented, and the cost to the country was estimated at eight billion pounds! I promised my father than one day I would reveal the truth, as I saw it, about that time. I am quite pleased to announce that my short book, entitled THE HOLE,  a reference to the massive hole in Cumbria that was dug to bury the dead, goes on sale this week on Amazon. It may get me into hot water, but it certainly will tingle a few nerves.
Back to calmer times, I am pleased to state that we have had eleven lambs this year from our six ewes and that, miraculously, in her seventh lambing Daisy Death-wish has had twins for the first time. With the daffs in full bloom and squadrons of cranes flying overhead, I think spring has arrived a little too early this year in France. Would it be provocative of me to predict that storm Emmanuel may arrive in mid-summer to compensate?

Tuesday, 14 January 2020

The emperor has no clothes


   Old Mr Frazier had a farm, eieio. And on that farm he had some cows. And he ate lots of them and lived very healthily until he was 88 years old - and the weather was the weather. The end!
   So please will the media, both social and anti, stop telling me to become a vegan. Your arguments are inherently flawed, as is your complexion. Despite the propaganda being driven by massive corporate business, who have a lot of money to gain by it, meat is good for you and the planet, especially if it is UK produced. If you must eat imported avocados, lettuce (in winter) and almond milk, take a good look at where it comes from and how it gets to you. I mean properly research it, don’t just ask your sycophantic smug vegan friends. Seek out some real science, not the one-sided BS you see on TV.
   Oo, that feels better. To the rest of you, welcome officially to a new decade, possibly one where I become even more grumpy than the last one. At present we are still in Fife, enduring Storm Brendan battering our windows and keeping our occasional builders away. I have to say it is quite satisfying to see some of our pile of 150 year old bricks now built around our wooden framed extension but we are still a long way off the mark, with the roof leaking faster than Julian Assange  and the pressure mounting. Shortly we will be away back to Chauffour in time for lambing, hoping to take in a 6 Nations rugby game in Paris en-route, in our old camper. Just a few weeks ago we took 'Libby' on a winter trip up to the frozen North, spending a weekend in the cute village of Braemar. Sadly though, for the first time in the 3+ years we have had her, the engine decided to splutter while we were climbing the long road up towards Glenshee ski-slopes. As we dropped to a walking pace, the coughing got louder and for a minute of two, it looked like we were to spend a night in one of the highest points in Scotland, in mid Jan, in a tin-can with no heating - not an ideal situation. Thankfully we managed to get over the summit and freewheel the next 15 miles or so to our destination. The machine is now in dry-dock awaiting news of her intestinal trauma. Hopefully it is all repairable else it might scupper our travel plans somewhat.
   Whilst on our visit, after a quick distillery sortie, we popped into the splendid Fife Arms hotel - the irony that we actually live in Fife, some 120 miles away, not lost on the breeze. What used to be just a local hotel for tourists, skiers and the odd deer-stalker has now been bought by a pair of art dealers from Switzerland, who have spent 4 years and a lot of millions turning it into not only a luxury place of rest, but an art gallery to boot.  In fact they have done it so well it just won hotel of the year 2019 - quite a coup for a tiny backwater in the Highlands. As you enter its vast ornate vestibule you are faced with an original, if not ghastly, Picasso overlooking a Steinway piano painted in bizarre colours and imported from LA, having previously been played by some jolly famous musicians. In the courtyard a giant spider spans the entire area which was sculptured by Louis Bourgeois, who evidently did a massive amount of drugs, since a plaque explains it was created an ode to his mother! Try as I might to love abstract art, why is it I always see the emperor as just a naked man having a laugh!
   Anyway, the subject of skiing has now thrown its gauntlet on to the table and, after a 3 year absence, I quite fancy going this year. Obviously, since we used too many plastic straws, the climate is no longer cold enough for snow in Scotland, so subsequently we have booked a trip for early March to the Pyrenees. This now gives me precisely two months to lose about four stone so I can fit into my ski-suit. Couple this with trying to persuade my thighs and knees that they soon have some official duty to perform, and my daily and somewhat lazy routine has just been turbocharged into breathlessness. As a precautionary measure I did drop into the docs to check that I was fit for purpose which met with a few sighs but, finding nothing more wrong with me that a half-pickled liver, he gave me the green light for another year.  If you don’t hear from me next month, send plaster - or perhaps flowers!
   Whilst on a grumpy note, I have to raise a questionable eye on a profession that I consider even more despicable than plumbers: yes, you got it, estate agents. We currently have a few properties on the market and, over the last few years, have had dealings with dozens of these people, each and every one who have been about as useful as a one legged man on a five legged horse.  Yes I am sure there are a few reading this column that may raise an eyebrow at this but I can only speak as I find, and what I find doesn’t seem to work. Today I have met with yet another one full of promises and science, far better than those before him, apparently. Whoopie-do, should I hold my breath that this year might be the year of the house-sale so we can all prosper once more? Let's see, shall we.   

Thursday, 9 January 2020

The future of our industry is already out of our hands


    A few weeks ago, a chance meeting with an auld adversary of mine opened my eyes to something that has left me sleepless ever since - a subject that I cannot now un-hear. I have sat on it for a few weeks, but would now like to share a situation that is as scary as it is unavoidable.
   I didn't see the programme on C4 last night but I gather it was more propaganda from the plant based corner. Now many folks, farmers particularly, might see these eco-activists as bunch of lefty crackpots shouting out for their faddish cause. What most folks don’t see is the future of the food industry being rapidly shifted in to the hands of power, and away from the small supplier, but not quite in the way we currently believe.
   I am reliably informed that Fake Meat is the new techno holy grail in California's Silicone Valley and the giants are piling millions upon millions into R&D in hopes their company will become the next Google, Amazon etc within the food industry. A risk so worth taking that Bill Gates has chucked in £250m and, of course, Google themselves are forefront investors. To quote my source, the whole industry is awash with cash to fund its research.  
   Now we are all aware Fake meat exists, but it's not the chemically produced plant based shit such as pups-in-blankets and tofu sausage rolls that should concern us. I am talking about real meat, grown from stem cells in factories, looking, tasting and, in fact, totally resembling the real thing in every way. At present, the cost of a 'replica' sirloin or tuna steak is 100 times that of the real product but.... and here's the thing....it doesn’t eat grass where trees could grow, give off methane, get killed or endure factory living conditions, or become unsustainable (vegan's ethical arguments, not mine). And it sure is better for the climate, huh?
   As with all R&D, it is about getting the product right before going to mass production, in the same way the silicone chip did or, say, the car. The clock is now ticking nicely for the big guns, as to who gets it right first, builds a big f-off factory and starts growing our food on a massive commercial scale at a price far, far less than us farmers, can compete with. The process requires no labour, feed, not even water, just electricity.  So why build the 'farms' in the west when they can be stuck out in the desert run on solar power? Or Africa where land cost next to nothing? And most of all, corporate business has complete control.
   Of course, before they start mass production, the product will need to have a market, which is where we go back to the ethics of brain-washing ill-informed intelligent people into believing meat is bad for us, and the planet. Starting to make sense now?
    Will our gripes with a TV show reverse this process when it is driven from the top? I am afraid not.
   Inevitably, at some stage the 'modern' vegans will need to be persuaded over to eating 'fake-real' meat instead of their current fake-chemical diet but, with the power of the media, I am sure that is just a matter of hitting a political switch when the time is right. The media will be fed news of how unhealthy vegans are becoming, dying on our streets from a dozen side-effects of malnutrition. Vegans in it for the bragging rights, such as our teen generation, will soon switch allegiance to meat which is ethical, healthier and cheaper than their current chemical intake.
     Unfortunately, by the time this reality hits us like an oncoming train, within a decade at most,  we will be completely powerless to defend our industry and proper grass-fed beef and lamb may become a commodity that only the wealthy can afford.
    Now can you see why my sleep has been disturbed?
   I would apologise for proffering such gloom in an already dark January, but burying our heads and/or making enemies of the consumer won't really do us much good either.
    I wish I had a counter solution, but this is where my information runs out.

Sunday, 29 December 2019

Rats


   Happy Hogmanay one and all. It is hard to believe but, as of this month, this column will have spanned three decades, for which I would apologise for my controversial and often insulting words. But I won't!
    We are currently still in Scotland, a place of political turmoil, inherent divide and continual argument - but enough about our household! Actually we are all quite harmonious just now, as neither of us have work to do: my wife by choice, myself by default, as a cock-up in communications has brought the building of our extension to an alarming halt, the knock-on effects of which may unbalance our life well into early summer. But, in the words of Joan Baez, we shall overcome!
    By the end of this month we should be back in France, in time for lambing, albeit our diminished flock of just 6 ewes. That is, of course, if they will let us in after Boris has 'done the deed' in accordance with his promises - one can live in hope. But the upshot of the above is that it looks as though we - well I at least - will return here again to crack the metaphorical whip (the use of a real whip being made unlawful in Fife just a few years ago!) in March. Couple this with Brexit, independence referendums and impeachments of world leaders, it all points towards yet another unsettled year ahead for us.
    As a new year comes in, I took a quick look to find that it is, according to China, the year of the Rat. This would of course give me plenty of material for a political rant, but I will avoid that tediousness for now, as I am sure there will be many more months when I can use it. However, I also came across a 'Sheep' horoscope which, as a lifelong shepherd, intrigued me. It appears to be only relevant to those who were born in the year of the Sheep, which sadly I wasn’t. Thankfully some of my sheep were though, in 2016, so this really only applies to them. According to my sources, they will 'get hot and passionate this year, and may even get married!' I'd better start saving for the occasion then. But no! They will also apparently earn enough money to settle all their expenses: which hopefully includes the mortgage being paid off? Unfortunately, the next year of the sheep - the Fire sheep, to be precise - is not until 2028, so it maybe a while before we get any more lucky ones. Doubtful that Daisy Death-wish will be around to contribute to it either. In fact, I am pretty sure she was born in the year of the Runt!
    I mentioned in this piece some time ago about the 'Internet of things' and how smart objects have become part of everyday life for some. Well, this year we have joined the 'some' as I have wired the place with smart speakers and light switches. It all started when I had to replace our TV after some reasonably innocuous holiday-makers stayed for a weekend in the house, got helplessly drunk and kicked the place up. As well as holes in the walls and smashed furniture and pictures, our 50 inch TV got demolished in their brawling.  Along with its replacement came a free voice-activated gadget that can facilitate just about anything I ask it. As a new decade begins it is comforting to think I now have the aid of something so technically advanced in my armoury, that is, until I take a moment to scrutinize its usefulness. Is it really a saving to get someone else to switch on the radio, lights or telly? Or is it just called being lazy? Let's face it, I can't say 'Hey Google, take the dog for a walk, or dig the garden'. Well I could, but it won't.  In the same way that greed can hide behind religion, I am not really convinced that the involvement of these gadgets in our lives can really conceal our increasing tendency towards inactivity.
    Based on the above, it's time for a jolly good festive walk on the beach for me today, a route which thankfully passes a couple of good local pubs. Unfortunately, or otherwise, the location of said hostelries negates any mobile or internet signal, so I can get a pint of incommunicado in peace. Don't call me, I'll call you - next year!