A very dear friend from university was married a couple of weeks ago in central London, mere stops up the Piccadilly Line from the Bumwad pied a terre, in Halkin Street at the Caledonian Club (aka the Scottish embassy). It promised to be a truly joyous occasion, and one of the few weddings I have looked forward to without reservation.
One of those reasons was purely selfish. As an adoptive Londoner, weddings in the city are always most agreeable because one is not made captive to the unscrupulous and rapacious demands of the provincial hotelier, traditionally the most chiselling breed of scoundrel, notorious for his determination to rob blind at every opportunity the starry-eyed and naïve visitor from the capital, unmanned as he is by the smell, bustle and endless noise of the countryside, and reluctant to give offence to his occasionally less self-effacing cousins.
And apparently some people think bankers are greedy
One of those reasons was purely selfish. As an adoptive Londoner, weddings in the city are always most agreeable because one is not made captive to the unscrupulous and rapacious demands of the provincial hotelier, traditionally the most chiselling breed of scoundrel, notorious for his determination to rob blind at every opportunity the starry-eyed and naïve visitor from the capital, unmanned as he is by the smell, bustle and endless noise of the countryside, and reluctant to give offence to his occasionally less self-effacing cousins.
And apparently some people think bankers are greedy
Thanks to the hosing down with cheap money - from the credit fire hydrant tended by the Brown-Balls axis of evil - given to rural Britain and its cohort of agri-businessmen, intensive farmers, former Stasi hobby B&B owners, gypsies, travelling tinkers and milkmen, no longer can a couple of metropolitan swells like yours truly and his trusty retainer The Snookmeister enter a rural inn at 11 a.m, drink fourteen pints of ye host’s finest foaming nut-brown ale, eat enough packets of Big D peanuts to work out that the comely maiden on the cardboard backing is – what a swizz! - wearing a bikini, spin a dozen magic tunes on the juke box (latest addition – Now 17), accidentally say 'cock' in front of a minor, hog the pool table for two hours, purchase protection from the local tough guys with cider and tinned salmon, be sent home reeling at two a.m. and still have change from a tenner. Oh no.
The author and his trusty companion The Snookmeister
in the good old days
Now even the meanest village boozer routinely charges prices for second-rate and chewy bitter, at best optimistically but almost certainly fraudulently described as 'best', farted inexpertly from a gas-assisted pump by an educationally subnormal and semi-literate adolescent with an aggressive STD, that would appear exorbitant in the most achingly bleeding-edge pop-up bar in Clerkenwell.
The author and his trusty companion The Snookmeister
in the good old days
Now even the meanest village boozer routinely charges prices for second-rate and chewy bitter, at best optimistically but almost certainly fraudulently described as 'best', farted inexpertly from a gas-assisted pump by an educationally subnormal and semi-literate adolescent with an aggressive STD, that would appear exorbitant in the most achingly bleeding-edge pop-up bar in Clerkenwell.
As for food, the less said about the belief, apparently widespread beyond TfL Zones 1-2, that slow-roasted pork belly - prepared ideally to the directions of notorious fat-tongued Mockney fascist twat Jamie Oliver - represents the snow-capped summit of culinary achievement the better.
And, if by any cruel ordering of your fate you should be forced by environmental disaster into engaging a 'suite' of poorly-proportioned and lamentably decorated rooms, or tempted on a whim by misguided fancies of finding a hidden, 'unspoiled' good-value gem into negotiating the entirely arbitrary rules on ordering food - 'last orders was at 1, kitchen shuts at 1.30' - and by pleading impending malnutrition find yourself permitted to order a miserable spadeful of 'home'-'made' sponge-cake coated in a mud-like confection, bearing a tiresomely playful passive-aggressive nickname intended - at a time of the owners' dictating - to bully your lady friend into ‘naughtily’ having a tenth-rate pudding on which the profit margin is around 400%, chosen from a laminated menu in 'Lucida calligraphy' font, proffered by a surly central European with fat ankles and an inflated sense of her ability to apply her boss’s orders to work the femme fatale vibe, one is harassed by email for weeks thereafter to make childlike cooing noises about the ‘friendliness’ of the experience on TripAdvisor or Google.
And, if by any cruel ordering of your fate you should be forced by environmental disaster into engaging a 'suite' of poorly-proportioned and lamentably decorated rooms, or tempted on a whim by misguided fancies of finding a hidden, 'unspoiled' good-value gem into negotiating the entirely arbitrary rules on ordering food - 'last orders was at 1, kitchen shuts at 1.30' - and by pleading impending malnutrition find yourself permitted to order a miserable spadeful of 'home'-'made' sponge-cake coated in a mud-like confection, bearing a tiresomely playful passive-aggressive nickname intended - at a time of the owners' dictating - to bully your lady friend into ‘naughtily’ having a tenth-rate pudding on which the profit margin is around 400%, chosen from a laminated menu in 'Lucida calligraphy' font, proffered by a surly central European with fat ankles and an inflated sense of her ability to apply her boss’s orders to work the femme fatale vibe, one is harassed by email for weeks thereafter to make childlike cooing noises about the ‘friendliness’ of the experience on TripAdvisor or Google.
Well, mirabile dictu, not for Mr & Mrs B this unfortunate ritual. Oh no. We left Bumwad Junior (or 'BuJu' as she is known to the tabloids) in the capable hands of our fragrant and beautifully-mannered Oriental baby-sitter, knocked back a few quiet preparatory pints in the Nag’s Head and had a light and sensibly-priced lunch at Zafferano, before taking a jaunty stroll across Belgrave Square for the appointed hour. Better than paying £25 for a plate of disintegrated hog flesh and a greasy glass of fizzy faux continental lager in The Horse-rapist's Arms. And we were home to Bumwad junior by 6pm, saving £10 on baby-sitting. As the fat-tongued twot would doubtlessly slavver, semi-intelligibly, "Happy days..."
But if the London
First, there was no clear direction on dress, beyond a sort of ‘wear what you will’ pseudo-clarification in the FRAGO to the OPLAN. Secondly, it was for one of the participants a second wedding, but for the other it was their first, and, we fervently pray, only, dipping of their toes into the marital waters. Although the earlier marriage had not been annulled, no informed observer could regard that unfortunate episode as fully a marriage, even within the looser terms of the Anglican rite in which it was performed, involving as it did a level of dishonesty that would have been remarkable on the pages of Take a break, and certainly nothing to be wished upon an old and much-loved friend. None the less, to one such as me, with my doctrinaire tendencies, this would surely have to be a consideration.
Thirdly, instructions directed at the significant service contingent suggested that, if uniform were to be worn, many would turn to Service Dress rather than the more formal orders, worn rarely except on public duties. As the more technocratic, female-heavy (and heavy female) corps are rarely called upon to discharge such duties, as a rule their officers do not possess the more formal orders of dress. It should be noted of course that service dress is the correct attire for a military wedding conducted in war time - but could one trust today’s brand of junior officer, typically a product of the meritocratic society, to know that? And Service Dress is the military equivalent of lounge suits, despite appearing to the modern Briton unfamiliar and therefore somewhat more formal. But if there were to be a guard of honour and Number 1 Dress (Levee Order) were the 'squad solution', surely the proportionate civilian response should be morning dress?
This was shaping up to be an encounter with the matrimonial version of the Keynesian beauty contest, of which I spoke in an earlier post.
![[7.jpg]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikbqrbkpKL9fkGfaelYS4r6D4FPNw4Qged0AuIZx8fi1ntT7l4d5MlPRqrKUYW7sIu0YWZlZsYrQQv6TZkJE_pDwbRxyjI1vBs6qHU00GW1PCkiPXurkUvU_kItU-FSDbu2LX1W9LN0yZF/s320/7.jpg)
Pondering some last-minute amendments to the best man's speech
(wartime option)
An Intelligence Corps subaltern in barrack dress
Thirdly, instructions directed at the significant service contingent suggested that, if uniform were to be worn, many would turn to Service Dress rather than the more formal orders, worn rarely except on public duties. As the more technocratic, female-heavy (and heavy female) corps are rarely called upon to discharge such duties, as a rule their officers do not possess the more formal orders of dress. It should be noted of course that service dress is the correct attire for a military wedding conducted in war time - but could one trust today’s brand of junior officer, typically a product of the meritocratic society, to know that? And Service Dress is the military equivalent of lounge suits, despite appearing to the modern Briton unfamiliar and therefore somewhat more formal. But if there were to be a guard of honour and Number 1 Dress (Levee Order) were the 'squad solution', surely the proportionate civilian response should be morning dress?
This was shaping up to be an encounter with the matrimonial version of the Keynesian beauty contest, of which I spoke in an earlier post.
Pondering some last-minute amendments to the best man's speech
(wartime option)
An Intelligence Corps subaltern in barrack dress
Now, as the blushing bride had in an earlier incarnation worked as an interior designer, and has always been a girl who takes some notable and successful efforts with her presentation, it was obvious that she would not be wholly oblivious of her guests’ attire, despite the distractions of the day. Equally it seemed likely that, being a fairly staunch traditionalist herself, she would observe convention and be reluctant to go the full nine yards by wearing an elaborate trousseau. It was, after all, a civil service, and her outfit must surely be in some way proportionate to the dignity of the occasion.
But, at the same time, even if she had not formally written off marriage #1, it was as if it had never been – and it would be churlish to present one's self in a lounge suit and to maintain that this was the correct gear and that the rest of the guests and the wedding party themselves were wrong. As the cloth-eared priggish route is precisely that which my twenty-year old self would have taken, I have some small measure of pride in the blossoming maturity illustrated in my perception of the unsatisfactory nature of this course. The longest journey, after all, begins with - well, something or other.
But, at the same time, even if she had not formally written off marriage #1, it was as if it had never been – and it would be churlish to present one's self in a lounge suit and to maintain that this was the correct gear and that the rest of the guests and the wedding party themselves were wrong. As the cloth-eared priggish route is precisely that which my twenty-year old self would have taken, I have some small measure of pride in the blossoming maturity illustrated in my perception of the unsatisfactory nature of this course. The longest journey, after all, begins with - well, something or other.
For confirmation of this tentative sketching of a solution, little could be gleaned from my inadequate knowledge of the groom. All I knew – thought I knew – of him was that he was some kind of investment banker, and that he had once been an accountant. I had no idea how old he was – from our brief acquaintance, it seemed he could be a prematurely aged thirty-year-old, or a youthful forty-five. After all, having read American psycho, I know how carefully those bankers look after themselves.
An investment banker relaxing at home.
(Note effects of thorough skin-care routine.)
An investment banker relaxing at home.
(Note effects of thorough skin-care routine.)
Accountancy suggested a concern for details, but the very few accountants I know take an interest in their appearance that could charitably be described as visible, attending as they seem to observe basic rules of public health and decency, but which is certainly far from obsessive. Would the man of detail predominate, or would the practical man of business? This avenue was turning into a cul de sac.
Matters were confused further by my flirtations with continental weddings this year. I have become quite seduced by the low-key, quietly elegant approach, and which we discussed in the last post. Indeed I remain confident that, in a plain, dark blue suit, I am more effortlessly debonair than many a meaner figure in morning coat, silk topper and spats.
Matters were confused further by my flirtations with continental weddings this year. I have become quite seduced by the low-key, quietly elegant approach, and which we discussed in the last post. Indeed I remain confident that, in a plain, dark blue suit, I am more effortlessly debonair than many a meaner figure in morning coat, silk topper and spats.
Reader, of course, I erred on the side of caution, driven by my intuition, like that of many a lower-middle class woman of a certain age contemplating the cancellation of a soiree in the aftermath of Princess Diana's death, that 'it's what she would have wanted'... Morning coat it was to be, and hang the effort, discomfort and mild flirtation with over-dressing that it represented...
In the end, this proved wise. The squad average was morning coat, reflecting no doubt the relatively high proportion of army officers, with a few smart suits for the 'creatives' - and those determined to simulate the appearance, if not the work ethic or output, thereof - and the teenagers. Indeed, if we were to stand back and regard the scene on the grand scale - perhaps with David Lean directing (though surely he would have struggled to expand the constraining dimensions of the courtyard of the Caledonian Club to fill a Panavision screen) - we would see a profusion of dark cloth and waistcoats, of floral patterns and fascinators. As it should be.
It would only be through the lens of a Mike Leigh or a Noah Baumbach that we would notice the smear of lipstick on the teeth, the rogue bra strap, the badly-knotted half-windsor - It would be mean-spirted to recall such details, of course - but this isn't the best man's speech or the wedding album, but a sort of post-match commentary. If we are ever to learn, it is important that we must recognise our mistakes as much as our successes, and that's the point of this post, indeed, of this blog. I'm the thorn in your shoe, the python in the toybox, the prostitite who calls your wife.
It would only be through the lens of a Mike Leigh or a Noah Baumbach that we would notice the smear of lipstick on the teeth, the rogue bra strap, the badly-knotted half-windsor - It would be mean-spirted to recall such details, of course - but this isn't the best man's speech or the wedding album, but a sort of post-match commentary. If we are ever to learn, it is important that we must recognise our mistakes as much as our successes, and that's the point of this post, indeed, of this blog. I'm the thorn in your shoe, the python in the toybox, the prostitite who calls your wife.
Not literally, of course.
Now, in spite of some commonly-agreed basics, 'morning dress' is not a fixed entity: much is determined by the way in which the basic articles of the outfit are assembled and worn. Like austism, one's own version of morning dress exists on a spectrum. Like army officers for whom 'uniform' is a noun not an adjective, and among whom it is rare to find any tw dressed alike even when nominally in the same rig, on this occasion there was an array of appearances.
My own morning coat - the result of a tortuous and extremely demoralising process that resulted in a permanent divorce from my then tailor - is a pretty standard black Melton cloth with a very fine herringbone, and silk piping on the lapels and most edges. I also had turn-back cuffs applied - one of the points of friction with the cutter - and button-holes on the points of the tails, to give fresh life to the vestigial buttons in the small of the back, to which the tails were fixed when riding or otherwise seated. This I wear with a black double-breasted waistcoat and sponge-bag - houndstooth - trousers, and plain black shoes, usually a monk shoe but sometimes a simple slip-on. I usually wear a dark tie from Mrs Willis. Her ties are discreetly patterned - her shepherd's check are particularly smart - and of a very good weight for morning dress. I usually wear a white or pale blue shirt from Mr Budd, with a stiff collar and double cuffs, with plain silver cufflinks; or a plain silk shirt with my cherished cocktail cuffs if I feel dangerously avant derriere.
(One of the reasons I have been tempted in recent years away from morning dress is my deep dissatisfaction with my morning coat. The turned-back cuffs are lined, wholly impractical for cloth of that weight, and so do not lie correctly. The cloth has too much spring in it, so the seams bulge and pucker, even when the garment is hung. The chest-pieces do not float so much as fly, granted wings by the patron saint of shitty workmanship. Above all, it just does not fit. The man who made it left the company before it was finished, and his colleagues struggled manfully to correct the errors, but to no effect. It was with some amazement that I read that the buffoon who built it is now masquerading as a head cutter - head cutter! Not shit-boy or hat-stand! - at an established family firm on Savile Row. Truly staggering, like making Gordon Brown director of the IMF and World Bank. (This of course could actually be entertained as a serious proposition in the Bizarro World in which Labour claims to speak for the middle classes and a gurning adenoidal wonk can become leader of the party of Attlee and Healey...) I am tempted to show his current employers my morning coat and invite them to reconsider - but that would be wanton cruelty. Also, the tightwad in me rejoices somewhat that the firm employs not only grossly incompetent craftsmen but grossly incompetent billing staff, who have failed to charge me the balance in spite of my - admittedly not exhaustive - attempts to seek clarification from them...)
But what I flatter myself to describe as 'attention to detail' is not observed uniformly, even by those types who default to morning coat. And on this occasion, there was indeed a profusion of the 'surly ten-year old' look noted in my earlier post: the exposed portion of midriff where trousers and waistcoat are reluctant to meet; the tie that does not fit the collar; the collar that does not fit the shirt or the neck; the dirty shoes; the garish waistcoat or 'fun' socks that squeal that "I'm fun!!! Just because I work in an office doesn't mean I have to be buttoned up to eleven!!!"
Richard Curtis, as usual, has much to answer for.
A target-rich environment
He couldn't even be arsed to comb his stupid hair.
Other than the novelty waistcoat, for which there really can be no decent excuse, one of these lapses, two even, might be excusable - provided it were the result of genuine haste, and thus possible to remedy, rather than the consequence of a desire to simulate the kind of pressure that distracts from attention to such matters, the desire to state by appearances either that the wearer has loftier things to ponder; or that, having given them thought, decided such matters are of little consequence; that he is, in effect, above or beyond the need for conformity.
Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not advocating that everyone look box-fresh and neat like Remington Steele. I'm a great one for wearing my favourite clothes until they are beyond repair. I dislike the feel of new clothes - a shirt is not comfortable until the fifth or sixth laundering - and a love for clothes need not - should not - be synonymous with a descent into omnivorous, undiscriminating, joyless consumption. There is much virtue on many levels in the traditional English horror of looking like an arriviste who has just bought all their clothes in one go - for example, the 'instant English wardrobe' pioneered by Hackett and which is typically availed by the Sandhurst-bound provincial or Euro banker who for reasons of time management, judgement or confidence are reluctant to make their own, informed and considered decisions - and in recoiling from any impression of ostentation.
I don't want this.
But it is possible to take the old practices of inverted snobbery and make them tiresomely conspicuous, and it is that fine line which is never so often - nor so violently - breached than at the modern British wedding. Yes, it is bad form to care 'too much' - but that does not mean that it is bad form to care.
But is this really too much to ask?
Too many young men - it is rare to find a lady of any background who thinks she is too important or too busy to need to make an effort - are today ill-equipped to appreciate that distinction. The customs, that once were written not in stone but on the hearts of men, exist now only in bastard form - a photocopy of a handwritten summary of a precis of some notes written from memory and inaccurately recalled, perhaps during a mirthless and drink-sodden supper, taken alone on the fourth anniversary of the death of a close relative. The rituals that reinforced the practice are diluted. The institutions - family, school, church, even employer - that would once have provided the moral framework no longer have themselves the confidence - or the authority - to do so. And if their tutoring has been inadequate, there is little hope for their children, for where will the boundaries of the next generation be set?
Their mothers, I suppose; but again we pile upon these blameless creatures, who typically provide sound sartorial role models for their daughters, responsibilities shirked either by choice or apathy by their fathers - or the tyranny of society's low expectations.
Well, I suppose an optimist would say "At least they wore morning coats." To which the prig in me cries with exasperation "But why did they bother if they didn't want to do it properly? Isn't it frankly better not to have bothered than to have bothered and still managed to look like a blessed tramp?!"
I see I am now at risk of repeating myself, and at tedious length, so perhaps it is sensible to end here.
* The final volume in Len Deighton's first Bernard Samson trilogy, preceded by Berlin Game and Mexico Set and succeeded by Spy Hook, Spy Line and Spy Sinker, at which point he wasn't really trying on the titles front.
Now, in spite of some commonly-agreed basics, 'morning dress' is not a fixed entity: much is determined by the way in which the basic articles of the outfit are assembled and worn. Like austism, one's own version of morning dress exists on a spectrum. Like army officers for whom 'uniform' is a noun not an adjective, and among whom it is rare to find any tw dressed alike even when nominally in the same rig, on this occasion there was an array of appearances.
My own morning coat - the result of a tortuous and extremely demoralising process that resulted in a permanent divorce from my then tailor - is a pretty standard black Melton cloth with a very fine herringbone, and silk piping on the lapels and most edges. I also had turn-back cuffs applied - one of the points of friction with the cutter - and button-holes on the points of the tails, to give fresh life to the vestigial buttons in the small of the back, to which the tails were fixed when riding or otherwise seated. This I wear with a black double-breasted waistcoat and sponge-bag - houndstooth - trousers, and plain black shoes, usually a monk shoe but sometimes a simple slip-on. I usually wear a dark tie from Mrs Willis. Her ties are discreetly patterned - her shepherd's check are particularly smart - and of a very good weight for morning dress. I usually wear a white or pale blue shirt from Mr Budd, with a stiff collar and double cuffs, with plain silver cufflinks; or a plain silk shirt with my cherished cocktail cuffs if I feel dangerously avant derriere.
(One of the reasons I have been tempted in recent years away from morning dress is my deep dissatisfaction with my morning coat. The turned-back cuffs are lined, wholly impractical for cloth of that weight, and so do not lie correctly. The cloth has too much spring in it, so the seams bulge and pucker, even when the garment is hung. The chest-pieces do not float so much as fly, granted wings by the patron saint of shitty workmanship. Above all, it just does not fit. The man who made it left the company before it was finished, and his colleagues struggled manfully to correct the errors, but to no effect. It was with some amazement that I read that the buffoon who built it is now masquerading as a head cutter - head cutter! Not shit-boy or hat-stand! - at an established family firm on Savile Row. Truly staggering, like making Gordon Brown director of the IMF and World Bank. (This of course could actually be entertained as a serious proposition in the Bizarro World in which Labour claims to speak for the middle classes and a gurning adenoidal wonk can become leader of the party of Attlee and Healey...) I am tempted to show his current employers my morning coat and invite them to reconsider - but that would be wanton cruelty. Also, the tightwad in me rejoices somewhat that the firm employs not only grossly incompetent craftsmen but grossly incompetent billing staff, who have failed to charge me the balance in spite of my - admittedly not exhaustive - attempts to seek clarification from them...)
But what I flatter myself to describe as 'attention to detail' is not observed uniformly, even by those types who default to morning coat. And on this occasion, there was indeed a profusion of the 'surly ten-year old' look noted in my earlier post: the exposed portion of midriff where trousers and waistcoat are reluctant to meet; the tie that does not fit the collar; the collar that does not fit the shirt or the neck; the dirty shoes; the garish waistcoat or 'fun' socks that squeal that "I'm fun!!! Just because I work in an office doesn't mean I have to be buttoned up to eleven!!!"
Richard Curtis, as usual, has much to answer for.
A target-rich environment
He couldn't even be arsed to comb his stupid hair.
Other than the novelty waistcoat, for which there really can be no decent excuse, one of these lapses, two even, might be excusable - provided it were the result of genuine haste, and thus possible to remedy, rather than the consequence of a desire to simulate the kind of pressure that distracts from attention to such matters, the desire to state by appearances either that the wearer has loftier things to ponder; or that, having given them thought, decided such matters are of little consequence; that he is, in effect, above or beyond the need for conformity.
Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not advocating that everyone look box-fresh and neat like Remington Steele. I'm a great one for wearing my favourite clothes until they are beyond repair. I dislike the feel of new clothes - a shirt is not comfortable until the fifth or sixth laundering - and a love for clothes need not - should not - be synonymous with a descent into omnivorous, undiscriminating, joyless consumption. There is much virtue on many levels in the traditional English horror of looking like an arriviste who has just bought all their clothes in one go - for example, the 'instant English wardrobe' pioneered by Hackett and which is typically availed by the Sandhurst-bound provincial or Euro banker who for reasons of time management, judgement or confidence are reluctant to make their own, informed and considered decisions - and in recoiling from any impression of ostentation.
I don't want this.
But it is possible to take the old practices of inverted snobbery and make them tiresomely conspicuous, and it is that fine line which is never so often - nor so violently - breached than at the modern British wedding. Yes, it is bad form to care 'too much' - but that does not mean that it is bad form to care.
But is this really too much to ask?
Too many young men - it is rare to find a lady of any background who thinks she is too important or too busy to need to make an effort - are today ill-equipped to appreciate that distinction. The customs, that once were written not in stone but on the hearts of men, exist now only in bastard form - a photocopy of a handwritten summary of a precis of some notes written from memory and inaccurately recalled, perhaps during a mirthless and drink-sodden supper, taken alone on the fourth anniversary of the death of a close relative. The rituals that reinforced the practice are diluted. The institutions - family, school, church, even employer - that would once have provided the moral framework no longer have themselves the confidence - or the authority - to do so. And if their tutoring has been inadequate, there is little hope for their children, for where will the boundaries of the next generation be set?
Their mothers, I suppose; but again we pile upon these blameless creatures, who typically provide sound sartorial role models for their daughters, responsibilities shirked either by choice or apathy by their fathers - or the tyranny of society's low expectations.
Well, I suppose an optimist would say "At least they wore morning coats." To which the prig in me cries with exasperation "But why did they bother if they didn't want to do it properly? Isn't it frankly better not to have bothered than to have bothered and still managed to look like a blessed tramp?!"
I see I am now at risk of repeating myself, and at tedious length, so perhaps it is sensible to end here.
* The final volume in Len Deighton's first Bernard Samson trilogy, preceded by Berlin Game and Mexico Set and succeeded by Spy Hook, Spy Line and Spy Sinker, at which point he wasn't really trying on the titles front.
No comments:
Post a Comment