There was no bomb alarm

When the international students were welcomed at MIC, they were told: "Limerick is not as dangerous as people say. It is just gang members that are murdered." How very comforting. They would also say: "Just act as in every other town. Don't use your mobile while you walk in the city and keep an eye on your belongings." Right, that is exactly how I behaved in Fribourg - I would never call anybody when walking home from university, full of fear that someone could snap my mobile.
When my flatmate suggested me to go to Northern Ireland to see the Giant's Causeway, I hesitated. "Isn't it dangerous?" She stared at me. "You are in Limerick! There is nothing more dangerous than that in Ireland."
I see. She might be right, you know. There was a car burning in front of our college two weeks ago. No-one did anything! So - was that just normal? Then my friends told me that there had been some shots around their campus. Well, I prefer the habitual fire alarm at seven thirty...
Now I understand at least why all these student villages boast with their good security services!

You might watch the new film about the Celtic myth of Cú Roí - and you'll see that the whole crime business is in fact inherited.



SUNDAY!! New quote, new quiz.

International Students

Today it struck me that I have never told you anything about the other international students. I'm wondering why. Don't I deeply love them?
At MIC, there are 39 international students and more than 20, I think, are from Germany or Austria. There is even one brave girl from Switzerland, who is also capable of the German language by the way... A German girl keeps telling me that there are two other Swiss guys, and I keep telling her that NO, they are Austrian. But she's like: "NO, they are definitely Swiss, they speak a dialect, after all", and I: "NO, they are Austrian, for God's sake!"
Last Saturday, some of the students organised a house party with the topic "trash". You might guess, not my cup of tea at all, but I was determined to go. After all, Mary I had taught me that I needed to socialise in order to be healthy and happy. They all arrived wearing messy clothes and weird make-up, sucking Martini - not because they liked it, but in Ireland, Martini is the cheapest to get drunk quickly. The first one stumbled over her feet around nine. How tedious. Suddenly I had to think of Caroline Bingley in Pride and Prejudice: "I can't help thinking that at some point someone is going to produce a piglet and we'll all have to chase it." This is exactly how I felt. Around half past ten, the Dutch frontier approached me - two girls that always show up together and never seem to be alone for one single second. WE went to see this and that. WE have six courses. At least, they don't speak synchronically - that's something. Anyway, one of them was wearing a horrible Hallowe'en dress and the other one stared at me and said coolly: "You are boring!" Wow, what a blunt delivery.

I guess, I really am. Why else would I first tell you about my rusty bike and only then about the exciting people I meet?

Irish bikes are all the same colour: Ginger

There are things that just don't go together - like a mug of earl grey tea and a hamburger, an Irish man and a non-alcoholic drink or a student and a book :-). It would look ridiculous, right?
Well, I had the same feeling today when I looked at my bike (which I had rented for 35 Euro for the whole year!) and the lock I had bought for it...
You might know by now (if not: have a look at the quiz!) that Limerick can be dangerous from time to time. That's why I decided for a very good lock - before I had even seen the bike I would get... I paid 12 Euro and proudly carried home a really strong, thick lock with a key that looked like a car key. And there I was, ready to meet my future bike. Wow, looked really great from far away. I see, made in Sri Lanka. Where are the lights? Haha, Phil, the manager, started laughing. Reflectors? Hahaha, Phil laughed even louder. Bell? Giggle. I tried to break - and could bend those breaks nearly 90 degrees. "Needs to be like this", Phil nodded, eager to convince me. "You don't want to be flung over the handlebar in case of an emergency stop, do you?" I pulled the breaks again, my thumbs nearly touching each other. I wouldn't really call this "retarding effect" an emergency stop that could fling me anywhere, not over the handlebar either.
I got off the bike and wiped all the rust from my clothes. Well, my lock might have one purpose in the end: to hold the wheels together once the rust has given way to nothingness.

"Well, in Switzerland, we need to put stickers on the bike for insurance reasons.."
Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Told him that just for fun.

When the Bible was brought to Ireland...

... Matthew 6: 1-4 was destroyed. Maybe scribbled on by some angry heathen or it got wet while it was taken across the canal, and so the ink blurred and the paragraph got illegible.
Anyway - it seems that the Irish have never heard of:
Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men.
Let me explain, what I mean: The Irish health system is quite bad, it seems. Thus, there is a lot of private fund raising, normally carried out by retired people who would spend long days on very uncomfortable looking chairs behind tiny folding tables, joggling collecting boxes.
Now, the interesting thing in Ireland is that if you donate some money, you will often get a fantastic looking sticker fixed to your jacket, so that everyone can see what a good fellow you are. As far as I understood, the ultimate goal seems to be that one can proudly approach a collector, give money generously and then say:
"Oh, Gosh, let me see if there is still some space on my jacket to put a sticker on!" Just to say (after having critically measured the tiny spare space between the hundreds of stickers): "Well, let's stick it onto an old one. Oh look, there's one from last week."
No - I mean, never underestimate a bad health system. I think it is exactly the Irish's bad health that has led to the dialect they speak. Or how would you say "Thirty thousand therapists think a lot" without any teeth? "Tirty tousand terapists tink a lot" - there you are. I just wonder - is this a case of biolinguistics?

I'm sure, I'll soon get tired of saying this: New quote, new quiz.

Another badly written passport...?

There is one chap in my group of international students I want to tell you about: When he arrived, his name was Gottfried. Not a very easy name for Irish people he soon noticed. So - what could he do?
Well, you should know by now! Yes, right, go to the Bank of Ireland.
He did and today he became "Gottfired". We couldn't help roaring with laughter. I mean - imagine we called his name in the College yard. All people would turn round their heads in wonder and ask: "Really? At whom?"

Happy heart day

To illustrate what I told you yesterday: This morning I entered the college with my eyes immediately captured by the blinking writing on the electronic notice board:
TOMORROW IS HAPPY HEART DAY. It seems that naming weeks is not enough anymore; it has even come down to days!

I know that you do not want me to turn serious - but do you remember the church service I told you about in the first or second week of my stay? You know, slow tongue in early mass, ladadee-ladada. Well, during that mass, the priest had told us that cynicism was a very bad thing and that we should stay away from it. And also the film "Why are we Irish so unhappy?" suggested that being cynical is a societal illness we should get rid of. Now - if you think that I would risk heaven and my happiness just to entertain you...! No - today I decided to approach everything with a positive attitude and to make my heart happy for tomorrow. Flowers would help, I thought - just needed a vase. You get an awful lot in Limerick, even pink, elaborately ornamented whisks, but you're running your heels off to get a normal vase. My last chance: Debenhams. I knew that I didn't quite match the profile of a typical Debenhams customer (rich, posh and tawdrily dressed), but I definitely came to my senses in front of the Killarney crystal vase for 40 Euro (a bargain, some might say). In the end, I forgot about the bloody vase and bought an orchid. At home, I read the label: "Intended for decorative purposes, not for consumption". Heck, and I wanted to invite guests for an orchid stew.
By the way, I also scrubbed all the mould off my shower and bought a new shower curtain, which turned out to be a bit short though. Look at the picture: Haven't I become practical?! If you can't see it: these are strings of paper clips!

Love it or leave it

The second week at MIC is called "Love it or leave it week". One of the last enjoyable weeks, in my view - since it is followed by "men and health week", "yoga week" or "breast cancer week" and other disease weeks. Did you notice the slight obsession with the topic health?
During this "love it or leave it week", you may attend courses like horse riding (this year cancelled though), taekwondo, yoga, aerobic etc. and then decide if ... well... if you love it or leave it. The favourite courses among girls are "nail art" and "fake tan". I'd be glad though if the latter course was abolished. The prospect of even more tan addicts running around Limerick really upsets me. Some Irish cannot accept their pale skin - they generously powder their faces with much too dark make-up or use tanning creams. The results are quite irritating sometimes. About two weeks ago, a woman (and we are talking of women here, not of girls!) crossed me in a hurry. I immediately knew that she had only one bulb in her bathroom, probably somehow fixed to the bottom edge of her mirror. Want to know how I came to this conclusion? Well, her complexion was chocolate brown, apart from a snow white, 2 centimetre (!) wide stripe around her hair line. These areas must have been in the shade when she had looked into the mirror - so, one bulb. And today, I passed a girl that looked like a negative: her hair so fair that it was almost white, and her face so dark that it was almost.... mmh, not really black, but a very dark brown.
So - what I'd suggest: Irish girls! Love it, BUT leave it!

LIP - the serious students' paper

After more than a month of blogging, I thought I could start doing some "serious writing". This is why I yelled at Tracy: "Wanna write for the LIP!" Tracy is the editor of the students' paper, and I yelled at her not because I wanted to make an impression (which I certainly would have done even without screaming, don't you think?), but because the music around us was so loud. "Ok, have your article by Monday!" Ehm - I actually didn't mean to be involved that quickly. What should I write about anyway? "Try to write about MIC from the international point of view", Tracy suggested. "Encourage people to go away for an exchange year too!" I see, I need to emphasise how happy we all are at MIC. Why the hell is happiness so important here? When I began my course "Basic Media Production", we watched a film made by some fourth year BA students. Title: "Why are we Irish so unhappy?" Slight traces of self-pity, I'd say. Gosh, YOU chose this island. Get over it. And for heaven's sake: get organised! Would save you a lot of trouble. Have you heard of any university before where timetables are actually fixed in the first week of the semester?! Seminars start in week 3 or 4 - it takes time to divide students into different groups, after all!

"You can write something negative about the weather and the country", Tracy said graciously, "but nothing negative about the people." I see, censorship. Imposed by whom? Ms Umbridge? Or are the students here trained for self-censorship?!
Anyway. I'll write under any conditions. Most important thing is that I get serious at last.

Where loos are killed

Being an experienced coach traveller by now, I knew that departure times should never be taken too seriously. Indeed, my flatmate told me that when she was young, she used to live between Galway and Dublin. The coach would leave Galway at no specific time - it would depart when it was full. Obviously very inconvenient for all the ones in between Galway and Dublin. They could spend hours waiting at the bus stop until a coach showed up. Well - and sometimes it wouldn't come at all because the bus driver had decided to take another road.
So - I knew that! What I didn't know was that bus numbers too shouldn't be taken too seriously. To get to Killaloe, I was told to take coach 323. When I showed my ticket to the bus driver, however, he said: "Oh no, you should have taken the bus that is just leaving there!" Great, the last bus on that day (there are only two on a Saturday!) and I missed it. No, I didn't. The bus driver started honking until the other one stopped, quite irritated. When I entered bus 345 (!), I realised that I could be glad that the driver had even heard the honk. He was listening to Irish folk music and singing happily along. And how wicked it was to drive in a city bus on Ireland's country roads...
Killaloe is charming - and full of racing kids. Horrified I stared at a black car speeding towards me. It passed. An old and doddery man waiting at the bus stop sniggered: "Won't be living long, huhu, won't be living long." The Irish definitely have a relaxed way of dealing with death!

When I passed the bus stop one hour later, the man was still waiting.



Don't forget: new quiz, new quote.

Being someone else

Changing your identity is quite easy in Ireland. You go to the Bank of Ireland and open a bank account. That's it. Just make sure that the assistant is in a hurry.

"Open a student bank account?" the assistant asked, already stressed. "No problem." Quick, quick. She hurried to get some forms to fill in. I didn't have to do anything, only watch her scribbling and sign in the end. "You have your card on Friday."
She was quite right. I got a card - and a new identity too. May I present? Tataaa, this is Naomi Hayler's blog. "Oh, never mind", the assistant said, "just use it." I left the office, not feeling very different but extremely uneasy. What if I forgot my PIN? How should I prove that this was really my account? After a talk with my brother, I had made up my mind: They could not get rid of me that quickly. I had the right to get a bank card with a correct spelling of my name after all. I walked back.
"You know, we often have trouble with international students", the assistant said, "sometimes, they have such bad hand-writing, we can barely make out their names." I beg your pardon?! I felt a volcano quickly building up inside me. How dare she! First of all, my hand-writing was not bad and second: she had got my name in print from the placement office and it had been her who had transferred it to the form. No, now I remember! She had copied my name from my passport. Now, Liechtensteiner passports may be unusual, and indeed, my father's passport was hand-written when he was young, but these times are over, you see, o:ver!
"I think, your colleague was just in a hurry", I said coolly, and that was very hard with Vesuvius almost reaching the roof of my mouth. Time for her to shut up, yes.
Next Tuesday, I'll have my good old identity back.

Spiders and Noise

The Irish love St. Patrick and you know why? Because he brought Christianity to their island? I am not sure if that really still matters to them nowadays. Nooo, Patrick's real achievement is said to be that he drove all snakes from the island. That's a good reason for loving a person, don't you think? I would love him even more if he had also banished all spiders. Christine might remember me yelling one night when I saw one of that species crawling up my wall - next to my bed! Brave as she is - and I'm not ironical here - she took her psychology book. No, not to explain the spider's fears and thoughts, but, well, you know... to kill it. And then you might also remember the athletic spider that won the duel over my vacuum cleaner. As if that had not been enough: during my lecture yesterday, the guy next to me started giggling and nudged me. "Look up!" he whispered. Ah! I gasped. There was a spider dangling in front of me. Heaven, how could I concentrate on "interpreting literature" with such a trapezist before my eyes?!

At any rate: that was what made my day, and if you want to know what made my night: watch the film :-)

The Dolores Umbridge of MIC

Have you watched Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix? If you have: you do remember Dolores Umbridge, don't you?! Shall I tell you something? She is just a copy! Bah! A mere imitation. If you want to see the original, you have to come here. I had an amazing lecture today - well, I don't even know if I should call it "lecture". College is extremely schoolish here. You have hardly any lecture halls but rather class rooms with your own desk etc. For your illustration: First years get a booklet on..
... How should I take notes? (MIC's answer: "Be there", "get a good seat", "write the date at the top of the page"... - I see! You need to be there to take notes!)
... Coping with nerves when giving oral presentations (their advice: "prepare, rehearse, remind yourself that feeling nervous is normal" - aha)
... How to deal with exams ("make sure you know the date")
... etc.
I thought I'd drop down this extremely useful advice for all my fellow students. Just very much like Oscar Wilde, who said: "I always pass on good advice. It is the only thing to do with it. It is never of any use to oneself." Oh bugger, that should have been my next week's quote.
Anyway - to come back to Ms Umbridge: At five o'clock a very dominant, plump lady entered the classroom. "My powerpoint slides will not go: onto the net", smile, "they will not go: onto the net." Then, a kind of dictation class started. "Think for yourself", smile, "t-h-i-n-k for yours-e-l-f". I stared at my colleague in utter disbelief. Was that a class on the development of modern drama? "Have you watched Harry Potter?!" I whispered. "Huh?" - "Have you..." "Would you mind...?" Ms Umbridge stared at me. Well, some kind of smile-staring. I stared back. I really was at school, I thought and hesitated. Did she want my chewing gum too? I lowered my eyes and watched my left hand. Was there some burning inscription? "I must not talk in class". No, J.K. Rowling must have made that up.
"With tho:se thRee wRiters, Realism bece:me the coRnersto:ne of modeRn theatRe", smile, "the coRnersto:ne of modeRn theatre. With tho:se thRee wRiters, Realism bece:me the coRnsto:ne. The coRnersto:ne. The c-o-R-n-e-r-s-t-o:-n-e."
Ah, cornerstone, what a good word to start a wordplay with.

Happy orientation days

At Mary Immaculate College, there are so many services, clubs and unions - I don't think that there are any offices left for professors. Studying is not of main concern here anyway - what is important is happiness, so it came across on the orientation days. We met representatives of
- the student union ("we'll make you as happy as possible")
- the chaplaincy ("we want you to be happy")
- the student service ("our goal is to make you as happy as possible")
- the computer service ("be happy")
- the counselling service ("to make you happier)
- the learner support unit ("for a happy exam time)
- the placement office ("for a very, very happy time abroad")
- the medical service...
YEEESSS, for God's sake, I am HAPPY. Now - satisfied?!

Don't think I gave you the complete list. There is even a Marshmallow and Cake Society. Well, I'm sure that would make me happy. They had planned one and a half hours for these presentations. After two and a half hours and a talk on "students and health" (after which we all received a super-organic, wormy apple and a cookbook) we were released at last - tired and exhausted, but bearing in our hearts what we had been told in the morning:
The headmaster of MIC would never ask any student: "How are you getting on with your studies?"

What would he say instead? Well, you should know by now!

"Are you happy?" of course.

Impression 3: My Way to MIC

Last Thursday, the orientation days started. I'll tell you all about those later on, here some impressions of my way to Mary Immaculate College:



Don't forget, there is a new quiz and a new quote!

Murphy's Law and I: Best friends forever

Ha! I would live on the second floor, have morning sun and a dry floor - perfect. "Do you mind sharing the flat with four Irish girls?" Phil asked. How dare he even ask! Of course I do - this is the reason I came to Ireland after all: not to meet any Irish people.
Obviously, I could not move from hell to heaven - so, I'm somewhere in between now. Purgatory? There is only cold water, the vacuum cleaner is broken, my blinds too, my lights sound like space shuttles just before taking off (and produce as much smoke!), the bathroom floor is mouldy and my toilet lopsided. Worst of all: nobody cleaned before I moved in.
I sighed deeply, closed my eyes, approached the toilet and poured in so much of Tesco's Active Toilet Gel Citrus until all dirt was covered. I then left it for some minutes to deal with the wash basin in the meantime. I grabbed the tiny plug behind the water tap, pulled and wuish! Heaven, it hadn't been fixed! There it flew, high up in the air and down and down and down and NOOOOOooo. Disappeared under the bloody Active Toilet Gel. And I had no cleaning gloves...

Fighting for flats and reputation

As the good rooms seem to have been taken a long time ago, I had to find an other solution. Maybe I could move up to the top floor of Grove Island? Philip, the manager, just shook his head: "We are completely booked out." But couldn't I switch rooms with someone who has not arrived yet? I realised that there was a strict hierarchy: Newcomers start in "the dungeons" and have to fight up their ways to the top floors over years. So, originally, the idea probably was that you would spend your last year at college lying on the balcony of your top floor apartment in order to dry the dampness that has even reached your inner ear (and that through several types of earplugs!) in the past three years, and so that you would be clean and neat enough to be reintegrated into society. Grrrr. Help! What could I do? I tell you, it was destiny: Sweaty-Hand's books turned crinkly around the edges - so he complained. Who cares about his books?! What about ME turning crinkly around the edges?! Anybody care about that? Anyway, suddenly Phil revealed that there had been a cancellation.
To sum up: we moved, and both of us into different flats. "What a pity", Sweaty-Hand complained, but was I really sorry? It is torture to put literature students together in one flat, believe me. He was like "Have you read..?" and I "No, I.." and he "Have you read..?" and I "No, I'm very bad at contempor.." and he "Have you read..?" and I "NOOOOO, I HAVE NOT!"
He won 10 to 0 at least! Then, one night, we watched Henry VIII and when our dear old king was shown with a woman, my flat mate, just finishing his late night burger, said casually: "Let me guess, must be Anne Boleyn". That was it! MY chance! Now or never, I thought and said with an air of absolute coolness (so it was intended :-)): "Poor Wyatt". - "Hu?" my flat mate said. I knew it! "Poor Wyatt", I repeated, "must be very jealous". For all the ones among you who do not study English Literature: Sir Thomas Wyatt is said to have had an affair with Anne Boleyn and was nearly executed for it. "Hu?" Tataaaa! There was applause in my head.
So, now it was 10 to 1, and believe me, I was immensely proud of this one point.

House Hunting

We should never forget that there are also advantages of living in a damp flat:
a) your bread remains soft
b) you get fantastic entertainment while looking for an alternative accommodation.

The fascination with advantage a) soon faded, so I turned all my attention towards advantage b). Yesterday, I had the chance to look at three rooms all very close to MIC. (MIC, by the way, means "Mary Immaculate College", but MIC sounds much cooler, don't you think? Like Jack Bauer's CTU (Counter Terrorist Union) or FBI or CIA or whatever. "Just a sec, I'm on my way to MIC" - wicked!)
I definitely made up my mind about the first room when the landlady opened a drawer in the kitchen and some 20 centimetre high potato plants appeared. The second room was expensive but did not even have a desk. I see, Irish students do without such extras.
The third room? Somewhere in St. Joseph's Street. "Yeah, must be that house", a neighbour said. "O'Mahony, yeah, solicitor, yeah, she lets people into her house". Was that a sneer? Wasn't I looking alright? What the heck did she mean? When I arrived I saw that there were some wooden slats put behind the window (see picture). Since there was not even a door bell, I hammered with my fist against the door. Woof-woof. Gosh, dogs, I should have known. A security freak. "Just a mo:ment, do:n't go: away!" An elderly lady with greasy hair and a very, very old-fashioned skirt appeared. She looked like anything but a solicitor. "Come in, but don't judge the house yet - I'm in the middle of renovating everything - your room will be the best part of the house - come into the kitchen". I tiptoed carefully through the construction site and entered the messy kitchen. "I have just brand-new stuff, you see? Brand-new stove, brand-new fridge - always the best". I nodded and blinked at the dirty table - were these beans? Mmh, something that had been edible at one point, at any rate. "Yeah, don't judge by the table, we had a meal some days ago." Some days ago? She took away the wooden planks from the back window to reveal two large black dogs which she had locked into the court. "Good dogs, good dogs. Caught somebody climbing over the wall the other day, good dogs." By Jove! I stepped back. "They don't attack if you come through the front door", she tried to calm me. I see. What a relief! Mere lap dogs.
We then moved to the "best part of the house". On the way we passed another window and she quickly pulled back the curtains. "Normally, they are always pulled back, always", she muttered. Of course, they are. I'm sure that also the wooden slats are only there when you expect students to drop by. Normally your house is bright and light. Now, there it was: the best part! There was a bed, in front of which she had put some cardboard boxes - covered with a table-cloth: "A perfect place to study, isn't it?" she smiled. "By the way, all extra costs are included in the rent - unless you want to heat more. Now, this heater always has to be put to level 1. You do NOT turn it up, ok? 1 is enough." 1 of 9, sure. 1 is enough or I'll pay more, understood. "Now, there you have a windo:", yes, thank you, what a great addition to the room, "and a TV, because I don't like sharing my living room with other people." I see, thank you, goodbye, I will tell you by tomorrow.
What do you think? Have I moved?

Explaining my meanness

You might think that I have been a bit hard on my fat mate, sorry, flat mate (what a funny misspelling - and it really was one!), but let me explain: On the first day, he came to see me in the kitchen and said: "What you have to know about me: basically (I will leave these out in future, they annoy me enough in his speech after all!), I am a weirdo. "
Huh? Don't you too think that these people are the worst? Those that already think they are strange? I'm convinced they will always try, and that very hard, to be weird. It is their pride - pride of being odd.
When I told him today that I was looking for a new room, he kicked me in my bottom.(!) "This is how we wish good luck in Finland." I think I have every right to be a bit mean, don't you?

Basically a place to leave

I have actually not much time to write because I'll soon be off looking for some new accommodation. The dampness in this flat makes me ill. I tried to fight it by heating - now I feel as if I lived in the Masoala hall in the zoo of Zurich.
What I will miss here, basically, is my dear flat mate Sweaty Hand, who, basically, entertains me very much with his basically acquired American style of speaking. He basically spends his days shopping at SuperValu (because it's the nearest), watching TV and basically, drawing. So, when he watched Lord of the Rings last night - and I was waiting for a phone call - he started romanticising his abilities: "When I watch TV, I aaalways start drawing... I don't know why. Basically, I can't help it. Wanna have a look?" Gosh, really what I needed. He handed me about 30 sheets of paper, all covered with square-cut cartoon characters carrying guns or wearing horrifying masks. "Wow", I said because I couldn't think of more. These reminded me of our old paintings of Simba or Mowgli or Baloo when we still watched Lion King and other animated films and then doodled our heroes. "Don't look at the female bodies, though, basically I'm not very good at these." Oh dear, oh dear. Consequences of a long distance relationship can be severe, it seems. (His girlfriend lives in Tennessee.) He must be a faithful guy - I'm sure he hasn't even blinked at a woman since he last saw her.

Getting up in Hell

When I got up yesterday, I had lost all my cynicism. I was fed up and longing to go home. Yes, longing to go: ho:me! My new place was damp and dirty and worst of all: incredibly loud. I wished back all the Salesianum Ticinesi and would have given them gladly TWO electric guitars - well, no, one maybe.
As the floors are so cold here, I went to Penneys to buy some slippers. Queuing in front of the cashdesks, I saw that they also sold body milk and eye shadow. This, I definitely did not need - eye shadows come quite naturally with me these days.
For calming down my nerves I went walking along the river, which had unfortunately the opposite effect. I suddenly abhorred the place. Watch my film and tell me what YOU think.

PS: There is a new quiz and a new quote, as always on Sundays.