“Sure ya won’t stay for tea?” the
old man offers one more time, a twinkle in his eye, as I start packing up my
gear. I know he means “tea” the
old-fashioned Aussie way, not “tea” meaning the warming caffeinated beverage
but “tea” meaning the third and final of the three traditional meals of the
day, what I’d call “dinner”.
“No, but thank you again,” I
smile, returning his ocular twinkle with my own.
It’s been a long day, and
hot. Early summer in this part of
Australia, and especially nowadays, is a harsh sudden snap of dryness and heat,
and the gently curving pastures of Tim “Timbo” King’s stud farm (“The Kingdom”,
he calls it) already shimmer with hot air, like the atmosphere itself is
sweating. Being a city girl myself, I’m
not used to the long distances required of country travel, and I’m aching to
get back to my comfortable air-conditioned apartment in the hustle and bustle –
but of course, that’s not really the main reason I refuse Timbo’s offer of
dinner.
Mr King has been a pleasure to
interview: he’s got that special kind of old-country tale-telling easiness
about him, he’s able to spin a yarn without any kind of nervousness or
self-consciousness or showiness, like we’re old mates just sitting a spell
(even though, in reality, we’re honestly completely different people, him a
leathery red-cheeked old farmhand, and me a soft-skinned city-slicker journo
roughly thirty years his junior). I was
instantly comfortable around this twinkling-eyed old man, in a way I’m rarely
comfortable around anyone, especially older men: there’s just something… kind about him. Although his hide may be leathery and his
white-bristled face is pocked with the places where modern medicinal science
has plucked out small lesions from too many days in the sun, there is nothing
about Old Timbo that is harsh or hard: even his voice, a sound like creaky
door, carries with it a certain softness or familiarity, like it’s a creaky
door to a larder full of your favourite childhood sweets. It’s a warm sound, a smooth wooden
sound. I think he’s just a really decent
guy, who is genuinely trying to do what he thinks is the right thing.
Before we sit down in his modest
white-walled living room to conduct the interview, Timbo walks me around the
paddocks – quiet, soft-hilled, lush – and shows me the horse shed, where his twelve
stallions sleep, eat, and shelter from the harsh summer rays. I’m not a horse-lady by any means, but even I
can tell, with my untrained urban sensibilities, that these are horses that are
content, flourishing even, and that they are well-loved, even if their owner
is, amongst his human contemporaries, a figure of at best amused derision, and
at worst complete disgusted ostracisation.
We chat. He lays it all out in the open for me, with a
candour that is refreshingly unselfconscious: I don’t feel like he’s hiding
anything from me, or attempting to manipulate his own history, or colour his
life’s events any way. When Old Timbo
tells me his unusual tale, it feels like he’s just explaining how he went from
where he was then to where he is now, without any motive other than
clarity. It’s easy to listen, and time
passes remarkably quickly.
As I leave Timbo’s squat
red-brick farmhouse (cooled only by a few half-opened white-wooden windows and
a reluctant meandering breeze), I feel exceedingly strange. Partly, of course, it’s the strangeness of
his story, and the strangeness with which we “normal people” view his current
lifestyle, but it’s also that I know, as I jump into my car and begin the long
journey home, that I’ll likely never see this man again: a journalist and her
subject are only ever brought together for that one story, and, now that that
one story is recorded, it’s all over.
We’re back to being strangers, and I’m somehow already nostalgic for the
brief time when we weren’t. He seems
like a better person, deep down, than most of us ever dare to be.
The drive is long, and there are
so many thoughts and feelings stumbling over themselves inside my head as I
drive. When I get home, I feel like I’ve
been away for a month or more, rather than the single day it’s really
been. And even now, although it’s been
weeks since I spoke to the grizzled twinkly-eyed old man on his country estate,
every time I sit down for a meal, I get a flash of his kind, weathered face,
and I have to push the image away before I can eat.
Like I said: exceedingly strange.
Here’s the unedited transcript of
my interview with Tim “Timbo” King.
*****
TIMBO: So, what’s that, a little
tape recorder?
ME: That? No, that’s just my
phone.
TIMBO: [chuckles] Nifty little
gadgets, eh? My eldest gave me one of
those a couple of years ago, tried to teach me how to use it, never quite got
the hang of the bloomin’ thing. Not much
need for it at my age, you follow? I just use the, what do they call it these
days? The “land line”. I just call it
the “telephone”, ha. Not that… well, not
that anyone calls Old Timbo on the phone much these days. Lucky Old Timbo likes his own company, ha!
ME: So you live here alone?
TIMBO: Oh yes. Oh yes.
Very much so, I’m afraid. Wasn’t
always the way, but… well, life goes on, you know how things go.
ME: You don’t need-
TIMBO: Course, I’m not really
alone, am I! Old Timbo’s got plenty of
company, out there in the paddocks.
Darn sight better conversations with those old fellas than with most
folk, present company excluded. [chuckles] Old Timbo says to me horsey
mates “is there any trouble and strife for Old Timbo today fellas?” and the old
fellas out there in the paddock, they say to me, “nay!” [chuckles] Sorry, I did cut
you off there, terribly impolite of me.
Forgive an old fella, won’t you?
ME: Forgiven. No, no, I was just saying, you don’t feel the
need for company? Human company?
TIMBO: Well, truth be told, now
and then of course Old Timbo will pine for maybe a spot of whist or a couple of
hands of euchre… but, no, no, on the whole, humans are a bit complicated. Bit complicated and… well, not saying they’re
hypocritical, but most folk are too scared of appearing a certain way, you
follow? Most folk are frightened of
standing out. Most folk are scared of
doing what they really believe, in their heart of hearts, out of fear of being
frowned upon, looked upon poorly by their peers. Sticking to your guns… sticking to your guns
can drive people away. [sighs] House wasn’t always empty.
ME: So, when you stick to your
guns… what are Tim King’s guns? What
drives-
TIMBO: Please, call me
Timbo. That’s what everyone used to call
me. And then, once I crossed a certain
line in the age department, they called me “Old Timbo”. That’s what I call meself now, seeing as I’m
the only one who talks to me any more – “Old Timbo”. “Tim King” is a man from long ago, it’s been
many moons ago that fella was around, I can assure you. Just “Old Timbo” now.
ME: So, what drives Old Timbo?
TIMBO: Well… well, I just don’t
want to make a mess of it. Of being
alive. I just want to… I don’t want to
bring any more suffering into this tired old cryin’ world. Everywhere ya look, pain and suffering. I
don’t want to add to it. You mind if I
tell you a little story?
ME: No, please! That’s exactly what I want you to tell me.
TIMBO: You’re a darling. Well, see, Old Timbo was once a young man –
devilishly handsome, quite the raconteur, I don’t mind telling ya – who didn’t
give a howling hoot about anyone but himself.
Couldn’t care less, this young man, about anyone or anything but
himself. Took what he wanted, whichever
way it came to him, he wasn’t fussed, you follow? Charming bloke, real flash, but not a nice
fella, not in the least. But had it all. Lovely wife, bonny children, a nice little
house on a nice little acreage… King by name, king by nature! Had a very profitable little farm chugging
away, cows, sheep, the works. But then
one day… I dunno, there was just something nigglin’. Nigglin’, chewing away, on the back of my
mind. I think it started with the cries…
I just don’t know, hard to pinpoint it precisely, but when I think back on it
to best of my ability, I think it began with those cries. The cries of the cows when we took away their
children. Just wee little tackers, they
were! The cries of those mums – and of
course the cries of the calves when we took them away. You know what sadness sounds like. You know what sufferin’ sounds like. But you have to get real creative to make it
sound like something else. It’s amazing
what the brain can come up with, you follow?
To pretend it’s not real sufferin’.
But that niggle, well, it just got bigger, and all those clever tricks
I’d been usin’ to turn that cryin’ into something else, well, they all stopped
working, didn’t they. I just couldn’t do
it any more.
ME: Is that when you started to-
TIMBO: Hold your horses, darl,
I’m getting there. Old Timbo sometimes
takes the scenic route, you follow?
ME: Sorry, sorry. Please.
Carry on.
TIMBO: No, no, you’re all right
love, you’re all good. Just workin’ my
way there. I don’t talk to people much
these days. Humans, I mean. Human
people. Forgive me, love.
ME: Its fine, really, it’s fine.
TIMBO: And so yeah, the King was
on his throne. The King was still on his
throne in his Kingdom, but he wasn’t a happy chappie any more. I ignored it, of course, as well as I could –
heaven forbid! – of course I did, I hid those voices away, and acted like
nothin’ was happening. But it was. I was changing, inside. And, like a dam under a hundred-weight of
water, well, even the strongest walls fall under enough pressure, don’t
they. And I had what they call nowadays
a “breakdown” – although it was never called anything in my day. [sighs,
arms raised in a resigned-type of shrug]
We just shut up and kept on going, didn’t we, my lot. But inside, I tell you no lies, I was dying inside. You know what got to me the hardest? It was just so, well, it just seemed so ruddy
unfair. That’s what it was. Just ruddy unfair. Just out of bad luck, nothing else, just
blind dumb luck, these little unlucky blighters were going to be ruddy
tormented – real torment, mind you, just as real as yours or mine – these
little poor bastards scuse my French, they were going to be mistreated and
slaughtered, all because of me. Yours
truly. Hundreds, thousands, countless numbers
of poor ruddy souls, they were given Hell, all under my watch. Couldn’t take it any more, I couldn’t. And I shut the whole Kingdom down. Just like that. Closed for business. And my we had rows we did, massive blues we
had, the missus and me, and the kids, they got on board too, thought their old
man had gone round the bend! But truth
be told, I had actually finally seen reality, like the old man behind the
Wizard of Oz, you know the picture, with the munchkins and the flying
monkeys? It was like I was seeing behind
the curtain, you follow? And everything
I’d believed in was a lie, and now I had a chance to fix it, and I don’t know,
for some reason I just couldn’t ignore it any more. It was the unfairness, love.
ME: So you became a vegan first,
is that right?
TIMBO: No, no, not straight
away. And I haven’t been a ruddy vegan
for many moons now, I can tell you. Not
since I heard that thing on the radio about the plants talking to each
other. No, not for many years.
ME: But-
TIMBO: No, this is what
happened. First of all, I just broke
down entirely, completely, didn’t know what to do, or where to turn, or how to
make it right. Complete and utter
collapse on all fronts, you follow? I
think that’s an important part to write down, because it’s easy to tell the
tale of “Timbo the farmer comes good” or what have you, but it’s important to
know just how low I got first. Weeks of this, like the floodgates were
opened in my heart, opened up wide, and ruddy if I didn’t almost get swept out
to sea myself when those rivers of grief started flowing. I don’t mind telling ya, Old Timbo was a
complete mess. So there was that
stage. But then I thought to meself, I
thought, well, I’ll make a rule, and that’s when I invented the idea of being a
Wrestlerian. [name clarified in written communications with Mr King post-interview]
Because at that stage I still didn’t honestly know what I was going to do, so I
was open to try anything, anything that I thought would help make it all
right. The idea of being a Wrestlerian
was a simple one: the rule was, you can eat anything that you can defeat in a
fair fight.
ME: What’s a “fair fight”?
TIMBO: Well, I guess I was trying
to make it “natural” or something, wasn’t I.
So the basic premise was, in “nature” creatures eat creatures all the
time, but they don’t round them up with fences or use guns or trucks or cattle-prods
or artificial insemination, do they. No bloody
way, they just use what the good Lord gave ‘em, and just try to survive. “If you can beat ‘em, you can eat ‘em.” That was actually going to be the motto of
the movement – I had visions of it becoming a movement, back then, and any good
movement needs a few good mottos, right?
Hahaha – Old Timbo was always thinking big, love. “If you can beat ‘em,
you can eat ‘em.”
ME: “If you can beat ‘em, you can
eat ‘em.” So we’re talking poultry,
lambs, rabbits, things like that?
TIMBO: Ever tried to catch a
rabbit with your bare hands love? No
rabbits on the Wrestlerian menu, I can tell you that much for free! Flighty little beggars, fast! My word, they go like the clappers. But you’re on the right track love. Trying to make it more natural, fit into the
natural order of things. Cows, well,
they’re obviously out. Sheep? If you can catch ‘em, it depended on the
sheep. Just beast versus beast, you
follow? Old Timbo the organism, brute animal force versus brute animal force –
or cunning, speed, whatever qualities the particular beast was blessed with, in
each specific case. I’d get naked and race
at ‘em, and pin the bastards down scuse my French and go for the jugular, or
try to break ‘em on a rock or what have you.
I can tell ya now, it’s a ruddy hard-earned dinner when you’re a
Wrestlerian.
ME: How long did that last for?
TIMBO: I can’t give you the
specifics with any great deal of accuracy love, I’m sorry to say. I know it was around when Joan left me
though, so that’d be the late 90s. Last
century! Ha! Well, and who can blame her, eh? They, none of ‘em really understood what was
happening to Old Timbo, and fair enough.
Thought I was kooky as a crackerjack, they did. So did I sometimes, to be fair and
honest. But really, I was just finding a
place where it didn’t hurt to be alive, truth be told. Finding a place where I didn’t hate meself. So. I
thought the answer was in being “natural”, in being a “proper animal”, but to
be completely honest with ya love, I hated every minute of it. Some of the victories felt good, on a primal
or visceral level, you follow, Old Timbo felt like a great warrior! And not only a great warrior, but like I was
doing something good, something right. But
that feeling of triumph was short-lived and always – always – mixed with a feeling of just deep-down badness and sadness
and just, I don’t know, just more trauma. It was unfair still. I was still causing harm. And the harm was
honestly worse harm than the harm I’d been causing before! A ruddy bolt through the brain would’ve been
a ruddy God-send compared to some of the bastards I wrestled to death, compared
to how they ruddy died, I kid you not. I
just gave it up after one particular sheep – thought killing a sheep might last
longer in the pantry, a big animal, you follow, more meals in it, which would
mean less gory brawls overall – well, this one sheep just wouldn’t die. We were both covered in blood, just covered,
and I was bashing and bashing this poor bastard’s head into a rock, and his
ruddy eye popped out and he still wouldn’t die and Old Timbo’s crying and
crying and the ruddy old sheep’s crying and crying, and we’re both slick and
slippery from the blood and-
ME: [nothing, just looks of shock, I guess.]
TIMBO: Well, never did it again
after that day. Knew there had to be
another way.
ME: …Wow.
TIMBO: And the ruddy thought came
to me, “Timbo, you’re still causing harm.”
At the end of the day, I was still causing suffering – and that’s when I
realised that it wasn’t about being natural, it wasn’t about how I was doing it, it was about what I was doing. So that’s when I became vegan.
ME: And that lasted for some
years.
TIMBO: Oh yes, oh my word. Some years indeed, and they were good years
too. In fact, I’d still be doing that
now, if it wasn’t for that blasted show I heard on the wireless. Ruddy scientists – I used to curse them I
did, oh you wouldn’t believe the words that came out of Old Timbo’s mouth! Went and ruined everything.
ME: What was that radio report?
TIMBO: That ruddy plants – plants! – they said that plants have feelings. The report I heard, it was all about how
plants know what is happening to them, they’re conscious. I mean, that’s what consciousness is, right:
knowing what is going on around you. If
you know what’s going on around you, you’re ruddy conscious – never mind how you know, or what you can do about it, you’re ruddy conscious. And so this show on the radio went on, it
said, it said plants know when they’re being eaten and so on, and they actually
try to stop it happening. Scientists
went and tested this cress or what have you, and played it the sounds it would
make if a caterpillar was eating them – the vibrations or some such because
they figured plants work through sensing vibrations, you follow? Well, this cress or what have you was played
the sound of being eaten by a caterpillar, and it straight away sent this
mustard oil to its leaves, so it would taste bad. This ruddy plant was trying to protect
itself! It didn’t like being eaten! It didn’t
like it!
ME: So…
TIMBO: Plants don’t like being eaten!
That was a ruddy bitter pill to swallow, I can tell you that much for
free. So then poor Old Timbo was back to
the old drawing board, wasn’t he. Did a
whole lot of research: here, I brought some out, have a listen.
[picks up sheaf of papers, puts on a pair of reading glasses, starts
reading – the stumbling over words and/or repetitions have been edited out for
ease of understanding]
This is from the New Yorker,
fella called Michael Pollan:
“It is only human arrogance, and
the fact that the lives of plants unfold in what amounts to a much slower
dimension of time, that keep us from appreciating their intelligence and
consequent success.” And “Plants have
evolved between fifteen and twenty distinct senses, including analogues of our
five: smell and taste (they sense and respond to chemicals in the air or on
their bodies); sight (they react differently to various wavelengths of light as
well as to shadow); touch (a vine or a root “knows” when it encounters a solid
object); and another experiment found that plant roots would seek out a buried
pipe through which water was flowing even if the exterior of the pipe was dry,
which suggested that plants somehow “hear” the sound of flowing water.” You follow?
ME: Yes… yes, I do. But there’s
nothing there that suggests they feel pain,
is there. There’s no suffering.
TIMBO: Oh ho! You’re a bright young lady, aren’t ya! Clear why you’re in the journalism game. Point is, love, that they sense things, they do. They’re just not that
different to us – “just very slow animals” one scientist was saying – with all
the ruddy senses we’ve got. And let Old
Timbo ask you: what’s the point of senses, eh?
What are senses for?
ME: To… to sense things?
TIMBO: [chuckles heartily at this one] Maybe not so bright after all. [twinkling eyes] No, now now, just
pulling your leg love, never mind Old Timbo, just having a lend. Yes, but what is sensing? Sensing is knowing, being conscious, you follow? No
point with all that sensing if you’re just throwing all that input away, now,
is there? No, sensing only happens if
there’s something… in there. To be conscious
of the sensing. I’ll read you a
little more, love, if that’s permissible:
[shuffles papers, clears throat – again, any repetitions and/or
mispronunciations have been edited out, but the words are verbatim]
“Unable to run away, plants
deploy a complex molecular vocabulary to signal distress, deter or poison
enemies, and recruit animals to perform various services for them.” Hear
that? “Distress”.
And this:
“Since the early
nineteen-eighties, it has been known that when a plant’s leaves are infected or
chewed by insects they emit volatile chemicals that signal other leaves to
mount a defence.” Why would they do that, eh?
Unless it was… unpleasant in
some way? You follow, love? These things aren’t just random, love, it’s
not all for fun and games. A plant
doesn’t try to stop a caterpillar chomping on its leaves for fun, any more than a cow cries for its
babies for fun. It’s not just chemical, is it. Well, I mean, they say our brains are all
just chemical too, don’t they, but it definitely feels like something.
ME: You’re convinced plants suffer.
TIMBO: “Convinced”. Ha! I’m
convinced you’re here, now, chatting to Old Timbo, getting it all recorded in
your little telephone there, sitting in this little house, on one and a quarter
thousand acres of prime stud farm.
Neither thing is less true than the other just because I’m “convinced”
of it.
ME: So…
TIMBO: Course they suffer! Pain and pleasure, they’re the building blocks
of experience, love. Course they
suffer. And here was I, munching down on
the poor little blighters like nobody’s business! It ruddy changed everything. I felt crook, I felt crook to my stomach.
ME: You’d been trying so hard to
cause no harm, and here you were.
TIMBO: Here I was! Tryin’ to avoid suffering, and still causing
so much suffering! [waves sheaf of papers – it really is quite a thick collection] I
can read ya more from the articles, if you’d like, there’s an Aussie girl
called Monica Gagliano who’s done amazing research on plant memory and learning-
ME: It’s okay, I’ve probably got
enough for the article-
TIMBO: Well, it’s all real, is
the point. [puts down sheaf, peers over reading glasses] There’s so much out
there, all by ruddy proper scientists and the like, about how plants feel pain
– although a lot of the scientists are scared to use those specific words, you
follow, but they use a bunch of other terms which are skirting around the bleedin’
obvious, which is that plants do like
some things and don’t like
others. Nature works through pain and
pleasure, doesn’t it, they’re like the two basic forces of organic behaviour,
aren’t they.
ME: Well, I’m no scientist-
TIMBO: Doesn’t take a ruddy
university degree to tell that organisms feel pain, love. Just takes a
little empathy and a bit of imagination.
I’m not saying plants have a sense of humour, or prefer classical music
to head banging heavy metal music, love.
I’m just saying that if it quacks like a duck, well, you’d be a ruddy
fool not to draw a certain conclusion.
ME: And so that’s when you… shifted to your current lifestyle?
TIMBO: No need to beat around the
bush, love. There’s no shame in it! “Current lifestyle”, ha! But yes, yes, that’s when it happened. I just ruddy blew me top, love, I just ruddy
thought “well, if plants are feeling pain, then I can’t ruddy well keep on
being a vegan, can I?” It just didn’t
sit right. So then I did me research,
and tried to work out what the bloomin’ heck I was going to do with meself, and
pondered, and wondered, and pondered again.
And I thought “well, what about plants that do want to be eaten?” What
about fruits, you follow? By eating fruits, we can help disperse the seeds
and whatnot, it’s in the plant’s best interests, thought Old Timbo. But then I thought again: well, no, not
really, that fleshy energy-packed fruit is for the seeds, really, isn’t it, it’s energy for the seeds, not for some plundering oaf of a human being. You follow?
Good God how I researched! My
mind got racing, it did, and I thought up ideas pretty much every ruddy way I
could. And there was always that niggle
– “but how can you be sure, Old
Timbo, how can you be sure you’re
bringing pleasure and not pain?” So in
the end, I just went with the obvious. What
I knew caused pleasure, in meself, what
I knew caused pleasure undeniably, you
follow, rather than just making any more assumptions or bold statements or
grand declarations or so on based on wishy washy theories and so forth. I went
with what I knew. And now, well, now I’m
bloody confident. I’m confident that now, finally, I cause no suffering, and
bring about much measurable pleasure.
I’m bloody confident I’ve got it right now. For the last few years, my diet has caused no
pain at all, and much, much pleasure.
ME: And so… for sustenance… you…
TIMBO: Go on, love. You can say it. Spit it out, as they say. [chuckles, eyes twinkling]
ME: You… fellate horses.
TIMBO: [chuckles] Well, that’s what it’s called in polite company, isn’t
it. Yes, I subsist on a diet derived
primarily from ingesting the semen of our equine friends. Straight from the old fellas themselves. There’s no shame in it, love. No shame at all! I’ll tell you, there are a ruddy good lot of
folks who should be ashamed about the harm their diets cause, but not Old
Timbo! No shame whatsoever!
ME: Do you… enjoy it?
TIMBO: You mean “is Old Timbo a
sicko”, don’t you. Cheeky! Well, I’m not doing it sexually, you follow? I’m
not doing it for purposes which are for want of a better word “kinky” or
“perverted”. No stirrings in the old
loins, I’ll have you know. It’s just
the, what was the phrase I read, the “transference of energy”, isn’t it. I’m just getting energy to survive another
day. It’s no more strange or unusual
than cutting off someone’s reproductive organs and popping them in a vase, just
because they look pretty, is it? [shakes his head, legitimately perplexed] I mean, it’s just a matter of perspective,
isn’t it. Is it more peculiar to suck
the milk from a lady cow’s bosom than drink the semen from a gentleman horse’s
member? I mean, peculiar is just what
you’re used to, isn’t it. It’s just,
what’s the phrase, “cultural norms”, isn’t it.
Do I enjoy it? I enjoy it a ruddy sight more than being
sprayed with viscera, red matter, beating a sheep’s head to pulp against a
rock. I enjoy it a ruddy sight more than
lining up a bunch of teenagers onto a truck where I know they’re getting a bolt
in the head at the end of their terrified journey. I enjoy it a ruddy sight more than many many
things I’ve done in this long life of mine, I can tell you that much.
ME: So… how do you do it?
TIMBO: Well, the normal way. You’re a modern girl, you know how it’s done
I’ll wager. [chuckles] No disrespect
intended, of course. Takes both hands,
though – these old fellas aren’t lightly-packed in the trousers department, if
you catch my drift, eh?
ME: So you just… you just…
TIMBO: [eyes twinkle] You can stay for tea and I’ll show you, if you like. You could even join in, there’s plenty to
spare!
ME: Actually, well, it’s probably
time I packed up and head back to Melbourne. [full disclosure: I just kind of panicked here. I was blindly (and completely
non-journalistically) terrified of seeing it in the flesh… and even more
terrified that he’d somehow persuade me to do it too. He had that kind of charisma.]
TIMBO: Suit yourself, love. I can assure you, once you’re used to it,
it’s not so bad. I mean, the first time
I did it, it felt a little odd, I won’t say it didn’t. But now, well, it’s no stranger than milking
a cow once was, or pulling an egg from under a chicken used to be. It’s only me knees that cause me any trouble
nowadays. You sure you won’t stay for
tea? It’s warm, and fresh, and very
healthy-
ME: Thanks so much for your time,
Mr King. I mean, Timbo.
TIMBO: Oh, the pleasure has been
all mine. [chuckles] Nothing but pleasure from now on.
[recording ends]
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