On Saturday 27 December, 2008, Israeli jet planes dropped bombs on 50 targets across Gaza killing over 200 with the ongoing Operation Cast Lead. Coverage of wrecked buildings and bloody bodies was splashed across front pages, and by the Sunday protesters were parked outside the Israeli Embassy in High Street Kensington.

As someone whose knowledge of Middle Eastern politics could be described, kindly, as sketchy, I scrabbled for information, trying to understand why a bomb had been dropped in a non-war situation. Call me a simple-minded hippy, but surely you should avoid killing people en masse?

The hundreds gathered outside the Israeli Embassy last Monday were similarly anti-murder but I got a blast  of good old English apathy as a passing shopper snickered ‘one man and his dog’ at the relatively small turnout. Yet the police who were present in force having made ten public order arrests the previous day were taking events more seriously.

The official Israeli line for a campaign that had caused nearly 300 deaths on the day in question is that they are protecting their citizens from Hamas rockets. Two Israeli citizens died before Saturday’s air strikes so I asked Dan Mayer of the Socialist Workers Party whether – as George Bush claims – the responsibility for this conflict lies with Hamas. He said: ‘That’s like saying that Hitler did what he did because a few Nazis were being murdered. In any situation there is an aggressor and an aggressee and Israel is the aggressor. Get rid of the causes of injustice.’

His last comment was a reference to the Israeli blockade of Gaza which has seen Palestinians in the Strip deprived of food, fuel and electricity for the past 18 months making them largely dependant on aid agencies for survival.

For those of you in the dark about the background against which the bombs fall, here is a simple summary of a complex conflict: Historically the land currently named Israel was the state of Palestine. In 1948 a UN committee divided Palestine up to create a Jewish state alongside an Arab one. However this was not a peaceful co-existence. There have been wars and Palestinians have been gradually forced to leave, all but the Gaza Strip and the West Bank. This loss of territory has caused many Palestinians to relocate to surrounding Arab countries and makes the remainder largely dependent on the Israeli government and aid agencies for quality of life.

Mark Lipczynski, a woolly hat-wearing soul braving the cold, recalled going over to Gaza in 2006 to help with the olive harvest: ‘The Palestinians had to get permission from the Israeli government to pick their own olives,’ he said.

Oussama Mezous, 21, a fresh-faced observer from the Islamic Human Rights Commission said; ‘I think there is a problem with the media narrative of Israel, one of the most powerful countries.’

Hanging back coolly from the crowd surging at the gates of the Embassy I found Tony Benn, political stalwart and Godfrey King, a retired businessman. Mr King, himself a Jew, said: ‘The more demonstrations we have like this and like the 2,000 Jews in Tel Aviv burning the Israeli flag the more the world will pay attention.’

When asked if he was optimistic about the future he hesitated before saying: ‘I will be optimistic if Barack Obama comes to the aid of the Palestinians.’

It looks like the most exciting man in the world has another crisis to handle when he takes office on January 20.

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Trafalgar Square has seen a lot of political action over the years, and on the day that Israel announced that ground troops would be sent into Gaza ‘Free Palestine’ was the cry that rang out through the crisp January air.

25,000 protesters turned up on Saturday to show solidarity with the Palestinian people who remain trapped in Gaza whilst the death toll rises to 460 – many of them women and children.

For some Londoners, sympathy for Palestinians dates beyond the blockade that began 18 months ago to the unbalanced wars which have occurred since the creation and partition of Israel in 1948. Others have been prompted by the scale of civilian death in Operation Cast Lead to take to the streets for the first time.

The march began in Embankment, went past Downing Street - where scornful shoes were thrown at number 10 - and ended in Trafalgar Square where the likes of Ken Livingstone, ex-Mayor of London, addressed the masses. He said: ‘Let’s send a message to the Israeli government: if you think you can get away with the indiscriminate slaughter of men, women and children you are wrong.’

He compared the plight of Palestinians to that of black South Africans under apartheid: ‘If it was any other struggle the world would be standing up to denounce it. Gordon Brown denounced apartheid year by year. So many world leaders are frightened to stand up to Israel.’

A leader of a Muslim group called for an end to trade with Israel saying: ‘It is not enough for the government to sympathise. We need action.’

The sound of many hands clapping followed every speaker and the famous Trafalgar Square lions were near invisible amidst the sea of people holding placards with slogans such as ‘Stop the Holocaust in Gaza.’ Some protesters turned up with blood-soaked dolls – a visceral reminder of the bloody scenes that are playing out in the Middle East.

Jewish comedian Alexei Sayle was amongst cultural figures, including Annie Lennox and Brian Eno, to have their turn at the microphone. He said: ‘Israel pupports to speak in our name and claims that criticism is anti-Semitic but criticism of Israel is criticism of Israel. I want to be proud one day of that country but now I am ashamed. If only Israel would turn away from violence what a wonderful day that would be. It does not act in my name. It will act in my name when it brings peace to the country.’

Sayle was not the only Jew to stand apart from the Israeli government. Rabbi Hochhauser and Rabbi Alter from Stamford Hill had walked for three hours to be there as they cannot use a vehicle on the Sabbath. As a cold day turned into a freezing dusk and the previously seething square turned into a graveyard for placards and a few stray police, the Rabbis remained, waiting for sun to set and clutching home-made banners reading ‘Zionism and Judaism are diametrically opposite’ and ’Zionism is State-organised terrorism’.

Protests outside the Israeli Embassy in High Street Kensington will stand for as long as Operation Cast Lead continues.

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As the child of an ex-Communist trade unionist I am letting the side down. I’ve never poured paint on a visiting ambassador and have yet to negotiate better pay for oppressed workers, but there is one characteristic that proves our family has not been the victim of a changeling-esque ruse.

I see red at the merest hint of injustice or exploitation. I dig my heels in, splutter and rant to whoever can be trusted not to do the wacko head tapping. The most recent cause of DSR (dig, splutter, rant…come on now, keep up) was the seating arrangement in action within the Holloway Road Odeon.

The premise is that you can pay £9.85 for premier seats and for your purchasing power get the pick of the best seats in the house. Poor fools that stick with the £7.85 standard are forced to park themselves in the pleb zone – either eye-wateringly close or right at the back behind the man with top hat (disclaimer: the man with the top hat may not exist).

The source of my ire is threefold:

1). Cinema prices are steep enough. A gimmick that hikes them up still further is an insult to the poor metrophiles who deserve to be able to enjoy a bit of entertainment without staring woefully at their wallets after the final credits roll and its back to reality.

2). NOBODY TOLD US. When there are two purchasing choices with two outcomes it is fundamental that you explain this to the affected parties. My friend and I bought our tickets and ignorantly shlepped off to our screen. The first we knew about the premier/standard affront was when a lady guard stepped out of the gloom and pointed to the two unenviable spots.

3). Enough with the segregation already. It’s bad enough to have to hold onto a pole during long train journeys whilst on the other side of the glass business execs recline in plush chairs, but introducing first and second class citizenry in the democratic cinema environment? When will the remorseless profiteering cease?

I do not hold the employees of the Odeon cinema responsible; in fact my heart went out to the amicable manager who, at the end of the film, was giving out free tickets, absorbing the criticism of disgruntled viewers like a punch-drunk boxer approaching KO. He is not to blame and in fact he too is a victim of corporations who debase people by making them dependent for their livelihood on the peddling of overvalued products.

Any modern consumer gripes to get off your chest? It feels good, I promise.

Image by Atomicjeep courtesy of Flickr

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Living in London you sometimes feel like a kid in a sweetshop: big-eyed and spoiled for choice. Especially when it comes to the theatre.

But often, when you actually get to hear about any decent live shows, it’s apparently so bloody obvious to just about everyone else that the only option is to bend over for some nerdy e-tout - in a virtual, financial sense, of course (personally, I’d at least like a sketchy geezer with a roll of twenties).

Fear not, I am here to help. Here are a few stonewall review predictions for the new production of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, which ends its national tour at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket in April, starring, almost solely, of course, two of the finest Royal Shakespeare Company stalwarts, Patrick Stewart and Ian McKellen: ‘A veritable tour de force!…awe inspiring!…unmissable!…theatre’s greatest joygasm!’ You get the idea.

So what?

Well, time upon time, the latest octogenarian RSC production is lauded as the answer to world poverty, and I get all excited (great reviews, star cast, loved-one’s birthday coming up, sounds ideal). And so begins the tortuous process, starting with 87 bastardised websites that all profess to be the official outlet (the show it turns out doesn’t actually have a website of its own but conducts business through a franchise operation based in Swansea with an answerphone message already so bombarded with calls about the production in question that they have recorded a special patronising message to inform you it’s all sold out); fake impetigo and go to the box office on Monday; only open on show days; idiot on Gumtree lives in Oldham. And so on.

The last time I went through this process was with King Lear. Bizarrely, I went through the whole rigmarole for the Stratford (on Avon) production and ended up like an animal in a trap, gnawing at itself in frustration, before I found it was coming to London and got in early.

I regret to say that, come show time, I had built the damn thing up so much that the feeding of the 5,000 would have been an anticlimax and I was unmoved; perhaps it was the woman next to me texting in her handbag that spoiled it for me. What can you do?

Well, just this: book now. Tickets are plentiful, they have a real office, there are seats in the theatre, you can go and talk to someone about it, or actually just do it on the internet, it exists. Forget Ivanov, don’t even try for Russell Brand, just plan ahead, go and wallow in its baffled conflict. But don’t you dare, whatever you do, sell your ticket on the internet.

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We’re all used to complicated parking regulations in London, with the evil, vulture-like councils seizing every opportunity to issue us with fines (a topic I believe has already been extensively ranted about on the site).

As such I very thoroughly scoured a Wandsworth parking area for restrictions recently when I was out with my mates Chris and Rob. Then, having assured ourselves that there were none, we parked and confidently headed into the pub.

An hour later we emerged.

‘Um…where’s your car?’

It’s not what you really need when you’re hungover on a Saturday, having just limped out of The Ship after a restorative lunch, still feeling delicate and looking forward to curling up on the sofa with a cup of tea.

‘God…it definitely was here that we parked, wasn’t it?’

Oh, it really was. But that didn’t stop the three of us from staring bewilderingly at the now empty space where Chris’s BMW had sat.

‘It’s happened at last,’ Chris declared gloomily. ‘Someone’s nicked it. It had to happen at some point, but did it have to be now?’

We stared some more, and I looked around. ‘It can’t have been stolen. It’s broad daylight, and it was in front of a really popular pub with three cameras pointed at it.’

Chris shrugged. ‘It’s old. It would be pretty easy.’

‘Could it have been towed?’ Rob suggested.

‘There are no “Don’t park here, or we’ll tow your car” signs,’ I pointed out.

‘But there are no parking signs at all,’ Rob added.

We all trooped back into the pub, and Chris asked the bar staff if cars that parked around the pub ever got towed. They admitted that tickets got freely handed out in the area. Finally one of the managers came out with a very sorrowful look on his face. Yes, he’d seen the car being towed. No, it didn’t happen very often. But he’d had his own car towed before, and he very kindly gave us the number to call, listed on his phone under ‘Car Pound Cunts’.

Chris spent the next half hour on the phone, walking behind us back to our flat. Occasionally we heard his incredulous tones floating towards us: ‘Yeah, it was a drop kerb, but it was just for pedestrians, it wasn’t a drive or anything…there was no obstruction…’

It turned out that it was a private company who had picked his car up, and despite the fact that there were no parking restrictions and we’d only been in the pub an hour, they were not only allowed to slap a ticket on the car, wait five minutes then tow it, but they were endorsed by the council. What the fuck?

So how do you get your car back in this situation? Well, you rock up to the compound with £260 – that’s £200 for the release of the car and £60 for the ticket - and you must provide your driving license, proof of address and (most importantly) your registration document. If your reg doc is at home in deepest Essex (as it was in Chris’s case), then too bad. Oh, and you must manage this within 48 hours, unless you want to start paying for storage.

Again, what the fuck? No signs, no warnings of any kind, no rules on appropriate timing. Nothing. And the government fully backs these thieving arseholes?

Just to add a little extra fun, the tow truckers actually damaged Chris’s car in the process - but of course that was his own fault for leaving it there in the first place. Obviously.

I’m still furious over this outrageous affair, but just in case you find yourself in a similar predicament, you have 28 days to appeal. I strongly suggest you do.

Image by Abulic Monkey courtesy of Flickr

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What gets me is the people who move to London and live an existence you could live on a trading estate in Devon. Why move to London, rent a mouldy room and suffer relentless damp if you aren’t going to embrace its social(ising) superiority? 

In many ways London is the person you go on one date with, make a tenuous excuse to leave, shudder on the tube and regale (slightly exaggeratedly) negatively to your friends. So if you can’t look beneath the smoggy, grumpy, concentration camp ’shower’ overcrowding, and capitalise on the capital’s vibrancy and agony of social choice, then go and diarise your social life in accordance with the Radio Times elsewhere; otherwise you are a habituating masochist. 

My sister had a small cramped doll’s house whose residents included Malibu Barbie, Actor Barbie, Job Seeker’s Barbie and Glam Media Bitch Barbie. Regardless of the fact I’ve changed their titles no way would that many women cohabitate successfully in such a small place. So, in London, where space is harder to come by than pro-gay-adoption rednecks, your abode must play second fiddle (or even the instrument that comes after that -third fiddle?) in the scale of your priorities. 

Barbies one through four may have resided in comfort if that doll’s house had been located in London rather than my sister’s native West Midlands, as there would have been a banging social scene to cater for all the women’s individual tastes. This plethora of enjoyment canapes may have stopped them all from ripping each other’s little plastic heads off and shitting down their plastic little necks. 

Having cohabitated with everyone from Dirty Harry to Shit Stains Linda, and most recently Robert who insisted on keeping (nobody’s ever seen them so nobody knows how many) fish, who’s personal decorater used thick algi paint for the walls and a thick shit carpet for the floor, i’m no stranger to an expensive London cereal box that comes with free retarded housemate toys; collect all six and then blow your fucking head off.
 
A dear friend of mine who perpendicularises more effectively than the Ross/Brand team offends, now has the nesting pleasure of three sour-faced women in their twenties who look at you as if you’ve beheaded a box of kittens and pissed on the remains, just because you leave a cup on the side.  If they look at me with the disdain usually reserved for sex offenders again I’m going to leave several cups with their boyfriends dicks in. 

Long story dwarf, London is a cultural party animal whose engine runs on fun.  So bores, stop putting diesel in the petrol engine and go choose a city, or coffin, that has better synergy with your lacklustre character.

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If you were to let folk singer Ralph McTell take your hand and lead you through his Streets of London you would expect to see a few fruity fashion statements around town. But those old, daft, ironic fashion movements faded when the UV shellsuits and high-tops appeared in High Street chains (a sure sign they’re not cool) and now even the ubiquitous, checked lumberjack shirts are looking a little passé. So what’s next?

No one tries to conceal that fashion is often brazenly arbitrary and runs on a lazy 20-year spin cycle, regurgitating whichever item or style has been gone just long enough to warrant plundering (regardless of any enduring sense of taste). But there are times when it responds to shifts in public consciousness and listens to the prevailing mood.

Now is just such a time. In response to our current sense of uncertainty, chaos, over-indulgence and subsequent frugality, fashion has literally run to the hills for safety. Where? Well, just look at what is being let loose on the catwalks. Have you ever seen a more conservative, reactionary and, frankly, scared set of ‘trends’? Head shawls? Tartan? Plaid? Has the world gone mad?
 
The obvious answer to this question is ‘no’, but to qualify that answer it is necessary to remember that fashion is not only cynical and vacuous but can also be, when forced to, cunning (in a lazy sort of way).

So when Dolce & Gabbana finally dropped the tired old shtick of leather, ripped jeans, oiled Italian bodies and cheap sex this year in favour of the kind of garb commonly worn by the Queen, the surprise should not be that they have finally had to get up off their backsides and do something a bit different, but that people actually swallow it, praise it.

It’s not even as if their offerings are modern or innovative - the colours are muted and traditional, with demure greys, blues, browns and greens: traditional materials, traditional palette, nothing new here. However, the current climate has changed the status of luxury and the designers simply have to follow, pardon me, suit.
 
No need to reinvent the wheel, the luxuries of our time are comfort, security and stability. This is not groundbreaking, it is simply pandering to our needs, commercialising weakness and vulnerability by shamelessly pillaging styles that already exist. It so happens that this is, ironically, being achieved through the mining of one of the few resources ideologically opposed to the vacillating shimmies of the fashion seasons, English countryside wear.
 
Although country clothing and its figurehead, the royal family, is not fashionable (it is based on years of practical evolution), it could be said to be stylish. And, while style is permanent, fashion is transient. So when the transient fairy, the fairy that is in its own way responsible for the whole house of cards coming down (and is most certainly a totem of it), scorches its wings, it sneaks back to solid ground, spying a way to keep itself flying and the wheels of consumerism turning. This is, of course, run-of-the-mill commercialism, but the obviousness and hypocrisy behind the whole farce should, perhaps, strike more people than it does.
 
Whether it looks good in either the town or the city is a question we could have decided any time in the last hundred years, given that we have seen it all before. However, the strange truth is that this fashion only works as a fashion within cities like London - if you wore these clothes in the country you would simply be wearing country clothes and nobody would bat an eyelid.

Conversely, those brave trendsetters who start wearing this clobber too soon may be mistaken for toffs from Henley on the way to visit a rich aunt in Grosvenor (for this reason, I also suspect that it will be impossible for people much over the age of 30 to pull it off). It will be interesting to see how much the image captures the public imagination, keep an eye out around London in the next few months. I suspect it may do rather well.
 
Regardless of their success, what is certain is that these collections are just another passing fashion-fart and will not debase the solid currency of country wear. However, the whole thing is so cheap and leeching that it is hard to understand how anyone can see it as creative or novel when, in fact, the jaded underlying instinct is evidence to the contrary. Show me something to make me change my mind.

Images courtesy of Catwalking.com

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A childhood spent flitting from palace to stately home, followed by a few years at Eton and a stint in the army; the Royal boys don’t exactly get out much, and when they do, they go to Mahiki. Why? Because it’s exactly the kind of place someone with very little understanding of what’s actually new, interesting or exciting in this city would go.

Having a Prince inebriated in your club is great PR though, and that folks, must be the key to this club’s success – as I found out at the ‘restaurant launch’ this week. Turns out that ‘restaurant launch’ means something different to what you’d expect in Mahiki-land. It means a couple of trays of dim sum (in its crudest form - resembling one of those Chinese snack platters from Tesco) some shoddy cocktails (who wants tequila sunrise in the middle of autumn?) and a gaggle of inane aspiring-socialites. 

Us mere press were herded into the corner on the middle floor, after waiting for the best part of an hour to get a table. Eventually we gave up on the waiting and squeezed onto a table with some equally disgruntled ladies from various women’s glossies.  

‘Have we missed the food?’ we mourned as we glimpsed the empty plate which was no doubt once home to some prawn toast. ‘Yes, you’ve missed all the food,’ came the sardonic reply. Food, like cocktail designation had been haphazard and sporadic, from an increasingly flustered but generally well-meaning staff who seemed to be in a flap for no good reason other than their perceived proximity to some non-existant celebrities.  

Or there may have been slebs, I couldn’t really see because it was so dark and dingy in there.  It reminded me of the kind of clubs I occasionally ended up in during Uni, when, as a gullible, misguided first year, fake tropical theme seemed as appealing as anything else. And that, it seems, is the whole point of this place. Apparently it’s tongue-in-cheek – but I’d hazard a guess that for a lot of the regulars it reminds them of their gap years – drunken, clichéd and the worst kind of exotic.    

That said, I can imagine on a night out with a big group of friends, Mahiki might be a good laugh, if you could be bothered to book in advance to secure a table, and manage to avoid much interaction with the other clientele who seem to be entirely made up of size-nothings-in-bum-skimming-dresses-hoping-to-cop-off-with-money, Trustafarians and slick-haired hedge funders.  

Sam Ronson DJ’d later in the evening, though the lethal combination of no food, lots of vodka and having a job meant that I headed off before her set. Shame, because Sam seems like a good enough gal (let’s face it – she’s done well, and is certainly punching above with Lilo) but I’d rather read all about it in a free paper on the tube. And that’s why people go to Mahiki.

Image by Night Star Romanus courtesy of Flickr

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Travelling on the London Underground can be a character building experience, to say the least. At times you can feel like a farm animal in a claustophobic pen, being pushed and elbowed into a corner, face pressed against pane, or worse still: into the pungent armpit of some stinking commuter. That’s not to mention the signal failures, suspect packages and extorionate fares that go with it.

So to get it off my chest I thought I’d share with you my top 11 reasons for loathing the London Underground:

1. The people who stand on the left-hand side of the escalator despite the fact they can clearly see that everyone below them is standing to the right. Does that not seem odd to them?

2. The same person looking highly offended/shocked when someone says ‘excuse me’, and then the subsequent overly dramatic look up and down the escalator to establish that, yes, they are the only idiot standing on the wrong side of the escalator

3. The fact that Transport for London can’t make the tubes cool even when it’s freezing outside

4. The people who stand in front of the end of carriage windows when it’s stuffy and don’t bother to open the window

5. Or the person who opens the window and then stands there fully blocking all the air that’s coming in

6. People who think, despite the fact it’s rush hour, they should still be able to stand and read a newspaper while you cram yourself into a corner

7. Tourists who leave their bags on the platform and then wander off, leaving the rest of us to nervously stare at the bag willing it not to explode

8. People who stop at the top of escalators – how stupid do you have to be to not consider all the people behind you needing to also get off. Move idiots!

9. People who get trapped in the ticket gates despite there being a luggage gate right next to them. Doh!

10. Idiots that don’t move down the carriage and then look shocked and offended when you barge past them with a loud ‘tut’

11. People.

What do you hate about travelling on the tube? Use the comments box below to share. Don’t be shy!

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As a freelancer I work here, there and everywhere, and my current contract means I have to drive to work, gritting my teeth against the torture of traffic on the north, then south circular (which is a whole other rant altogether) and make the unfortunate shlep across town to Shepperton Studios: Destination Nowhere.

This journey is often a four hour round trip. The actual problem unfortunately is that on my arrival to my car the other morning I find a Penalty Charge Notice slap bang in the middle of my windscreen. Oh dear.

The situation is this: I live in the glorious Islington district (trendy Upper Street to my left, villagey Highgate to my right) but I’ve downed tools in the slightly less glamorous part of Islington: Holloway Road (prisons included), which is not only the more hostile cousin of the above inspiring areas, but is annoyingly in the parking catchment zone for the Arsenal Stadium punters. To avoid parking hell and an overrun of thunderous supporters each with their own cars (and horns for that matter) Islington Council enforces parking limitations on match days. Gulp.

So it is a Tuesday, I acclimatise from a long and relentless drive home as I reach my street; I don’t need to buy a ticket as the pay and display times stop at 18.30 on weekdays. Watch check - perfect its 19.45. I park up and check my windows and doors are locked (you can’t be too careful in this area). I am home to eat, sleep and be merry.

Wednesday morning - I scurry to my car past the creepy, staring café owner, I am only aware of the bitter cold and the joyous fact I am already five minutes ahead of schedule, but unaware of the fine awaiting me, devilishly given out by a (probably) bored Civil Enforcement Officer.

The painful part of this story is the actual punishment in pounds of my accidental parking actions. “A penalty charge of £120.00 is now payable…if the penalty charge is paid no later than the last day of the period of 14 days…the penalty charge will be reduced by 50% to £60.00.” What? How much???!!!

In my shaky defence, Arsenal’s little men normally kick that silly ball to each other on their big green field on a Wednesday, not a Tuesday, plus I hadn’t heard any whispers anywhere of a match at all and I can normally hear the roar of the crowds on a Wednesday evening. But silence. Nothing. No incoherent chants echoing down the street, no extra crowds hanging around the kebab shops making a mess, no drunken fools staggering home with joy (or defeat depending on the result).

Does it make me a small child if I feel compelled to scream out loud “IT’S NOT FAIR!!!”?

Since arriving in the office I am still fuming and am sure I can hear whimpers from the innocent cards in my wallet who are scared at the thought of shelling out that amount of money on a silly mistake, rather than treating themselves to the lovely plum mascara at Benefit they’ve had their eyes on for weeks.

My mood is not lifted when a colleague guffaws and states that “everybody knew it was the first round of the Cup last night.” Well I didn’t. And I will have to pay at least £60, if not £120 for my lack of football knowledge!

I have decided to challenge this ludicrously expensive charge. As you can see from the above I don’t exactly have a concrete argument. Damn. But I’ll give it a go, I will send my sentiments to parking.appeals@120englishpounds and hope they take pity on my inabilities to hold an interest in football matches.  

As a Holloway resident I should obviously be able to run-off the dates and times of all matches this season. I will have to do my research in the future, which really riles me; I am a Researcher by trade. Grrrrrrrr.

Irritability rating ***** stars.

Image by PSD courtesy of Flickr

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