Yes, well that's the kind of blinkered philistine pig-ignorance I've come to expect from you non-creative garbage. You sit there on your loathsome, spotty behinds, not caring a tinker's cuss for the struggling artiste, you excrement. You whining, hypocritical toadies with your bleeding secret masonic handshakes and your Tony Jacklyn golfclubs. You wouldn't let me join you, would you? You black-balling bastards. Well, I wouldn't become a freemason now if you got down on your lousy stinking knees and begged me.... er sorry, I went off there.