"Uh..." "Hmm." "Um..." "Um..." "Uh..." "Um..." "Um..." "Um..." "–Ah, good morning, Michael." "–Good morning, sir." "Good morning, Mr Smear." "Yes, well, we'll dispense with the good mornings if you don't mind." "I haven't got time for good mornings." "As you wish." "Now, you wanted to discuss something with me." "I think you know why I'm here." "I don't think I do." "–Tell him." "–Tell me what?" "Tell him what you told your mother last night." "–Come on, come on." "Sexual intercourse..." "–...intercourse can often bring about pregnancy in the adult female." "Can often bring about pregnancy in the adult female." "Yes." "Yes?" "–You heard that, did you?" "–Yes." "Yes, well, I'd like an explanation if it's not too much trouble." "An explanation of what?" "An explanation of how my son came to be using language like that in front of his mother." "Well, I, um, I assume it's something that Michael's been learning in his biology classes." "Is that right?" "–Yes, sir." "Yes, with Mr Hent." "Glad to see some of it's sinking in." "Well, this is a turn up and no mistake." "What is?" "I didn't imagine you'd be quite so barefaced about it." "–About what?" "–I came here today to make a complaint about my son being exposed to gutter language in the playground." "I am frankly staggered to find that this is something he's actually been taught in a classroom." "What is going on here?" "–Well, we're trying to teach your son..." "Oh, are you indeed?" "Trying to teach him what?" "How to embarrass his parents?" "How to smack himself with heroine?" "What?" "–Mr Smear, I can assure you, we have no— –Call yourself a school?" "Well, I don't actually call myself a school, no." "You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Filling a young lad's head with filth like that." "Well, let me tell you something about the real world." "You're here to provide a service." "–That's quite right." "–Oh, "that's quite right."" "Well, I'm not happy with it." "I'm not happy with the service you're providing." "Would you rather that Michael didn't attend biology classes?" "Well, certainly I would if those are the kind of lies I can expect to hear repeated at the dinner table." "–They're not lies, Mr Smear." "–Oh, aren't they?" "Aren't they?" "What, sexual intercourse can bring about pregnancy in the adult female?" "Well, it's quite true." "(SNORTING)" "True my arse." "It's nothing more than a disgusting rumour put about by trendy young people in the '60s." "Trendy young people in their '60s?" "The '60s." "In the '60s." "That's when it all started, people like you." "I can assure you, Mr Smear, that sexual reproduction has been part of the biology syllabus for many years." "I don't care about your blasted syllabus." "What good is a blasted syllabus out there?" "–Out where?" "–Out there." "–The Arkwright Road?" "Arkwright jungle, I call it." "Well, what would..." "What would you rather we taught your son?" "I would rather," "I would rather you taught him values, Mr... –Casilingua." "–Casilingua." "Values." "Respect." "Decency." "Standards." "That's what you're here for." "You're not here to poison my son with a lot of randy sex talk." "Michael definitely is your son, is he?" "Well, certainly he's my son." "Then it's safe to assume that at some stage you and Mrs Smear must've had sexual intercourse." "Right." "That's it." "I've had enough of this." "I'm gonna knock some sense into you myself." "–You're gonna fight me now, are you?" "–Yes, I bloody well am." "I'm not gonna stand for this." "–Well, do you mind if I do?" "Talking like that in front of the boy." "You're a bloody disgrace." "Mr Smear, how can Michael be your son if you and Mrs Smear have not had sexual intercourse?" "–Michael is my son..." "–Yes?" "–...in the normal way." "–Ah." "And what, in your opinion, is the normal way to have a son?" "If you're trying to trick me into sexy talk, there isn't..." "Well, the normal way to have a son is to get married." "–Mmm-hmm." "Uh, buy a house, get properly settled in, uh, furniture and so on." "And, um..." "And just wait for a bit." "Ah." "Make sure you eat properly." "Three hot meals a day." "–Three hot meals?" "–Hot meals." "Yes." "Right." "And Michael just sort of, um, popped up, did he?" "Yes, well, of course it was a few years ago now, but I think, uh, yes, one day he was just there." "And at no stage did you or Mrs Smear engage in any act of sexual intimacy?" "Yes, it's very hard for you to believe, isn't it?" "It's very hard for you to believe that there are still some of us who can bring a child to this world without recourse to cannabis and government handouts." "–Well, I really don't know what to say." "–No, I bet you don't." "It's not every day a consumer stands up to you and makes demands, is it?" "Well, not of this nature certainly." "No, well, welcome to the harsh realities of the market place, Mr Casilingua." "Right, okay." "So what do you want me to do?" "–Well, it's perfectly obvious, isn't it?" "–Not to me." "Well, I mean, if I go to Littlewoods and say that I'm not happy with a cardigan, for example, well, they'll change it for me, and gladly." "You want me to change your son?" "Well, of course I do." "Mine is soiled now." "Um..." "I'm afraid we don't have any spare sons." "Typical, isn't it?" "Well, what have you got of equal value?" "Oh, we have got some locusts in the biology lab." "Locusts, hmm." "Do I have your assurance that these locusts will not embarrass Mrs Smear at table with foul language?" "I think I can go that far." "–Hmm." "How many of them are they?" "–Well, there are two at the moment." "What do you mean, at the moment?" "Ah." "Well, um, they're married, you see, and they've bought their own cage, and some furniture, and have settled down and are having three meals a day." "–Hot meals?" "–Warmish." "So Mrs Smear might one day become a grandmother?" "It's a distinct possibility." "She'd like that." "Um..." "Well, they've got hotter pavements, I know that." "Well, Sue Lawley used to, before she went mad." "No, I just couldn't." "Or am I thinking of bus lanes?" ""Underneath the bellied skies Where dust and rain find space to fall" ""To fall and lie and change again Without a care or mind at all" ""For art and life and things above" ""In that, there, look just there" ""No right left up down past or future" ""We have but ourselves to fear."" "Hugh, you chose that poem." "Um, for God's sake, why?" "I chose it for a number of reasons, Stephen." "–Chief amongst them being?" "–Well..." "Can I perhaps turn that question round and say, "Because it was short"?" "–The poem?" "–Yes." "And that's important?" "Well, yes, it seems to me, with the pace of modern life being what it is, most people just haven't got time to spend on long poems." "Therefore, this is something that would ideally suit the short-haul commuter or the busy housewife and leave plenty of time over for other sporting and leisure activities." "–Well, that represents quite a boon." "–Oh, an enormous boon." "Well, we're always on the lookout for enormous boons." "Is it perfectly safe?" "–Oh, it's absolutely safe." "Yes, this is a poem you can leave around the house in absolute confidence." "Presumably, though, there must be shorter poems than that." "–Oh, good heavens, yes." "–Good heavens, yes?" "–Good heavens, yes." "–Oh." "There's a poem by Richard Maddox called Institutions which I can read for you if you like?" "–Please." "–Right." ""Li."" "–That is short." "–It's very short." "Yes." "–Too short, perhaps?" "–Possibly." "Nonetheless, it might suit, say, the very busy senior executive who's only got a few moments to snatch between meetings and so on." "Well, that of course is the market that Maddox was aiming for." "Right." "Now, round about this time, a lot of people are starting to think about going on summer holidays." "Do you have any advice as to the kind of poems that might be suitable, say, for a family about to embark on a budget-bargain break weekend, fortnight getaway day now?" "Well, can I first of all issue a warning to any family planning to take poetry on holiday with them?" "–And that warning is?" "–Be careful." "Oh, that sounds like good advice." "Check with your travel agent to see if there are specific customs regulations regarding poetry and if you're travelling outside the EEC, wrap up warm." "Right." "Do you have any particular advice on how to carry poetry abroad?" "Ah, yes, now, I would say it's definitely worth investing in a proper travelling poetry bag." "–A travelling poetry bag?" "–A travelling poetry bag." "Yes, you can get one of these at most big high street travelling poetry bag shops." "Right." "Now, I believe you've got one more poem that you're going to read to us before you go away from here." "–That's right." "This is called The Rest of My Life and it's by TP Mitchell." "–The TP Mitchell?" "–No, a TP Mitchell." "This is quite solid but without being too heavy." "I think it's quite stylish, it's quite reader-friendly." "All right." "So that might suit, say, a young couple just about to start out in the catering business in the North Wales area?" "Perfect." ""Forward and back Said the old man in the dance" ""As he whittled away at his stick Long gone, long gone" ""Without a glance To the entrance made of brick."" "–Thank you." "–That's all right." "Uh..." "I don't think anyone here can fail to be alarmed by what's happening to our young people." "I'm thinking here of crime, of drug addiction, of easy sex, of all the vices that can destroy a young person's life." "And I believe we must look to the schools to tackle this problem." "Schools must help youngsters to develop a sense of decent, civilised behaviour." "Because everyone must surely agree that decent, civilised behaviour is every bit as important as being able to subtract or take away." "Basically, the plain and simple purpose of education must be to teach children, young people, not, I repeat, not... to break into my car." "There will be other aspects to education, I'm sure, but the most fundamental principle of decent, civilised behaviour is don't break into my car." "Of course, I am concerned that young people shouldn't break into other people's cars, too." "But I think that's more of an ethical question and not really the province of government." "The most important thing is that they don't break into my car." "And, of course, we must look to the courts to sanction this principle." "Community service, such a favourite with magistrates in recent years, shouldn't be a matter of simply scrubbing graffiti off a few lavatory walls." "Young offenders must expect a short, sharp lesson in replacing the nearside window of my car." "Because leaving my bloody car alone is what this government means by decent, civilised behaviour." "Thank you." "Well, it only takes about 10 minutes, apparently, and when you come out, you look exactly like Keith Harris." "They don't feather up so... so easily." "It's very hard to undo it, though, so you have to be absolutely sure." "So you'd like to join the SAS?" "–Not really." "–Not really?" "–Well, yes, all right." "–That's better." "So, height?" "9′ 6″." "9′ 6″." "–Weight?" "–Three tons." "–Really?" "–Well, a bit over." "That's better." "A bit over three tons." "It's as well to be accurate on these matters." "Saves complications later on." "All right." "Do you have any particular disabilities?" "–I've got no sense of taste." "–Uh-huh." "What, in films?" "Music?" "–Food." "I can't taste food." "–Oh, dear, that might be a bit of a problem." "–Might that be a bit of a problem?" "–I just said it might be a bit of a problem." "Never mind." "Pressing on." "Special skills of any kind?" "–I look good in black." "–Excellent." "How old are you?" "–Ten and a half." "–Shoe size?" "28." "Any particular quirks?" "Yes." "I keep muddling up my shoe size and my height." "I mean, my height and my shoe size." "There, I've done it again." "All right, all right." "Are you good at small talk?" "–What, weather and traffic?" "–That sort of thing." "–Yeah." "I can hold my end up." "–Splendid." "Splendid." "How much do you know about the SAS?" "–Well, not much, really." "–Not really." "Right." "Well, the SAS was originally founded to be a crack secret, elite secret and crack assault force to work behind enemy lines during World War II." "–Right." "Now, our role has changed substantially since that time." "Now we are here primarily to act as a masturbatory aid for various backbench MPs." "I see." "Yes, I'm afraid so." "You see, it seems a lot of today's parliamentarians are quite unable to achieve sexual gratification without fantasising about the SAS, you see." "So we have to go about the place being crack secret, and assaulting and secret and crack all the time, and as elite as possible just so these people can keep their marriages intact." "–Doesn't sound very exciting." "–No." "–You got anything else on your cards?" "–Um..." "Well, we are looking for someone to go through that door there." "–Which door where?" "–That one, there." "Oh." "(CLEARING THROAT)" "–Yes?" "–Hello." "Yes, I've just been looking for a particular book in the sports section and it doesn't seem to be there." "It's by Ted Cunterblast and I think it's called The West Indies:" "A Nation of Cricketers." "That'll be in the sports section." "Yes, I've just tried that and it doesn't seem to be there." "–Who's it by?" "–Ted Cunterblast." "–The West Indies:" "A Nation of Cricketers?" "–That's the one." "It's by Ted Cunterblast." "Yes, yeah, I know that." "But have you got it?" "Well, apparently." "Oh, thanks very much." "There are some bits missing." "–Have you read the book before?" "–No." "Then how do you know there are bits missing?" "Is there a problem, sir?" "Yes, this book is incomplete." "(LAUGHING)" "I think not, sir." "I beg your pardon?" "What you have in your hands is a copy of" "The West Indians:" "A Nation of Cricketers by Ted Cunterblast precisely as it was delivered to us." "Well, that's what I said, I told him that." "No, no, wait a minute." "Look at this." "Look at this." ""The West Indies aren't..." ""much good..." ""at cricket."" "That's all it says." "That's the whole book." "–Did you enjoy it, sir?" "–No, I did not." "This book is supposed to contain an account of the last five test series against England." "All it says is, "The West Indies aren't much good at cricket."" "–I envy you, sir." "I can never read a book twice." "–Neither can I." "Makes me giddy." "–Where's the rest of it?" "–The rest of what?" "–Of this book." "Apart from everything else, it isn't true." "–Oh, ha ha!" "Not true?" "–Isn't it, sir?" "–No!" "We haven't won a test series against the West Indies for 14 years." "Now there, I'm afraid, I must take issue with you, sir." "Oh, go on, Mr Twee, take issue with him." "England has not lost a game of cricket since the war." "–I beg your pardon?" "–Even I know that." "We do have copies of Wisden if you'd like to check." "Yes, all right." "Let's see them, come on." "Mrs Pert?" ""England is great" ""and much better than any other country in the world."" "–You see?" "–This is ridiculous." "Oh, it's ridiculous, is it?" "It doesn't agree with his pet theories so it's ridiculous." "Thank you, Mrs Pert." "Sir." "I am a librarian." "But I'm also an Englishman." "To be blunt," "I'm an Englishman who merely happens to be a librarian." "If, God forbid, the day should come when I would have to choose between being a librarian and being an Englishman..." "Yes, yes, I think I get the idea, yeah." "Good." "Because may I say that I find your continued efforts to drag down and smear this country of ours to be frankly disgusting." "I'm not trying to smear and drag down anybody." "I suppose you'd rather read books about England losing at cricket than winning, wouldn't you?" "Well, yes, if it's true." "Then I feel sorry for you." "–He's a knocker, that's what he is." "–I agree with you, Mrs Pert." "Oh, it's very easy to knock, isn't it?" "You with your snide university ways." "–Snide University?" "–Or wherever it is you went." "So often these days, sir, we see, don't we, these so-called clever people who just can't wait to tear down and destroy." "–And knock." "–And knock, yes." "But do they ever have anything to put in the place of things that they destroy?" "No." "It's wanton destruction." "Nothing offered..." "–Well, yes, it's a bit of an exaggeration, but sometimes you really have to wonder what's happening to this country, you do." "Well, I started on the piano." "Then I moved up onto the mantelpiece." "Now, Mr Nude, you claim..." "That's right." "Yes, I do claim." "I do indeed claim." "Yes, that's right." "Yes, you claim to be able to bend spoons using psychic energy." "Psychic energy." "Yes, that is the method I have chosen to bend spoons with." "Yes, that's right." "–How long have you had this ability?" "–How long exactly, yes." "That's absolutely correct." "How long, yes, indeed." "Well?" "Thank you, you are very sympathetic." "Sometimes it's difficult when people are not sympathetic but you are sympathetic." "Thank you." "Yes." "Can you do other things with spoons apart from bend them?" "–I can do anything with a spoon." "–Really?" "Yes." "You give me a spoon and I'll give you the whole world." "Well, that's an impressive claim, certainly." "–Thank you." "–Thank you." "–No, thank you." "–Right." "Well, um..." "We have a selection of spoons here." "I wonder if you'd care to give us a demonstration." "–I'm not a freak, you know." "–Yes." "I realise that." "Some people think that I am some kind of a circus freak." "I'm not a freak." "No, no, I'm sure no one here—" ""Freak!" they sometimes shout at me when I'm walking down the street." "But I'm no freak." "–That must be rather distressing." "–Yes, it is." "Thank you, you're very sympathetic." "Yes, thank you." "Right." "Um, I..." "Would you care to have a go?" "–Yes, I will bend the spoon now, yes, I will." "Right." "Well, ladies and gentlemen, Mr Nude is now going to bend this spoon using psychic energy." "Yes, now is when I'm going to bend." "I'm going to bend the spoon now." "–Right." "Go ahead." "–Right." "I don't know if your cameras can get in close to see what has happened here, but the spoon is very bent." "If I show you an ordinary spoon, you can see that this is now, it's extremely bent, there you go." "Well, the spoon is certainly bent." "Of course it is, of course it is bent." "I bent it so of course it is bent." "Yes, that much is clear and beyond argument." "No, forgive me, I am very tired now." "It is very tiring for me to bend spoons and I've bent too many spoons today." "–How many spoons— –I bent four spoons today." "It's too many, you know." "I'm not a circus freak." "I'm a human being." "–Yes." "Forgive me, Mr Nude— –Of course." "–Yes, thank you." "–No, thank you." "But from where I was sitting, it did rather look as if you bent that spoon with your hand." "–What are you saying?" "–Simply that—" "–What is this?" "–It's a bent spoon." "A bent spoon." "Yes, so there." "Yeah, but the question is, how did it become bent?" "You know, I'm not so sure that I like you as much now." "I think maybe you're not so sympathetic after all." "Maybe." "Are you sure it isn't "fraud" that people shout at you in the streets?" "Oh." "Now, hey, look, mister, it is you who made the claims." "You know, I bend spoons with psychic energy," "I never claimed to able to bend them with my hands." "That is your claim." "Well, you certainly did bend it with your hand." "Yeah, well, yes, maybe the psychic energy does flow through my hands." "But the fact is that the spoon is bent." "Hmm?" "–Well, I can bend spoons with my hands." "I never claimed that my powers were unique." "Always I stress that anybody can bend a spoon." "And my book is not expensive, by the way." "There." "You see?" "You know, it just amazes me that I ever thought that you were sympathetic, you know." "Because I now know that you're not sympathetic at all." "And do you know what I have in here now?" "The beginnings of hatred for you." "Yes." "Well, next week we shall be examining the claims of..." "If viewers in the Matlock and Buxton areas of Derbyshire would like to check their cutlery drawers, they will find a bent spoon and an unused Weetabix special offer coupon." "Also, I can reveal that viewers in the town of Datchet over the age of 14 have a slight itch on their right thigh which they are scratching as I speak." "Good night." "Parper, parper..." "I haven't done this for ages." "I wouldn't suck it." "Um, ladies and gentlemen, we were going to be doing a sketch for you at this point." "But we're not now." "Yes, we're not going to be doing it now." "–Or ever." "–Or ever." "Probably." "Unless this country radically changes direction." "Which looks unlikely." "Which, on the face of it, does seem to be unlikely." "The reason we're not gonna be doing this sketch is that it is a sketch which contains a great deal of sex and violence." "A great deal." "Yes." "Lots of sex." "Lots of violence." "During the course of this sketch, Stephen hits me several times with a golf club." "Which, in the ordinary course of events, of course, wouldn't matter, except that I do it very sexily." "This is it, you see." "He does it so sexily, I just wish you could see it." "I really do." "And the sketch ends with us going to bed together." "Violently." "Very, very violently." "Now, this raises problems." "–Not for me." "–No." "Nor indeed, nor indeed for me, but Sir William, now Lord, Rees-Mogg, the chairman of the Broadcasting Standards Council, has seen our sketch and he didn't like it one bit." "Well, he liked it one bit." "He liked it one bit but he didn't like it lots of other bits." "Now, we wouldn't want you to run off to Cornwall with the idea that Sir William's remit with the Broadcasting Standards Council is so sweeping as to be a kind of government thought police." "No, no." "The concern, as always, is primarily for standards." "–Standards." "–Standards." "For the sake of our children." "And so, in a generous spirit of give and take, Sir William has taken our sketch." "And we have given it to him." "And he's written another one for us to do instead which is completely free of gratuitous sex and violence." "And shows due and proper regard for decency and standards." "–Standards." "Promoting family values and protecting our children." "Sir William has called his sketch quite simply, "Bitchmother, Come Light My Bottom."" "And we're gonna do it for you now." "So, Bitchmother, Come Light My Bottom, by Sir William, now Lord, Rees-Mogg." "(BELL CHIMING)" "–Good morning, sir." "–Morning." "Yes, indeed, sir, it is a good morning." "I do believe we are in for a spell, as they used to say in the music halls." "Not too hot, but not too mild neither." "Hmm." "Re the weekend just past, sir, may I enquire as to whether sir was in receipt of an enjoyableness, or did events prove themselves to be of an otherwise nature?" "–No, very pleasant, thank you." "–Very pleasant, thank you." "Thank you, sir." "Then might I take it, sir, that for that period, you were not within the boundaries of Lincolnshire where, I understand, it rained like a bitch?" "No, I was nowhere near Lincolnshire." "Sir, I am uplifted to hear such news." "No, my wife and I spent the weekend in Hull." "–Sir is married?" "–Yes." "I had literally no idea." "Well, never mind." "Sir, my remissness in failing to felicitate sir upon the joyousness in good tidings is something I fear I shall have to live with for the rest of my life." "Now to business." "Being one of the shrewdest sirs who has ever swum into my purview, may I take it that sir is keen to exploit the financial and social advantages inherent in having a haircut?" "–A haircut, that's right, yes." "–Of course." "A hair cut is a hair enhanced." "If sir will entirely fail to slash my throatlet for being so old." "Now sir, the hair in question is?" "–What?" "–The hair currently under advicement belongs to?" "–What do you mean?" "–What do I mean?" "Yes." "Sir, I sneak myself towards the suspicion that sir has cast me as the mouse in his ever popular cat drama." "It's my hair." "I want you to cut my hair." "–Your hair?" "–Yes." "So your own hair is the hair upon which this entire transaction is to be founded." "Well, of course." "Why would I come in here to get you to cut someone else's hair?" "Sir, please set fire to my legs if you think I'm trying to make haircutting sound more romantic and glamorous than it really is, but believe me when I tell you that in my position, one cannot be too careful." "–Really?" "–Yes, indeed, sir." "Once, and once only, have I had to cut the hair of a gentleman against his will." "And believe me when I tell you that it was both difficult and impossible." "Well, it's my hair." "–Your hair?" "–Yes." "Now, sir, we proceed to that most important of stages." "Which one?" "Which one what?" "Which of the manifold hairs upon sir's crisp and twinkling headage would sir like to place in my professional care for the purposes of securing an encutment?" "All of them." "–All of them?" "–Yes." "–Sir is entirely sure?" "–Of course I'm sure." "What's the matter with you?" "Sir, I seek not to question the profoundness of sir's wonder, merely to express my own humbleness at the prospect of so magnificent a charge." "No." "Well, all of them." "–All of them?" "All of them?" "–Yes." "Yes." "–My word!" "–Is that a problem?" "No, indeed, sir." "No, indeed, sir." "Not a problem, sir." "So far from being a problem, sir, as you would not believe." "I merely hope that sir can take time off from what I know is a very hectic schedule to appreciate that for me to cut all the hairs on sir's head represents the snow-capped summit of a barber's career." "–Well, you've done it before, haven't you?" "–Oh, yes, indeed, sir." "Yes, I once cut all the hairs on a gentleman's head in Cairo shortly after the war, when the world was in uproar and to a young man, everything seemed possible." "Once?" "It would be bootless to deny that I was a younger and better-looking barber then, but let's hope that the magic has not entirely disappeared up its own rabbit hole." "We shall see." "We shall see." "–Wait a minute." "Wait..." "Wait one cotton-picking minute here." "–Sorry?" "You've cut someone's hair, all of it, that is, once since the war?" "Sir would prefer it if, in the sphere of total hair cuttation, I was to him a virgin?" "–I beg your pardon?" "–Yes." "That I can respect." "–What?" "The desire that we should both of us embark upon this journey together as innocents." "As wide-eyed travellers to a distant land, unknowing of our fate, careless of our destination, to emerge someday, somewhere bruised, sad, a little wiser perhaps, but ultimately and joyously alive." "Goodbye." "–Sir is leaving?" "–Yeah." "May he favour me with an explanation as to the whyness?" "Because I don't believe you've got the faintest idea how you're gonna end this." "–Sir could not be more wrong if he tried." "–Oh, really?" "–Yes." "–Well, go on, then." "Um... –You see, you're completely stuck." "–No, no." "I can..." "I can..." "I can convincingly end this sketch in 45 seconds." "45 seconds?" "45 seconds." "All right, then, off you go." "Um, if sir would care to resume the seatedness of his posture." "Okey-dokey." "May I assume that sir is close to the level of maximum comfort?" "40 seconds." "Very good." "Um, I shall just go and fetch the necessary tools." "Oh, ha ha." "It's gonna be a chainsaw or... (SIGHING)" "(UNDER HIS BREATH) Fucker." "Well, I wouldn't say it would do you any harm, unless you suck it." "(CHAINSAW BUZZING)"