Simon and Garfunkel - Bridge Over Troubled Water Original Version

Peace, love and, oh yeah: Rape! Lattitude Festival.

I heard about this in the pub tonight... two young girls raped at Lattitude last weekend.

Maybe the nice middle class people there were too drugged up to hear the cries. Maybe. Maybe it didn't matter because it wasn't one of them. Maybe. Maybe the girls dressed inappropriately; ie no designer labels. Maybe.

If Hendrix were alive today he'd shoot himself with Curt's gun!

Scuse me while I kiss the sky!

Overheard in a Notting Hill pub: One lady who lunches on cocaine to another - 'Yes but they were only local girls, and you know what they are like'. I did not make this up!

Agony Aunt.

I was thinking about dysfunctional families.

You know, planet Earth, dysfunctional family or what?

I wanted to write to some-one about it and looked for an agony aunt.

Agony Aunt... Excuse me but that is an oxymoron surely... Thus:

Dear Auntie

I'm in agony

I've fallen in love

with the mum of my cousin

yeah the twin of my mother

and then to cap that

so has my brother

he's fallen in love

before you get thinking

that that can't be too bad

I've just discovered

that so has my dad

he's fallen in love

Dear auntie

it's agony falling in love.

they're now always fighting

my pop and my mother

when they're doing that

I'm fighting my brother

We say we are all doing it

for the sake of our aunt

our maxim our mantra

our scientologists chant

Dear auntie

I'm in agony

And i'm no longer in love.

Pop up Cinema in Portobello Road.

I'd heard about it then sort of forgot about it with all the other stuff going on; a pop up digital microplex cinema has been set up under the westway opposite Portobello Green.

There are some interesting films lined up, sadly I will miss 'Performance' on Saturday the 24th but hope to get down there for 'Withnail and I' on the 30th.

Check it out online at: http://www.portobellopopup.com/

An open letter to Mr Kee Scott.

Fraser, I am in no way criticising your religious views or indeed your right to chose your particular brand of 'religion'. I have every right to criticise scientology though and I don't think I'm alone in wanting to do so. The concerns I have are as follows:

1. When it emerged that You had accepted money From Warren Todd and the Tabernacle event was cancelled/postponed the blame was laid on the Tabernacle. You said at the time that you would hand the money back, disassociate Mr Todd from the Portobello Rocks event and issue a statement to that effect. To date no such statement has been issued and no-one is any the wiser. I only attempted to explain to the community the full reasons for the cancellation.

2. I do not understand how you feel you have the right to appoint yourself to the role of arbitrator or mediator and then set up a forum without serious consultation with the community... As you were told at the Tabernacle meeting you could only be perceived as a 'lobbyist' for Mr Todd (having accepted his money) and therefore definitely not Neutral. It is with respect to the 'forum' that I harbour my concerns ( concerns that were already being aired by other members of the community) about the Scientology link.

3. I received unpleasant 'phone calls from supporters of the Church of Scientology which is the bullying I referred to... I was certainly not bullied by any of your associates.

I have always supported the Portobello Rocks concert and continue to do so. I wish you all well in that endeavour. However I cannot support the hijacking of the Portobello Road cause in the manner proposed by yourself. Please issue a statement regarding your position with Mr Todd as it certainly does impact on the proposed 'forum'.

It would also help, in future, if you could spell my name right.

Regards

Scientology, Portobello and um yes scientology.

When I blogged about Potobello Rocks being cancelled I mentioned scientology.

I got a lot of shit back for mentioning religion... I was pressurised into taking the scientology reference out of the blog. And you know, I bowed to the pressure. I was bullied!

That is what scientologists do; they bully!

The fact is that there was a rather dodgy element to the Portobello Rocks agenda... From my point of view the whole thing was being hijacked by dodgy geezers.

Look at this before we go any further:http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/arts/article-23397709-scientology-sect-using-british-art-as-a-front.do

Fraser Kee Scott is the man who had decided to be the self appointed spokesperson for Portobello Road, backed by, and here is the funny bit, NOT WarrenTodd, but by Scientology!

Scientology is not about religion, scientology is about bullying... Crass bullying at that.

If god existed I can assure you he would not be a scientologist. And if god existed he would not want scientologists holding a forum on the future of Portobello Road.

If god existed he would be buying a couple of silver spoons on the Portobello and then going for a beer in the Gold, meeting us and then talking about how we are going to sort this shit out!

Warren Todd would be sitting at his feet.

Jimmy Page, Jimmy Page and Mary Cigarettes.

Picture this.

In the Westbourne with the professor of Irish Rock n Roll, admiring his sunglasses, discussing his book, shooting the breeze, catching up.

Led Zeppelin playing in the speakers.... Cool.

Who the fuck turns up but Jimmy Page. True story, he says did they put this on for me? No it was just one of life's happy coincidences.

So OK. I got to say hello to god and I didn't have to die to do it.

The professor had his eyepod with him so played 'Jimmy Page' by Mary Cigarettes while Jimmy drank his coffee.

Jimmy then cleared up an old bit of confusion regarding 'The Them' and his involvement in a long disputed argument... The professor has the rights to that story.

I started today (absolutely true but I didn't know why) thinking that days like this happen so very rarely ... I then go and meet the most important man in my life musically... scuse me while I kiss the sky.

And now I'm cranking up Kashmir and cracking open a beer... Eat my fucking shorts John Bon Jovi.

I'll leave the last word to Mary Cigarettes on this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5_AnTMmhuE

Why was Portobello Rocks at the Tabernacle cancelled.

Why was the 'Portobello Rocks' gig at the Tabernacle cancelled?

It was cancelled firstly because at the last minute, after a number of concerns were raised by a number of parties, it was disclosed that 'Portobello Rocks' was being part funded by Warren Todd!

This is the letter sent out to various people in the neighbourhood, I was given it by a pissed off market trader friend:

Dear Sir/Madam
I am writing to you, in what are hard and challenging times, to try and help find a realistic solution to maintain the unique charm of Portobello Road.
I understand that the last thing people want on Portobello is commercialisation – what’s best is if it can stay like it is in so many ways. But there are problems with keeping it the same and I want to confront them with you.
I have sponsored Portobello Rocks – an arts event at The Tabernacle designed to start a dialogue about what we are all facing on our road.
Portobello Rocks is hosting a forum for traders, councillors and residents at The Tabernacle on Wednesday 28th July at 2pm. At this forum we will confront all of the problems we face in keeping Portobello unique and charming, so that we can find a solution that actually works. I would like to invite you to attend that forum and give your view.
Please email [illegible] or call 07954 051 458 to reserve your space at the forum on the 28th July at the Tabernacle, 34-35 Powis Square, W11 2AY. Refreshments will be served and your opinion will be sincerely listened to.
Yours sincerely,
Warren Todd
Portobello Group

Secondly the 'Rocks' boys seemed to think that they had a remit to organise some kind of forum at the Tabernacle whether the community or Tabernacle liked it or not!

For those not in the know Warren Todd is the property developer behind the All Saints intrusion as well as owner of a number of other 'prime' sites on the road. For the 'Rocks' boys to get into bed with Warren was the final straw... Portobello Rocks had become advocates of the very person they claimed they were fighting.

The management at the Tabernacle had no choice but to cancel the gig... Acts were already beginning to jump ship before it foundered on... Portobello rocks.

The Tabernacle has had a reputation in the past for being difficult (it is a difficult collection of balls to juggle) but in this instance the management acted in the only way they could in order to maintain some integrity. The Tabernacle after all has to sleep easily with the whole community, not just Warren Todd.

For Portobello Rocks to say on their Web site: 'Who needs the Tabernacle' beggars the question; Who needs a Warren Todd funded 'save portobello' event anywhere.

It would have been right for the 'Rocks' boys to put their hands up and say: 'We got it so completely wrong. Not the Tab's fault... Sorry!'

Having said that the Event is going ahead at the Drawing room in Portobello Road on Saturday night and I shall be there to support them... Let's hope they leave the politics at home.

And no! I do not work for the Tabernacle... The Tabernacle works for me!

Ray Roughler - Jones. Drowning on dry land.

I bought a copy of this with my own money - cash - I put the crispy tenner into Rays hand and told him that it allowed me to write an unbiased review.

'Warts and all.' He said... He even wrote that on the title page.

I have always been drawn to the 'Picaresque' over the picturesque; and Ray does picaresque well!

An unadorned tale of a scallywags journey through life (or lets hope, part way through life) from his Swansea roots via trouble, boozers, alternative journalism, pantomime, girls and scrapes to Notting Hill today.

As a local resident this book was essential reading, not a great work of literature (nor ever pretending to be) but a damn sight better written than a lot of so called literature. Ray is a natural storyteller and his voice resonates throughout.

I wasn't here in the Eighties... Ray has filled in a lot of the gaps!

Society snot.

It seems that I have annoyed a few people by mentioning Kimberly Festival Norfolk, Notting Hill and Cocaine in the same blog.

Listen up! Cocaine is a fact of life in elitist Notting Hill (across the fault line north of where I am it may be crack or heroin). It is omnipresent at dinner parties, in clubs, restaurants, bars and pubs.

That statement is purely an observation. As I have written before I am not anti drugs (I smoke, I drink, I have tried every narcotic yet invented (with the exception of Heroin)). Nor do I have anything against the people who use drugs. I'm just bored to death with the arrogant, boorish, inane bullshit that issues from their mouths once a line or two has gone up their noses.

Also I am not just singling out Kimberley... It just happens that Kimberley is the festival of choice for the snottier elements of society and society snot is 75% pure Columbian!

There are very good arguments for legalising cocaine (the revenue generated alone could be put to good use ( but now is not the time to discuss it...)) After all it is the drug that gets the 'chattering classes' chattering!

I will leave the last word to Murray Lachlan Young...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-EZJUS72CWQ

Kimberley festival Norfolk, drugs and the Notting Hill promise.

It must be Kimberley weekend coming up: there isn't a drug dealer to be seen in Notting Hill and the Hillbillies are all dressing alike to be different.  It is of course the lead up to the time of the year when 30 and 40 somethings die in their sleep due to excess drug use but their wives/mistresses/family put down to work or depression or not being understood!

It is however the perfect occasion to shag someone  while their partner is off his/her face on horse pills and MDMA in a tent.

Shhhhhhh... Don't tell anyone. It's secret!



The jeweller to the stars.

They are waiting in the cafes
the restaurants and bars
or parked on unlit corners
in expensive cars
they are waiting for the snowman, the blow man, the let's go man
they are waiting, waiting, waiting
for the jeweller to the stars.

He is the closest thing to royalty
their business is all his
with his bags of herbert sherbert
(the silly rich mans whizz)
he makes them feel quite special
and just a
little
bit
show biz
they are guaranteed to talk the talk
walk the walk as well
he is the pied piper
the piper at the gates of hell.

White christmas is his ringtone
on his prepay mobile phone
his sole visible means of support
the long suffering wife at home
he is the king of the powder rooms
his shit it smells of roses
to the vacuous trustafarians
born
with
silver spoons up their noses.

He is known to each and every one
the jeweller to the stars
he hasn't got a friend on earth
and there ain't no life on mars.

Schmick.TV, Dreadzone - Gangster and the hood.

Directed by Christian Banfield and shot in West London.

Does stuff like this really get through to the kids? I have a nagging feeling that it does not; Kids have a way of filtering out what they don't want to see or hear and find their own sub-subliminal messages in order to justify their behaviour.

Oh. And the minute you start growing up and having second thoughts it is too late... You have become the enemy of Youth.

But it is good to see the views of the hood!

http://www.schmick.tv/

Postcard from Tecoman. Mexico

Posted by the delightful Viviana from Mexico. The beach is bio-luminescent; what am I doing in London?

Andy McKee - Guitar - Drifting - www.candyrat.com

Nontourage.

The nontourage are constantly reliable in their unfailing absence from events.

Neon

Killing pigeons in a strange land.

They say that the past is a different country; people do strange things there.

Back in the sixties my brothers and myself took a friend on a pigeon killing expedition; we lived on a fruit farm, pigeons were vermin. we were boys with knives and sharp sticks. Maybe I had just read 'Lord of the flies'. The memory has remained fixed in my head since then; I cringe even now.

I think we were probably showing off a little; our ability to take the lives of defenceless critters without remorse, A macho boy thing.

I had forgotten who our companion was on that day.

Until now.

This morning, during an on line 'chat' with a guy I haven't set eyes on since that summer, he reminded me of the incident... It remained in his head all these years too!

Sorry Hugo... As I said: Strange country the past.

Sam Fox, Rabies and parties.

At the Tabernacle all day today... Party type thing. If anyone turns up.

On the way here I saw the headline in the Sun: Samantha Fox is being treated for Rabies.

How did she contract the disease?

Bit herself shaving perhaps.

found objects

I found this in Westbourne Park Road today. I was on my way to a cabaret type thing.

I'm intrigued by the Afghanistan ribbon on it.

Rusty's old man.

Rusty called in for a coffee and brie sandwich today.

He said it was (or would have been) his pop's birthday.

He said that every year when asked what he wanted for his birthday his pop would reply: 'Peace of mind'.

He's got peace of mind now Rusty. I said.

On Haiku.

It is sad that it has come to this

that I must count syllables

when I would have counted

the ways that I loved you

the ways that I loved you

before you demanded a haiku

you said life was too short

for anything more than three lines.

Write a poem you said

write it in our autumn mists

I'm leaving you now.

Cheating death with black balls.

Many many years ago, not long after the squabble with Jackson Pollock (blog passim) and as a result of that squabble I entered into one of my periodic bouts of depression.

I was living in the apartment of my old friend Ingmar Bergman at the time and annoyed the man greatly by painting everything black including the balls on his pool table. The pool table was in his bedroom which I thought a curious thing. Ingmar told me he suffered from insomnia and pool helped him get through even the darkest nights.

Ingmar would have thrown me out for painting his balls black but for the raging fever that swept through my body that winter; for weeks I lay in that Swedes bed storm tossed in a sea of swelter navigating that fine meridial line between this world and the next.

One night, when I was in a momentary state of lucidity, a figure entered the room; Tall, gaunt, bony fingered, wearing a dark hooded cloak thing and carrying a scythe.

'who are you'? I enquired.

'You know perfectly well who I am and why I am here'. He replied.

Indeed I did know that it was Death himself arrived to carry me off. But I was in no mood to cross the Hudson let alone the Styx. I told the man (oh the arrogance of man to cast death in his own likeness)

that I was not prepared to go without a fight.

He suggested we play a game of chess to decide my fate.

I informed him that there was not a chess set in the house... 'But what about a game of pool'.

Death agreed to the game of pool but was taken aback by the sight of 15 black balls resting on the green baize.

We played that hellish game of pool for a month, day and night, without respite. The scores remained resolutely on 0 -0 as each of our 'breaks' resulted in a foul as we pocketed black ball after black ball.

On the 15th of December Death gave up. He threw down his cue in exasperation, picked up his scythe and swept out of the room hissing: 'You cheated me this time Jan Nieupjur but next time I will be ready for you'.

I then fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, awaking some days later to find my fever departed and the depression lifted.

A few days later I told this story to Ingmar over a game of chess - I had lied to Death, there was a chess set in the house - Ingmar (smiling for once) took notes in a little red book. I did not see him again, he departed for Sweden and a new film project.

Next time Death comes calling I shall challenge him to a game of 'happy families'.

For younger viewers.

Imagine. Imagine like crazy and then imagine some more. Imagine all the exciting things you'd like to do and then imagine them happening in your town or village. Then imagine them happening to you which is much more likely now that they are happening near by. In fact it would be hard to avoid them happening to you... You'd have to stay indoors, under the kitchen table (stroking the cat, if you have got one handy) with the table-cloth pulled down low making a tent to keep you hidden from your stories!
Then when the stories start happening write them down in a book (any colour book will do) with a noisy pen. As a beginner you will find it helpful to stick your tongue out the side of your mouth a little way. this also convinces your mum and dad that you are deep in creative thought and not available to give advice on the complicated things that they don't understand but you do!
When you have finished writing your story read it aloud to see how it feels. You might want to read it very quietly at first until it gets used to the outside. then you can read it louder and to real people.
Try not to laugh too much at the funny bits.
It helps to dress up when reading your story; this is called being in character. Every-body dresses up in this way, even city bankers when they want to tell bank stories (these stories are rarely funny which is why bankers don't laugh much, except on their way to the bank). Soldiers dress up a lot, so do nurses and traffic wardens. Burlesque dancers are the exception to the rule; they undress to tell their stories.
At the end of your story put a very loud full stop.

Dougie Wallace

Some great images here:http://www.dougiewallace.com/default.asp?theIF=/content.asp%3FWebsiteID%3D15718&PageID=9063&FFS=1&pageName=HOME

Pomposity and Pompeii.

I started work on a short story this morning. I decided that the central character should be a plane spotter.

In order to get inside my plane spotters head I decided to go out to Heathrow to spot a few planes of my own.

I refuse to use the underground system in London ( it is Hot, smelly, overcrowded and prone to failure) and therefore walked to Paddington in order to catch the Heathrow express.

Sitting in my carriage opposite me were a young couple; a conservative MP I recognised from the tabloids and chat shows (I have no idea as to his political thinking) and his wife. As we passed through the graffiti strewn Royal Oak and Westbourne Park the MP made unpleasant noises about the vandalism of the artists responsible; I think he said 'string em all up'!

I pointed out that it was just a means of expression for a dissatisfied youth and wouldn't it be better to remove the cause of that dissatisfaction rather than the expression of it.

He said nothing.

A little later I asked where they were flying to.

Italy. He replied.

Ah, Chiantishire. I said.

No! He replied pompously. The bay of Naples and Pompeii actually!

Such wonderful grafitti. I observed.

His wife smiled beautifully.

Drums, paracetamol and the Tamil Tigers.

There is a primary school next to my house.

Over the years I have grown to tolerate the shrieks and yells of playtime and learned to avoid the shop next door between 3.30 and 4.00 pm.

however.

They (the pupils) have a drum band. They have a drum band that plays at Carnival. They have a drum band that practices on Tuesday mornings in preparation for Carnival. They have a drum band that practices loudly with the windows open in preparation for carnival.

I am not a fan of juvenile drumming.

The shopkeeper likes drums. He likes the fact that I spend a fortune on paracetamol.

He is a Sri Lankan, I know the profits go towards the Tamil Tigers' fight in Sri Lanka. The Tamil Tigers will be pleased to know that a little school in London is drumming up funds for them.

Serendipity.

A boat farm?

In the Languedoc region of France there is a village called Saint-Jean-Lasseille. The village does not appear to have a square or a fountain or anywhere to play boules. This I find strange enough to pick up my old copy of 'Clochemerle' to check that I got the description of a French village right.

On the North East edge of the village is a field filled with boats.

there is no lake, sea or river nearby, how did those boats get there and why?

I counted 30 of differing sizes.

Any ideas?

They were children.

Party type thing at the Tabernacle.

July 4th

tristan will be hosting a party at the Tabernacle W11 on Sunday the 4th of July. there is the usual BBQ thing going on in the courtyard in the afternoon followed by stuff happening in the bar from 7.oo onwards. Tristan will be telling tales and music will abound. Bring a guitar if you want and plug it in!

email me for more info: jannieupjur@gmail.com

The bag lady's mint.

A curious evening; cooked something for myself for the first time since January the 24th... What have I been living on?

while the cooking was doing it's doing I went up on the roof; unattended really since last summer, all that is there is a solitary bamboo and a self sown tomato plant in the compost box. Oh, and Moll the bag lady's mint is still hanging on. I took up the four remaining strawberry plants from the kitchen window sill and watered every thing liberally.

It is good to see the Trellick Tower to the north west. Why does it always feel such a privilege to live within view of an iconic structure?

I really must make an effort to sort the roof out it would be a good place to go and eat in the evening.

Even without the bag lady!

Cup-cakes...

What is this obsession with cup-cakes?

At a launch party last night I was offered savoury cup-cakes; red pepper and pesto.

Cup cakes are sweet for heavens sake.

This planet is doomed.

Tristan, rock n roll and mid life crises.

Tristan's performance at the Island last night was the weirdest thing I've seen for a long time.

He did 'Poetry is the new rock n roll' with a guitarist and bassist laying down a 'groove'; a highly dangerous experiment if you ask me. To make things more difficult for himself they did not rehearse the thing, what we got was the first run through ever.

To me it appeared to be the poet's equivalent of the mid life crisis Harley Davidson.

Isn't it good...

the carpenters tale.

(With apologies to Lennon and McCartney)

She sat opposite me and said:

You are seeing someone else

you don't love me any-more

you are never here

you are always distant now.

I sat opposite her and said:

Sometimes a piece of wood sings to me

I found a piece of singing wood six weeks ago

it sang of your beauty and grace

it sang of my love for you

it sang of our happiness.

Since then I have spent every waking hour

working with that wood

making you a table

I built into it your beauty, your grace

I built into it my love for you

I built into it our happiness.

That is why I have not been here

that is why I have appeared distant.

I then brought the table to her... There!

She said:

You do not love me any-more

You are seeing someone else.

That table is in the fucking Ikea catalogue... Sixty quid.

She left me then.

I lit a fire

Isn't it good. Norwegian wood.

Good grief a goal... Live from the Tabernacle

The Slovenian secret weapon

England have scored in the world cup. Whatever next?

Depression.

Depression.

In the news right now due to some stupid remarks made by the ghastly Janet Street Porter in the equally ghastly Daily Mail.

Depression: Described as a modern illness, described as a trendy illness, some times described as not an illness at all.

Depression is real, it is both an illness piggy-backing on the sickness that is present day life (Sloppy analogy here: Modern society is a very unhygienic and badly run hospital, depression is a virulent secondary infection that haunts the wards and operating theatres) and its own symptom.

The sun is shining, things are seemingly going well, I have much to do yet I am stopped in my tracks by an invisible barrier.

Time for drastic action: Depression is a bully; fight back.

Tristan is performing a few new things at the Island, London W10 on Wednesday night... It is an open mic thing, no one will know him there, and he is petrified.

Thereafter he is doing various smaller shows prior to Port Eliot. All leading up to the Event in September.

Depression may seem an immoveable object but there are ways around it...

I hope.

The farmer's wife.

She keeps bantams

has no faith in god

no faith in art

no faith in science

put all her faith in one man

all her eggs in his basket

The tired ploughman.

I've been ploughing this furrow for too long. Each time I look up from my toil the end of the field is still not in sight save an oak tree on the horizon; when I set out that tree was a mere sapling.

The seagulls that dog my wake have given up on fat worms ever being exposed and now eye my soft parts greedily. they swoop in ever closer.

Time to release the old horse from her traces (smack her on the rump and watch her trot back to her pasture) leave the plough mid furrow mid field (already rusting it will soon enough blend in visually and then soon enough decompose and vanish).

If I walk quickly I will make it to that tree under which sits a little old lady who has many stories to tell me.

I have forgotten what I was going to sow in this field any-way.

Hot chestnuts maybe.

Sunset.

Sebastian Horsley is dead.RIP.

What is going on in Soho?

Too many people are dying.

There has been a fantastic amount of interest in Sebastian since he died; some of it negative but the majority positive... I did not know him well; I met him once or twice in Soho, but I do know that he was for all the criticism, an original! He will be missed.

Portobello Rocks online.

The Portobello Rocks website is now up... Check it out:

http://www.portobellorocks.com/

Don't go breaking my heart Kiki Dee.

You know what. I kissed Kiki Dee tonight.

she said; Where have you been all my life?

Ask Tilly. She heard it.

Kiki Dee. Her hair was the colour of hair dye.

I don't think she really wanted to know where I had been for the previous ten minutes let alone all her life.

That's show business.

I wanted to say to Tilly: I know where I want you to be for the rest of my life!

But I didn't.

Ode to a departed tooth.

Tristan has been having dental problems... Ouch!

My teeth are out in sympathy.

He sent me the following which I suspect may refer to something other than a molar:

Your absence has left a void

which I have filled with pain

The exquisite agony

taunts me with your parting

Although I realise that when the pain goes

I shall remember you for what you really were

It hurts too much to miss you right now.

Girls I have teased.

Duck noodles.

How do they get the duck sauce into the pot noodles?

Hands and feet.

Last years notes.

When I am gone

first drain the blood and set aside

Burn me

Mix ashes and blood with cement

Cast bricks.

with which to build a folly.

Build it in the meadow where we were happy.

According to last years notes.

I can die now.

I've seen this

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU1LB4StySo

The Island experiment, Sandy Lamb and the World Cup.

To the Tabernacle last night for the'Island Experiment'; an evening of live music, which, considering it clashed with some football event or other was the place to be. A very upbeat happy occasion.

http://www.theislandexperiment.com/The_Island_Experiment/Home.htm

l

Among the acts was Sandy Lamb.

She is great!