BULLETIN > WEEK 1

I don’t know if it’s all the talk of seasons or eves, or the Tiger Diary that landed on my desk earlier this week (see below), but it’s been feeling a lot like Christmas.

Thanks to the inclination and determination of the Cygnet, we do Christmas build-up well in this household. It begins long before the first window is prised open on the advent calendar. In this house, it begins when the mid-year LEGO catalogue arrives in the mail. Slowly, subconsciously at first, it builds. Then, despite my best intentions to hold off until the twelfth month, by the end of November our simple home is decorated with treasured toilet role Santas and paper chains, a ‘real’ plastic Cumberland Pine with years of memories hung on its branches, drawings of absurd snowfields for red nosed reindeer decked in crystals and conifer needles and Scandinavian straw stars hanging from the mantelpiece. The machine is in gear. Then follow letter writing, baking, wrapping, letter re-writing, snooping and many sleepless nights wondering what it will all amount to. For parents, much of December is spent holding the excitement at bay, trying to pace the family, timing the preparations just right so that the team is in tip top shape come the big day. Since late last month, I’ve been experiencing all the same phenomena.

Since the first kick of the pre-season cup, Swans have started coming out of the woodwork around the house. I saw the two white ones in the Salvos window on Canterbury Road last week and swerved to recruit them. The last of the cherry tomatoes have been turned with a little bocconcini. The lucky locket has been polished. The scarves are out of storage and airing on the line. The Dreamteam has been written and rewritten and rewritten. (And I still have til 7.40 to ask for the beautiful tall black forward.) The big man in a suit was even on the cover of the weekend magazine last Saturday. And Auskick has begun. (I nearly tore my hamstring from the bone in a game of stuck-in-the-mud with the Under 7s last night.)

Finally the day is almost upon us. It’s almost time to open up the brightly coloured packages and see what's inside for season 2011. From tonight, we can start unwrapping!! What can we hope to find?

A better song for Freo; a Five Trick Magic Starter Kit for the Tigers, complete with Cash Money Note Maker®; a two-headed Ablett superhero figure (hair sold separately); definitely undies for the boys down at Moorabin; a bronzed, blonde new Coach Doll down at the Bombers (he comes with training outfit, business suit and game day face); a very festive set of red and green ‘Sub Vests’; a carry-case of Eagle soft toys; a fourth Jetta action hero to go with the four Selwoods released last year? Anti ageing cream should suffice down at Geelong and some charisma for the Adelaide teams – organic, corn-fed, Barossa reared and exportable of course. National retailers are relieved to hear that Brisbane stores have at last sold the only remaining Fevola doll.

There will naturally be the things you get every season: a new achilles or two, a couple more synthetic cruciate ligaments and a box set of hamstrings; a handful of new captains, and a few new coaches – a twin pack available this year. There will no doubt be more tattoo vouchers.

But for some of us lucky ones, we will get the ultimate – that shiny, deluxe-sized trophy which lights up the windows of the AFL headquarters. Could the morning booty really be that good or will it be black and white socks from Uncle Eddie, just like last year.

This weekend, we will feast and be merry, bring a special bottle out of the cellar and wear a funny hat. We may imbibe too much. As the funny sirens are blown, we will rise to the spirit of a good day or roll with the first revolution of the wheels of despair. And like every family missing a member on the big day, we will take a moment to remember. For the Bloods, we’ll be missing Craig Bolton – one of very few articulate, fine boned gentleman to have ever played the game. We will remember him as he wished.

‘I’d like to be remembered as a dashing half forward who kicked 10 goals a game, got a lot of the footy and was a great ball user but I probably won’t be remembered like that.’

Happy season and happy tipping!

Season 2011 - The Tiger Diary

T'was the night before kick off,
as always it hurts.
Not a creature was tipping
the Tigers as certs.

Perhaps maybe coulda-been.
Something to hope for.
A limousine outfit
that don't need no chauffeur.
Attacking defensive on ballers to go for.
Rookies from nowhere,
A bagful to show for.
A season for Richmond with plenty of sings.
Bring on a few of my favourite things.

Beanies, opinions, the coaches and minions
The marks and the commentary
Lions and christians.
Devastation. Elation. Despair and delight.
Happy tipping to all, and to all a good night.

as it should be

tut tut

Freo may be on the second rung of the ladder ... but they're pinching the Son of God!

Fremantle's Hayden Ballantyne has been charged with pinching Geelong's Gary Ablett and can accept a $900 sanction with an early plea

The Saints/Magpies conflict is a farce.

Collingwood coach Mick Malthouse and St Kilda forward Stephen Milne have both been fined by the AFL for their part in a verbal clash at Etihad Stadium on Friday night. Malthouse was fined $7500 for calling Milne a "f...ing rapist", while Milne was fined $3000 for making derogatory comments about the Magpies coach's age. Milne also questioned the sexuality of Collingwood assistant Paul Licuria. Licuria was fined $3000 for using threatening language towards Milne.

And as for those Tigers ...

To the naughty chair, the lot of them!

season 2010 begins

a new year

juju n. A charm, amulet, fetish or idol of some W. African peoples; the supernatural or magical power believed to be associated with such an object

On Friday morning, as the coffee was newly steaming in the glasses and an unfamiliar, but somehow welcome autumn chill wafted in the back door, the Cygnet (yes, finally, he’s relented – but that’s another bulletin) and I were fiddling with our dream team in the office. Yes, in the absence of spreadsheets and inspired by Coach Ian, we are coaching our own dream team this year (but that’s another bulletin).

As we began the long teetering that is the process of selecting our weekly captain (the captain doubles his points!), we heard a significantly louder than usual ‘chirp’. ‘That’s a happy birdie,’ I said. A second cheep had us turning inward towards the dining room until we saw fluttering on the light fitting. ‘It’s inside,’ we all called, in unison.

The three of us approached it, our faces tuned upwards towards the light. How extraordinary to see three humans activated so thoroughly by a small bird inside. It flew into the living room and round and round and round and round. Patrick followed its progress, towel in hand, flapping - a hopeless spectator to its ineffectiveness at getting itself out of such a predicament. Omar watched from the hallway. I returned to my coffee. What could I do? Having dealt with a bull-bull in the back verandah only a month or two ago, the Willy Wagtail belonged to the boys.

After some more swirling and flapping and the odd shower of fine, black down, Patrick had the bright idea to release the living room fly screens and the bird had the sense to flee.

We closed the open doors around the house, mildly titillated by the event. Until I remembered the story. A story. It was hazy. An Aboriginal woman telling me of the foretold death of a kinswoman thanks to a Willy Wagtail. Had it been the blessed Ruby? The woman and her sister had each seen a Willy Wagtail, separately, on the same day and that night their other sister died. It was a story I’m sure I had heard somewhere. ‘Wasn’t it you who told me?’ I asked Patrick who looked pale and sculled his coffee. I’m sure it was a wagtail.

The house resumed its rhythm and once more took up the silence of the daily start-up. Cereal was poured, toast buttered, fruit diced, goldfish fed.

‘Are you still online?’ Patrick asked, after a while. ‘Can you just check the Willy Wagtail thing? Stick in ‘Willy Wagtail’ and ‘Aboriginal’. I stuck in ‘Willy Wagtail’ and ‘Aboriginal’. From Wikipedia:

The Willie Wagtail was a feature in Australian aboriginal folklore. Aboriginal tribes in parts of south eastern Australia, such as the Ngarrindjeri of the Lower Murray River (Ruby was Ngarrindjeri) and the Narrunga People of the Yorke Peninsula (Mick O’Loughlin is from the Yorke Peninsula), regard the Willie Wagtail as the bearer of bad news. It was thought that the Willie Wagtail could steal a person’s secrets while lingering around camps eavesdropping, so women would be tight-lipped in the presence of the Willie Wagtail …

Patrick, I should add, is deeply superstitious, and was still recovering from news he received from an apparently good friend after his 44th birthday on Tuesday. Said friend had accompanied his ‘Happy Birthday’ message with the news that 44 was very bad luck in China, 44 being linguistically close to ‘death death’. He didn’t say much after I read him the above. It was simply a steady progression towards a shower and dressing and a peak hour bike trip to work.

The Cygnet and I resumed our work. Riewoldt, O’Keefe or Goddard for captain?
‘Goddard is reliable,’ I suggested.
‘But we’ve already had him,’ chirped the Cygnet, always one for change.
‘What about O’Keefe then? He’s got a 127.50 average?’
‘So does Riewoldt,’ added the Cygnet. He’s right. Of course. And he loves Riewoldt.
‘Ok, so Riewoldt or Ryan?’
And we decided on Nick.

* * *

That night Patrick got home late. He walked into the dining room, socks pulled up over his jeans, perspiring, still strapped into his bike helmet, a white light flashing on the crown of his head.

‘Oh, you got a new light?’ the Cygnet admired.
‘Well I figured that with daylight savings … and the dark … and I’ll be riding in the dark … so I thought … ‘ He removed his helmet and held it before us. ‘It’s got three functions … front and back both flashing, front flashing and back still, back flashing and front steady … it’s just, with the dark … riding in the dark now … I thought …’
The Willy Wagtail.

Portent weaves its way through all of our lives. Anything could be a sign. Any trivial something that floats its way across our days could end up being the arrow that we missed. Or the arrow that we recognise as it is launches from the bow. Or the arrow that we remember, in hindsight, and wish we’d paid some attention to.

The siren blew on Friday night football and I listened sporadically for our captain’s feats and the steady accumulation of our most reliable players’ stats – we have Goddard and Gram in our dream team too.

There was alarm as Riewoldt left the field in the first quarter to have a hip flexor/groin looked at. There was concern as he limped down into the rooms to have a rolled ankle strapped, but relief as he returned. And resumed. By half time, Riewoldt had suffered a possible ‘ham from the bone’. There was plain disconsolation. All our bonus points would add up to precious nothing!

‘Jesus,’ I called to Patrick, ‘It’s the Willy Wagtail. Black and white, bird and all.’

I remembered the story now. It was a friend’s neighbour. A remarkable 91 year old Aboriginal woman who had brought up and schooled 6 children as a single mother in Laperouse. The day she died, both her sisters had seen Willy Wagtails and had known she would die that night.
‘It was for the Saints,’ I cried as Fisher was stretchered off with a facial blow and Hayes had a busted nose strapped up. Patrick put his head over the sink. I could see the relief wash over him. It had been meant for someone else.

It was bad news for the Saints. With one on the bench to rotate, a midfield dragging the job of two absent tall forwards and the lingering loss of the captain (and second premiership chance), the Saints looked beyond hope. Noble warriors or not, surely the Pies would put them away. The black and white bird had come to sing for a black and white victory.

But sometimes you don’t know which side of the portentous fence you’re on. The Saints piled on four last quarter goals. The black and white had their chance to reply. 7 minutes and 58 seconds into the last quarter, Cloke sprayed a kick out of bounds on the full. With 10 minutes 28 gone, John McCarthy missed a set shot on goal out to the left. They flapped and flapped, round and round but couldn’t get out of their predicament and were without the luxury of fleeing. The bird was playing for the other team. The Pies ended the match having kicked 4.17. That must be Collingwood for ‘death death’.

Collywobbles. Collytails. Willywood. 2 and 20 black and white birds were baked in a Pie. I’m just glad there’s no red and white juju birds round here.

But … that’s right. Oh no. It’s the Year of the Tiger.

WHAT DOG IS THAT COACH?

Greater (or is it Western?) Sydney has a lot to look forward to. Meet their coach, Kevin Sheepy.


Thanks Lucie, for a superb year of doggie coaches. Looking forward to the 2010 Desk Calendar.

PS. QUOTES OF THE (TRADE)WEEK

'I want to express my deep sorriness again.' - Brendan Fevola, Brisbane Lion.

'If he had of been carrying on like that in our day, Norm Johnson (a notorious Fitzroy hardman) would have punched his lights out to make him wake up to himself.' - Lions legend Kevin "Bulldog" Murray, with a clue as to how the Lions may change the Fev's ways.

TRADING

PHOTO: PAT SCALA

Just when you thought it was the end of season and time to put your mind up for a while …

Trade week.

Here are my thoughts from the week, written on the run:

I find trade week deeply unsettling. Never mind the world’s domino chain of natural disasters … every morning this week brings a new trade shock. It’s like losing members of your family. Or gaining new ones for that matter.

Consider being a Saints fan and learning that Luke Ball had rejected a three year deal and wants to go to the Pies. It’s like losing your kid brother to the school bully’s family, so that he ends up staring at you over the fence.

Consider being a Blues fan and losing Fev. I mean, some might argue that it’s a relief to lose the old uncle who can’t handle his grog, but you’ve got to admit that you know Christmas will be a lot more dull.

Consider being a Swan and learning that your ruck-man has gone to … Collingwood. It’s like having the tall capable brother-in-law of the family, the one you welcomed in a few years ago from the other side of the tracks, the one whose got a lot of trades and knows how to fix everything around the house, go off and marry into another family.

Baz failed his final year at the Sydney Swans Wellness Clinic. Tami and Paul Roos must accept that not everyone can be fixed with meditation and Bloody oaths. But imagine being a Bulldogs supporter and looking down at the next forward line, stacked with Aker and Bazza. Hard core Bulldogs must really feel satisfied that the club, by all appearances, is going back to its ‘westy’ roots.

How would Hawks fans feel about their big tough defender being ‘allegedly’ offered up as a carrot to the Power in order to get a Burgoyne? It’d be like losing your big brother, just as you were about to embark on a school yard brawl.

And what about Bombers fans? How would you feel losing speedster Lovett to the Saints. It’d be like robbing a bank with your cousins and getting outside to find that the getaway car driver has been born again a Christian.

At least you get Williams in return. One spunky blackfella with X factor for one spunky blackfella with X factor. A good deal. That’d do nicely in Sydney.

And finally spare a thought for the Lions supporters: with Buchanan, Staker, Raines and Clarke X brought in, then Fev at the final hour … it’d be like living with Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. You’d never know where the next one was coming from.

In the aftermath of trade week, club supporters have numerous little emotional adjustments to make. There is a realignment of loyalties and interests to be undertaken before they sign off on the pink slip for the new season. There’s no easy week for a supporter of the oval ball.

Happy draft!

Others have suffered too. Nigel sent this to the backpocket on Thursday:

The Burial of the Dead

October is the cruelest month, breeding
Rucks out of the west land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Jolly roots with magpie rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful Mickey O, feeding
A little life with Barry Hall.

Summer surprised us, coming over the trades
With a shower of drafts; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into draft week,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.

Feel free to add your own sufferings below in COMMENTS.

SEASON OVER

THE BULLETIN

I watched every minute of the Grand Final. Every excruciating minute, with a couple of panadols and some sorely tested cuticles.

Long after Patrick had headed off to the theatre and the Eaglet was tucked in his nest, I watched Ten HD’s post grand final coverage in full, right to its final montage. At a quarter to nine on Saturday night, save for the days of newspaper skimmings ahead, season 2009 came to an end. It’s mostly relief I feel. I think.

I endured the Grand Final badly. I endured St Kilda’s loss far worse than I had anticipated. I expected it to be softened by the fact of Geelong’s win. But it wasn’t … much. Everyone had been selling this year’s grand final as a win/win. No matter which team won, you’d be happy. In theory, I agreed. But what I felt was the loss, not the win.

I didn’t expect to feel so deflated. I wasn’t sure whether perhaps it was all the slow motion replays to Coldplay or the sight of my teenage ‘objet du désir’, Mark Seymour, sharing a stage with Barnesy and Farnsey. Or whether it was the visible pressure on Nick Riewoldt’s shoulders or Kosi’s arm around his waist at the end, or the sight of all those bald heads and Gary Ablett constantly pumping his fists in the air or the fact that everyone kept talking about ‘deserving’. It may have been all those things. But mostly I think it is because I deal with built expectations and dashed hopes with particular sensitivity. It’s my emotional Achilles heel.

At the end of one hundred and twenty minutes of football, I didn’t have any of the ‘chin up’ or ‘it’ll be their turn next year’ in me. I had none of the cool and comfortable distance of a non-supporter. I couldn’t muster an even-minded ‘well, I’m happy for Geelong.’ I couldn’t even dig out a little ‘footy was the winner on the day.’ All I could see was the disappointment of those Saints, the captain in particular. I could hear their minds’ voices starting a chant, a building chorus of ‘if onlys’ that would crescendo in the small hours of the morning. I can’t bear to see people gravely disappointed and if the cup had ended up on the other side of the bay, I probably would have felt the same for the blue and white hoops. As Peter put it to me on Sunday, it was in fact a lose/lose situation.

Feeling it in this way, could it be a character flaw? Sign of a pessimistic disposition? Evidence of unhealthy empathy? No. Just another glance into the looking glass that is football.

And now, it’s time to turn away from the mirror and run outdoors for summer.

It’s been a fine year in football. It’s been a long year. Well, in truth, it’s been a year with the same number of matches and rounds than any other year. But it has seemed long. Perhaps, as a Swan, the end-of-an-era business has played a part. It’s been a long time since the Swans were free in September and forever since the Tip Mistress faced a pre-season without Magic. There was also an element of ‘four seasons in one year’ about 2009: the dominance of the Saints and the Cats – the two horse race; followed by the encroachment of the field and the emergence of at least three other true contenders; followed by a largely competitive finals series and a return to the two horse race. It had a nice symmetry about it. And the Grand Final, with its repetitive grind, its relentless stoppages, its all contested ball, its war of attrition was a fitting full stop.

End of final chapter. Close the book. A good read. Recommend to others. Sequel likely.

It was suggested to me by one esteemed tipster that I might do a final bulletin – ‘a summary of the year and thoughts on 2010’. Well there’s my ‘I’ve already forgotten all the details’ summary of 2009. And as for 2010 …

Without the divets of the hallowed MCG turf having even been filled, the decibels on the whispering about salary caps and trades and drafts and the season ahead start to increase. They’ve even posted the odds for the Round 22 ladder for next year!? I simply can’t go there. Perhaps it’s age. My newly acquired three dozen years have slowed me. Or perhaps it’s the realisation that thinking ahead to next year feels to me a bit like riding the clutch. Sometimes it’s better just to apply the handbrake, let things idle for a while and be patient. Alert but patient.

Tipping too is a long, hard game. You have all played superbly this year, with commitment, stamina and grace. The Eaglet asked me in the car the other day:
‘So, how did you do mum?’
‘Not so great.’ I recalled. ‘But you did well.’
‘What did I come again?’
‘Oh, you came about 10th I think.’
‘Did you come last?’
‘No, not quite. I think I came 19th or 20th. Something like that.’
‘Out of how many?’
’25.’
‘Hmm. Not so good. Almost last.’
It’s good to be reminded by the next generation of your failures.

In the last couple of weeks, I have also come to the realisation that tipping largely confirms all the things which rile me about daily societal life more generally. It confirms that the underdog only rarely gets up; that fairytales rarely come true and mostly end up with everyone turning into pumpkins; that conservatism pays and standing out is unprofitable; that consistency will methodically thwart flair; that the unexpected is unexpected for a reason; and that, when it comes to quantifiable success, the head must dominate the heart. It confirms that lone heroes rarely triumph against consensus. Football is a little different. There’s more margin for nuance. That’s why I’m sticking with football. But tipping is another game, one I have found increasingly difficult to forebear. Hell, I’ve never been a numbers girl!!

Yes, most esteemed tipsters, I’m hanging up the spreadsheet. I’m retiring.

When I say retirement, there’s always the slim chance that I’ll end up just like Plugger or Fraser Gerhrig (or John Farnham for that matter) – on the comeback trail before the boots have stopped stinking, in a guernsey that’s a little too tight, looking for a gig in the goal square. I’ll probably find myself, come March, building a new website and begging for customers.

But until then, despite the fact that tipping in the backpocket has also been immeasurably pleasurable, I don’t have Saint Leigh Montagna’s determination to ‘butter up and come back for another crack’. Now that I’m over 35, I’m following the veteran on this one. I’m taking the Matthew Lloyd approach: ‘It’s better to go out a year too soon, than a year too late.’ So I’m looking forward to a year of football, in 2010, uncomplicated by tipping. (Well I may have the odd Friday night dabble on page 38 of the Herald, just me, the pen and the kitchen bench ... and, of course, the contrary voice of the Eagle in one ear.)

I thank you all for your participation across four years. You have deepened my inbox, charmed my footy brain and brightened all my weekends. You have made me think differently about winter days and nights. I hope you will continue to chat footy (or life) with me anyways.

Special thanks to Tony – the Statswally – for all his statistical genius and generous ‘help centre’ hours. If the Tip Mistress is the public face of the backpocket – the Gary Ablett, let’s say? – Tony is the football department and there’s no way we would ever have been on the field without him. And special mention to Richard, the Tigerheart, for his morsels which have delighted my soul no end and generally operated in reversal of the aforementioned tipping trends. I will be maintaining my domain name if only to host the ‘Tiger Diary’ during 2010's Chinese year of the Tiger.

To our champions – Mark, Anna/Miro, Peter and Sharolyn – you are great ambassadors for the backpocket. I heartily salute you and hope you will carry the memories of your titles for all of your days and perhaps even hold a little reunion in the years ahead and invite me for a beer.

If anyone would like to take the baton, it is only a handball away.

And, if you are looking to extend the season just a teensy bit … can’t let go yet, you might like to try these: this lovely piece on 'the decisive moment' over at the Almanac. And a solid season review from Tim Lane, with a little bit of bite. Just the way I like it.

Otherwise, happy summer!

THE FINAL QUESTIONS

1. Are the footy Gods the same for all codes or are there code specific deities?
2. Does the AFL realise that it is very confusing having two Roos in the comp – 1. The coach of the Sydney Swans, Paul Roos. 2. The North Melbourne team. Have they considered demanding that one of them develop an AFL name in the spirit of the clash strips imposed on all teams (except Collingwood) these days?
3. Is there an ante-natal test to predict the likelihood of the foetus having a ‘footy brain’?
4. Could the AFL and NRL come to an arrangement whereby they swap Israel Folau for Barry Hall?
5. Is this question now obsolete given the G17’s signing of Karmichael Hunt?
6. What sport could the Swans trade Barry to?
7. What about horse racing? The Swans could do with a nippy small forward. We’d have to restrict use of the whip though.
8. Is Matthew Lloyd considering a career in boxing?
9. With the number of guys talking about 4 quarters these days, is there any actual alternative?
10. Why is a ‘behind’ called a ‘behind’ and not a ‘beside’?
11. And why is a strawberry called a strawberry?
12. What will Etihad Stadium be called next year?
13. Will a coffee table book of ‘What Dog is that Coach?’ be available for Christmas? Greeting cards?
14. Can 2009 Swans Club Champion, Ryan O’Keefe, win best and fairest on Celebrity Master Chef?
15. Is there any point continuing past Question 14 – the number of the great Swans Skilton, Kelly …? (I can't find the 'strikethrough' font option at blogspot, otherwise this one would have been struck through ...)
16. One more thing ... does Kosi know something about some kind of pressure point just under Nick Riewoldt's right breast? See photo above and just below too! Oppositions may like to look into this. It seems to bring a pained expression and even tears. Could be useful.

THE TIGER DIARY - THE LAST PAGE 2009
Monday, 28th September 2009 BC

Deep in the back of the lair there is something stinking.
The stench wont let you think.
It's more than a losers' locker room kind of smell.
It's more than the dynamic lifter that some idiot keeps digging into the pebbles around the base of the plastic palms.
It's deeper than the wretched carpet and its mouldy unholy underlay.
Is it just rotting yum cha?
Is it perchance a little too much Proust?
Has anyone seen Lazy Susan lately?
And why wont Sheeds collect his 1979 sports bag from lost property?
What IS that smell?
One man has the job to find out before the Year of the Tiger can begin.
He’s The Head Exorcist,
Damien Omen Hardwick.

QUOTE OF THE WEEK/YEAR

'The only constant in AFL football is change.' - Ross Lyon, post Grand Final.
I noticed that Max Hudghton blurted it out in the carpark before the Grand Final too. I think it could be Ross Lyons' scary brainwashing tool. Spooky! Can we expect to hear it on the podium on the last Saturday in September 2010? Keep an ear out.

* * *

grand final - the build up

first things first.
brownlow schmownlow. ablett schmablett.


our very own 'miro' of the anna/miro team last week won the best and fairest for the newtown swans U11s. he has taken home 'the golden boot' which I am told now has pride of place on the entrance table. it is also miro's birthday in five days so we wish the soon-to-be-11 year old champ a big thumbs up for a seriously solid year in the centre.

grand final is only days away.
here are the teams.
gerard whateley's thoughts on the teams are here.
the almanac's finals chat is here.
the AGE's grand final week news is here.
AGE tipsters are here.

good luck.
happy tipping.
have a great sat arvo.
x tm