Rule Puritanica: The Art of Mass Indignant Outrage

Wherein a worrying new trend in our society is examined and widely condemned.

Dear Libertines and sex-fiends!

I simply must find myself commenting on a worrying trend that is slowly but steadily boiling my blood.

Generally speaking our society swings from conservative puritanism to radical sensuousness in great catastrophic arcs of amnesiac madness. And each seems totally unaware that this has happened before.

Don't believe me? Check it out people! There was the Puritan era of Cromwell where Christmas was illegal and thousands were hanged for suspicion of antics to do with devils, demons and other wondrously fun things. And that was followed by the Restoration of Charles II where the Earl of Rochester wrote fabulous pieces of work entitled Signor Dildo.

In a reverse exchange the extravagance of Marie Antoinette and entourage was turned on its head (pardon the pun) in the Terror which involved the destruction and bloody murder of anything deemed an unseemly display of wealth.

The Victorian Era of staidness and the sheer utter despair of World War One culminated in the most fantastically outrageous Roaring Twenties involving Flappers and hooch-parlors. And then descended again into a Great Depression and the industrial grade horror of World War II.

The Generic homogeneity of the 1950's erupted into the moratoriums of the 1960's and then sold themselves out into the anthem of Greed is Good in the 80's. (Although I must admit, if there is one word I can use to describe the 80's it wouldn't be 'puritanical')

And at no point in history does the community at large wake up and realise 'oh wait, we've done this all before.' And usually we just take things too far and people get hurt or hanged or shot.'

Our lack of understanding regarding cultural swings from sensuous extravagance through to flesh-hating puritanism, is our greatest downfall as a species. George Satayana once said: 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' Well guess what people, we don't seem to be remembering. Earlier in my blog, I discussed the correct terminology for us as a species, as 'clever-man' didn't really suit. I think we looked at the 'violent-man'. And other such nasty terms. I think perhaps now the term 'unconscious-man' may be appropriate or possibly 'deluded-human' due to the fact that we believe we are more in control of ourselves as a species than in fact, we are.

I am annoyed as I am beginning to see a huge shift in culture toward puritanism and I blame Tracy Grimshaw. It's for many reasons, but primarily because she is evil and she smells, and indeed she resembles Miss Piggy when she's angry. But having completed my ad hominem attack I shall now address the real issues.

Deep in Terra Australis, we have a culture of (and I love the use of dialectical accentuation here) "Shee'yal be roiyt Mayt!" Meaning: Don't worry about it. -It is our unintelligible way of saying 'Hakuna Matata'.

Well of late, we as a country are becoming worried about it. We're not sure what 'it' is exactly, but as we're in a war on terror and the terrorists aren't living up to their end of the bargain we feel we need to be concerned and frightened about something. So, in short, we are concerned. Enter the cultural programming institution which is Channel 9 prime time news.

Knowing their audience demographic are over 40 and are therefore credulous and accepting of anything they present through their boxes of light and wonders, as long as its presented with the appropriate somber faces and emotive language, Channel 9 has done some truly extraordinary feats of orchestrating mass hysteria in the name of ratings grabbing.

To be fair, of course, Channel 9 is not the only voice of orchestrating mass hysteria. But then, that's to be expected as our media is the most concentrated in all of the Western world, having the majority of it owned by Murdoch, Packer or Fairfax.

But still, as Channel 9's horrendously titled A Current Affair is the loudest voice and the most watched example of cultural programming to date, we will focus primarily on it.

It begins with a chef. His name is Gordon Ramsay. He has made a stunningly lucrative career out of being rude and swearing on public television. It's sensationalist and as a result he's a celebrity. Well, guess what, chefs are people in high pressure jobs. They swear a lot. They also have tempers. It's really nothing that sensational. What is sensational is the fact that somewhere in Australia, a television company loosened its opinions regarding language on television enough to air Gordon Ramsay. At no point did they go, 'jeez, this guy seems to swear more than a Quentin Tarrentino film, we may need to NOT have him on our public television station.' No, instead they aired his shows and then in a stunning feat of cross-promotion had their own news-shows cluck their tongues about how sensational it was to have a man on air that would swear like that.

And so a media celebrity is born. And of course, very soon, more people come to watch him swear and be rude and other such crowd-pleasing shock tactics rather than to see him cook. And it works, so good for him!

Or at least it worked for him until he accidentally fired a verbal volley at the wrong social programmer.

You see, A Current Affair, hasn't bothered to cover any real news story in a very long time. Most of their stories entail some glorified infomercials dressed up as 'exposés about diet pills thigh creams and shonky car mechanics etc.

And that's not even counting the ridiculous amount of cross-promoting that they air in the name of 'news.'

Well last week, rather than cover the economic crisis and the Australian budget's success, rather than cover the acid attacks on Indian students, instead of covering the truck bombing in Peshawar or how the Federal policies regarding the indigenous population in Northern Territory are fairing, instead of all of these vital and important stories that effect real people's lives, channel 9 instead chose to use up their valuable 20 minutes of prime air time to cover an interview with a famous chef, who just so happens to have a television show on their station.

The interview was tawdry and tedious as most of their tabloid ratings grabs dressed up as 'journalism' are, -it's what happened next that makes this story worthy of any note.

During a cooking show, where Gordon Ramsay performed and did tricks before an admiring audience, Gordon did what he did best and of course let off a series of insults and rude remarks aimed at people in general. He probably picked Tracy Grimshaw as a target because he knew we would know who she is. Anyway, there were some insults hurled in her general direction. Something about how she looked like Miss Piggy, something about her being wide and cold inside like a refrigerator. What is interesting is that his audience chuckles along appreciatively, it is, after all, the very stuff that they paid to see, and the very stuff that Channel 9 exploits to grab ratings by airing his shows and by having Tracy Grimshaw interview him in the first place. Here is what he actually said:

And then, what truly stunned me, was that Tracy Grimshaw, battle hardened, 'serious journalist' Tracy Grimshaw, dared to take up our valuable prime air time that should be devoted to covering serious events in order to respond to his hurtful statements as she was told that you should always 'stand up to bullies.'

This is not the playground Tracy, and you are not 5 years old. He is not a 'bully' he is a guy that's paid by your bosses to be rude, and he does his job well. You on the other had are paid by your bosses to be a journalist. That means you should be presenting the truth objectively and in a professional manner. Neither of which you've demonstrated particularly well.

In short, Gordon Ramsay is very good at what he does. Tracy Grimshaw is not. She violated professional agreements with Gordon Ramsay's staff and, worst of all, used her position as journalist to coerce an emotive response from her viewing public against him.

But then again, this sort of behavior is to be expected by Tracy and her institution of orchestrating public outrage. I call to the witness stand Chasers War on Everything.

'The Chasers War on Everything' is a shock tactics comedy show. They mock everything. Including rules of acceptability. And the other week they made a sketch that parodied the conventions of the sincere charity commercials that tug at the heart-strings. It was an example of black humour in a shock tactics, 'oh my god they went there' kind of way. And here it is:

Enter Make A Wish Foundation, not to be confused with the Starlight Foundation whose logo they ripped off. Make a Wish Foundation were full of righteous indignation that sick little children would be up at 9:30pm and be offended by the skit that could appear to be at their expense. Of course, it wasn't aimed at their expense, any fool could see that, however, a seven year old child in a weakened state due to their illness, and that they should of been put to bed over an hour ago, may not have the social skill to detect such a nuance. And of course, the Chaser's crew apologized for any misunderstandings due to the lack of intelligence of possible viewers. And that may have been the end of it.

But in strides Tracy Grimshaw and the A Current Affairs team, flamng swords blaming with righteous intent, full of emotive phrasing, and tabloid's grabbing outrage. Because nothing sells like sensational condemnation. Suddenly the Chasers War on Everything 'Have Gone too Far'! And that they ought not have made a skit that was insulting to sick children. (which it wasn't aimed at, but lets not let nuance get in the way of a good hate-mongering)

What's interesting then, is that the skit was pulled from any re-runs of the show. AND that the Chaser's War on Everything was suspended for two weeks. Excuse me? A Comedy show was taken off the air? Since when did Australia have the same censorship laws as North Korea?

Now, if they remove the Make a Realistic Wish Foundation skit due to the (perceived) insult to sick children surely they ought to have removed the 'In-breedy Bunch' sketch that was insulting to any victims of incestuous sexual assault, and the Footprints sketch that was insulting to Christians and the one that was insulting to the Cronulla Sharks etc.

Get it? Comedy is, by its very nature either absurd, or based around other people's suffering. That's it. So while we're all about not offending anyone, we might as well outlaw all humor, like Cromwell did when he banned Christmas. And why then is Funniest Home Video's not considered to be the most evil thing on television?

At the end of the day, A Current Affair has lost their direction in regards to journalism and are hoping that the public wont notice by keeping them indignant and outraged at someone, anyone, who may be popular and ratings winning at the time. It could be Germaine Greer, Clare Weberloff, Corey Worthington, The Chaser Boys or Matthew Johns, but basically A Current Affair thrives of orchestrating public outrage and condemnation, for transgressing their 1950's up-tight, humourless, puritanical moral crusade.

We just voted out our conservative government. Lets not be infected by it in our homes through the public indictments of a clearly maniacal Tracy Grimshaw. Lets face it, this is no longer a news show. This is entertainment, kind of like Big Brother because its reporting on 'reality'. So maybe, just maybe the powers that be will consider Tracy to be too old and moralising for her position and she'll be unceremoniously ousted and replaced by Kyle Sandilands and Jacki-O in a short lived new format of A Current Affair.

Circus (N.)

Wherein an excerpt from a creative enterprise is laid out for public perusal,

Greetings and salutations carnies and ballyhooers!

I, considering that my first post was a promise that my blog would contain myself, at least in part, thought, that it was high time to produce a piece of my own creative endeavours. And really, I'm hoping that this may inspire me to write some more.

It is an excerpt from a novel (half-complete) entitled The Carnivalesque, I picked this chapter because it almost stands alone. It is entitled Circus (N.) . Enjoy:

There is a circus inside Mr Abraham Brackets’ mind. It winds its way down the winding road of his cerebellum as he reads the enigmatic poster on the wall. It winds its way from the moor-lands of memory in brightly painted wagons. It parades through his childhood nostalgia with a barrel organ singing crudely like the screech of psirens ready to snare any unsuspecting memories and draw them up into the red canvassed lair.

Mr Abraham Brackets remembers his childhood and the circuses that lay quietly at the edges of the everyday with promises of vivid awe. They lay like festive beach houses. They lay like lions couched amongst the sepia savannah of youth, lapping their paws in the summer heat. There was something ephemeral about them. Something transient, like stumbling upon the fairies dancing. The big top rose and billowed and flourished in scarlet. It was a crazy dance of tent pegs and ropes, it sat squatting on the hillside above Weymouth like a gargantuan spider, -some scarlet hooded tarantula laying in wait amongst the insane web of hemp ropes, dripping the opium venom of childhood delirium.

And the tents were full to the top with carnies who stood invitingly with pied-piper smiles and sailor tattoos. There was something seedy that permeated the air. It was a vibrancy that comes with danger. It was the sense that all natural laws were frozen and here was a land of no consequences, a land where recriminations were the outlaw. They were like fairy-mounds, made of canvas and mist, and when you entered, a magical realm awaited where people flew through the air and animals walked about dressed as humans.

He attended once with his grandfather who seemed to possess more knees and elbows and swollen joints than all the sideshows put together.

“The circus was a place of bloodshed and sacrifice.” His grandfather grumbled darkly in the face of brightly coloured joy as Abraham Brackets, then a young boy, ran giddily to the menagerie.

“It’s a camel grandpa, look. Can I ride it?" His grandfather visibly paled then and walked bitterly away.

“In days of old we’d have slaughtered the animals at the circus, not played with them and ridden them.” The camel grunted and spat at his feet. Abraham Brackets found out by his mother years later that his grandfather embarrassed himself publicly by claiming a dead camel was in fact a dinosaur. -He never recovered from the ridicule. There was something fragile about his grandfather’s just-so well placed wisdoms. It’s funny how one little camel could rob a man of the capacity to enjoy such wild chaotic mirth that occurred in the fairy kingdom of a circus.

And then they were gone. Like fairy palaces that pass into the fog and gypsy caravans, the circus would leap on the caribou of Abraham Brackets’ days and splash it scarlet with fear and euphoria before padding silently away from sight where it licked its coat and slumbered in the African heat. The mountain realm of childhood nirvana had closed, and Abraham Brackets always felt like a frail crippled boy, too young and infirm to join the carnies in their ceaseless festival of wandering.

He always ran up to the hillside to watch the ponderous display of the circus setting up. He always saw the erection of the central pole that rose with wisps of spider silken hemp ropes trailing lazily from its peak like so many ribbons from a maypole. He heard in the fairy dawn-light the coarse gypsy singing of the carnies who worked bare-chested in the sun and dreamed of the loose women they could ensnare. And there was the methodical whistle of pulley wheels and the tapping of tent-pegs like a hail Mary, and lo! Oberon had set up court and visions and fancy was his trade.

But his childhood eagerness failed to alert him of the circus’ conclusion. Was it denial, he wondered, -an unwillingness to let the circus travel like the seasons travel onwards. All he knew was where he had once seen the industriousness of the big top’s set up, where he had been to enjoy the poppy fields within, he was often too late to witness the circus packing up for the road. There was nothing for his boyhood memory to watch, only the dead dusty grass and absence where once there had been a fairy palace and animals in suits served him fairy-wine.

There was something furtive about the way a circus packed up for the road. Something guilty. Something shameful. Setting up was stock and trade for the traveling shows. It was the promise of delight and ephemeral glory and transient joy. It was the budding of magic and free to be viewed by the eager and the young. But the packing up was a dirty behind-the-scenes affair, -a setting up for the village down the road. It was like seeing how a magic trick was performed with little to offer but disappointment. Perhaps that’s why they left so mysteriously, their preparations to leave made in the early-morning darkness, like an illicit affair. The town would awake to find its lusty Babylon lover long gone. They were little more than a guilty memory.

Once, when Mr Abraham Brackets was young and he and his grandfather went to see the circus that had flourished beside the town like a brightly colored infestation of glee, his grandfather, still aching over the demise of his reasoning, mumbled hollowly as they retreated from the menagerie.

“Circus, (ser’kas), (n.): A travelling show of acrobats, clowns horses, riders and wild animals. From the latin word ciculus, for circle. Properly the circular oval or oblong space or structure itself, in which such performances are staged. Contests amongst gladiators, chariot races and other such public spectacles took place in circuses in ancient Rome. The games were held in connection with fixed religious festivals or ludi such as Equirria or the Consualia among others. In remote antiquity the ludi circenses were without close rival as the favorite spectacle of the people: Such were the bloody circus’ genial laws (Byron).”

His grandfather could speak in italics and parenthesis and vocalize an abbreviation as though it were a word in itself. But Abraham Brackets was lost in the fairy glamor already. The barrel organ was singing and anyway it was difficult to hear his grandfather over the clicking of his knees that bent and recoiled in an ungainly dance that reminded him of a camel.

His grandfather sat grim and bitter by the world about him. The spell was powerless against the crushing bruises from the implosion of his ego. Where Abraham Brackets saw joy, his grandfather saw a gladiatorial ring. Where Abraham Brackets saw frivolity, his grandfather viewed carnage. He resided within his own leather clad hell which consisted of sword points and slaughtered animals and ave Caesars and a shrieking mob.

“Let’s see Anne Boleyn, the mermaid of Sardinia.” Said Abraham Brackets.

“There is no such thing.”

“How do you know, grandfather?”

“Because life would be wonderful if there was, son.”

How to argue in the face of such all encompassing depression? But they entered the sideshow anyway. -And there, in a tank full of water, floated a flame haired beauty with milk white skin and jade for eyes and the the most obviously fake mermaid tale ever to grace a den of hucksters.

“Told you son. She’s a fake.”

“I beg your pardon sir, but I am real.” Countered Anne Boleyn.

“Your tail’s a fake.”

“It is. But I am real.”

She stood up in the gaily colored tank.

She removed her tail.

And grandfather’s eyes glistened with the wonder of it all. For a minute the sounds outside the tents, the chattering, the giggles, the ballyhooing of the clowns outside, the hollow grinding of the fairground organ, all the sounds bled white and silent. And all Abraham Brackets could hear was the lapping of the water in Anne Boleyn’s tank and the short pained breaths of his transfixed grandfather, ensnared by a glamor.

“Do you sing?” He asked.

“Very well.” She countered, as open and honest as still water is honest.

“Do you swim?” Asked Anne Boleyn.

“Passably.” Answered his grandfather.

“Swim with me. Tonight. Not here. By the beach. I’ll show you where the mermaids are.”

“Will you sing for me?”

She sang for him then with a voice like brandy butter. And his grandfather, his bitter, camel hating grandfather wept. Tears streamed from his academic dusty old eyes and glistened in tracks on the side of his face. Something happened to him then as the salt water passed over his lips to his tongue. There was a softening to him, a soothing of all the angles in him. His shoulders dropped with the ease of it all, he lost the extra joints in his limbs, his skin seemed translucent and the ruler straight line that was his mouth curved enticingly into a smile.

Anne Boleyn was a Lady of the Lake in a carnival sideshow and to Abraham Brackets’ boyhood eyes she presided over the fountain of youth. The song ceased with its rich amber tones but continued to curl away at the edges of Abraham Brackets’ memory.

“Will you swim with me?”

“Yes.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll show you where the mermaids swim.”

They left the tent in a daze with his grandfather grinning with a spring in his step.

“What was that song that she sang”

“It was French. From Carmen:

‘Toréador, en garde

Et song en combattant

Qu’un oeil noir te regarde

Et que l’amour t’attend.’”

“What did she sing?”

“It means:

‘Toreador, ‘e’er watchful be

Do not forget the brightest of eyes

Are fondly thee waiting,

And love is the prize.’”

“Can we go back and ride the camels?”

“We can do whatever you like.”

The next day the circus disappeared and with it disappeared Mr Abraham Bracket’s grandfather. The police were called to look for him, but no one believed an eight year old’s claim that his grandfather had fallen in love with a mermaid and had run off with the circus.

There was dust by the road and the half heard memories of pleasures partaken. The air was pregnant with the ache of morning-after joys. The traveling show had long gone. Oberon and entourage had moved back to India, perhaps to steal other young boys or old brittle men who are overcome with the epiphany of a mermaid’s song.

But Mr Abraham Brackets recalls fiercely the curve of his grandfather’s smile and still to this day travels to the hillside to watch the circus setup, and races at dawn to try and catch its departure. He is yet to be successful though and is left to peer short-sightedly at the diminished half-imagined grainy specks of wagons and fairy dust. And he wonders what if he were carried away to that fairy realm forever, would he see his grandfather, would he return sixty years later as though only a week had passed? Mr Abraham Brackets plays the heartening game of what-if. -And for this little beach-house coloured mystery in his everyday life, he is glad.

Mormons Vampires and Suicides: Public Hooting and An Absinthe Toast in One Post!

Wherein quality control regarding the Gothic Horror genre is maintained and one man's anger at another man's special feeling of unique pain is celebrated.

Greetings and salutations oh partakers of fine things.

I would like to begin my post with a bout of public hooting. I have long been in love with the Gothic horror genre and indeed most people's attempts at revivifying it. Indeed, I've read everything from The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole, through to How to get a Head in New York by Poppy Z Brite and The Vampire Chronicles by Anne Rice. I have seen cats murdered with Edgar Allen Poe, turned the screw with Henry James, refrained from drinking wine with Bram Stoker, hidden in box 5 with Gaston Leroux, drunk strange potions with Robert Louis Stevenson, and flirted with an abomination in the eyes of the lord with Mary Shelley.

So please believe me as somewhat of a connoisseur, when I say that the recent offering by Stephanie Meyers is the worst case of fetid arse-water ever to hit the book stands. I think this recent example of cultural hysteria surrounding Ms Meyer's literary effluent and consequent movies is a new low in Western Culture and is possibly worse than the similar hysteria surrounding Dan Brown's god-awful The Da Vinci Code.

This recent eruption of bile and scorn has come as a result of watching one of the fastest rising YouTube clips which shows the recent Twilight movie trailer. Normally I would show said YouTube clip, but in this case, I'd rather not sully my page. So here instead is another YouTube clip advising why people should avoid such offal.

Here's a tip Stephanie, Gothic Horror, is meant to be horrible. Something in the book actually has to be monstrous, and so far, all I've seen that's monstrous is the god awful writing. There are holes in the plot so large and gaping, I could push a small displaced Chinese village through them. -There must be, in a horror novel, something which feels unwholesome in the story, whether it be the monstrous quality of the vampire, the hubris and consequences unravelling in Frankenstein or the bricking up of a live man into a wall in Poe, there has to be something that would cause people a sense of dread and alarm.

Instead Stephanie Meyers has taken all the tropes of the Gothic horror genre and sucked out all of the marrow and guts and presented the world with a bland middle-class teen-romance with impotent monsters and an unfeasible story line. Now this would be fine if this was a simple marketing exercise aimed at fourteen year old tweenies who are yet to discover things of true worth and value. But adults, REAL adults are actually just as enthralled by this pile of disney-esque pretend-frights as their pubescent counterparts. Don't believe me? Not only is the Twilight: New Moon trailer fast rising on Youtube, but so are the fan response videos, which are, I kid you not, videos of sad lonely people, alas, primarily female, sitting down in front of the television squealing like groupies at a Beatle's concert as MTV shows the trailer.

And then it occurred to me as to why Stephanie Meyers has managed to write such dreadful, unimaginably mediocre and lifeless tosh. And it's because Stephanie Meyers is a member of The Church of Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints. Oh the gods have mercy! That means that whenever someone buys any of her fecal matter dressed up as a novel, whenever anyone buys a ticket to see the tween porn movies they are funding Stephanie Meyer who, as a Mormon must give 10% of her earnings to the Mormon church. But of course, it stood to reason, all this time it was obvious. Who else but a Mormon could make something as sexy as vampires into the fucking Brady Bunch?

Standard issue Mormon Underwear

Please, people there are so many reasons why everyone should scoff and laugh at anyone who claims to like Twilight. It's Mills and Boon dressed up as horror. And its aimed at teenagers, who don't know any better. Mock these people! Let them know of their transgressions and then hoot them for their inability to discern between a good book and a bad one! Or better yet, hunt down Stephanie Meyer and hoot her, wave a fan at her and hoot her loudly.

In the meantime if you want to watch something with real vampires: Try Dusk Till Dawn, The Lost Boys, The Hunger, A French Vampire in New York, Interview with the Vampire, and of course, Bram Stokers Dracula, not to mention the countless Hammer Horror films, and the classic Nosferatu silent film. Of course, if you like your vampires on the small screen then please instead divert your eyes towards the True Blood series or possibly Being Human on the BBC.

On the positive side, I would like to raise an absinthe glass to this man.

His name is Lai Jiansheng and he is a retired soldier living in Guangzhou, China. And he is being toasted today for pushing a man to his possible doom. And look at the contented smile on his face!

Chen Fuchao was feeling somewhat down on his luck being in the equivalent of $293,ooo.oo US in debt. And so decided to voice his woes buy committing suicide. No sorry, not 'committing', because that's what effective people do, but attempting to commit suicide. Chen Fuchao climbed the Haizhu Bridge and threatened to jump off in a spectacularly annoying cry for help that lasted for over four hours, causing complete traffic chaos. Apparently this sort of thing happens quite a lot in Guangzhou with twelve cases of of suicide threats on the Haizhu bridge in only two months. Well our hero of the moment Lai Jiansheng was mad as hell, and he wasn't going to take it any more.

The news reports claim that Chen Fuchao was given a 'helping hand' by Lai Jiansheng. But that simply doesn't cover the effort and determination this wonderful man possessed in making his statement.

Lai Jiansheng, having offered already to assist the police but having been rejected, then broke through the police barricade before climbing the bridge himself! Having climbed the bridge with no safety harness or net, Lai then proceeded to edge towards the distraught Chen and pretended to comfort him before grappling with him on a tiny metal scaffold high in the air! Chen simply was no match for Lai's ex-military training. Lai effectively showed the distraught young failed business man how to carry through with something once its begun. Chen, having attempted to grab Lai and take him down with him, then toppled many metres before collapsing into a partially blown up mattress suffering spinal injuries and injuries to his elbow.

Lai, having saluted the crowd then made this phenomenal statement:

"I pushed him off because jumpers... are very selfish. Their action violates a lot of public interests."

Lai, I don't know if you're in prison or receiving a medal for your actions, but I can say, that for your determination and fearlessness in dispatching with an undesirable menace to society, and for your complete lack of remorse at having almost killed someone because they were an annoyance, for your community spirit and dedication to 'public interests' we salute you with an absinthe toast!