2007, a workshop floor in Dunkeswell, Devon, deep in the English countryside. A machine rolls out of the production bay on four fat off-road tires. It sits low on adjustable suspension. Its frame bare and skeletal against the gray morning light. No roof, no doors, no enclosed cabin of any kind, just a roll cage, a pair of weapon mounts, and enough exposed steel tubing to make it look like something built for a desert rally rather than a war zone.
It looked like a death sentence on wheels. Military officers stared at it. Politicians would call it reckless. Newspapers would call it a death trap. Bereaved families would demand to know why British soldiers were being sent into the most IED saturated battlefield on Earth in a vehicle with no roof and no armored shell.
And yet this machine would go on to become the single most requested patrol vehicle in Helmand Province. It would serve with the Parachute Regiment, the Royal Marines, the Household Cavalry, and British Special Forces. It would survive more ambushes, firefights, and open desert engagements than any armored truck in the British fleet.
Over 500 would be built within 3 years, and the platform would remain in frontline British service nearly two decades after it first rolled off the line. Its name was the Jackal, the MWMIK, Mobility Weapon Mounted Installation Kit. And it was the vehicle that proved the most dangerous idea in modern British warfare, that sometimes the best armor is no armor at all.
To understand why the Jackal existed, you need to understand the problem Britain faced in 2006, Helmand Province, Southern Afghanistan. British forces had deployed into some of the most violent territory on Earth. The roads, where roads existed at all, were laced with improvised explosive devices. The terrain beyond those roads was vast open desert cut by dry riverbeds called wadis, rocky valleys, and stretches of dust so fine it choked engines within weeks.
The vehicles Britain sent its soldiers into that landscape were failing. The Snatch Land Rover, originally designed for patrols in Northern Ireland, had become infamous. 37 British service personnel had been killed in snatch vehicles across Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s thin armor, built to stop bricks and bottles on the streets of Belfast, offered nothing against buried bombs packed with homemade explosive.
Soldiers called it the mobile coffin. Coroners called its use unacceptable. Parliament demanded answers. The WMIK Land Rover was marginally better. An open-topped weapons platform bolted onto a standard Land Rover chassis. It gave crews a heavy machine gun and a general-purpose machine gun, but it was slow. It was underpowered.
It lacked the range to operate independently across the vast distances Helmand demanded, and its suspension, designed for English farmland, could not survive the brutal terrain of southern Afghanistan at speed. Britain needed something entirely new. Not a heavier truck, not a thicker shell, something faster, something longer-ranged, something that could leave the road entirely and cross open desert at speeds no buried bomb could predict.
The answer came from a company that had never built a military vehicle for mass production. Supacat, based in Devon, was a specialist engineering firm known for building high mobility transporters for civilian use. Lightweight machines designed to cross terrain that defeated conventional vehicles. The Ministry of Defense looked at their HMT 400 platform and saw something no other manufacturer was offering.
A vehicle built from the ground up around a single idea. Do not get hit. The Jackal was not designed to absorb a blast. It was designed to avoid one entirely. Every element of its engineering served that principle. The engine was a Cummins 5.9 L six-cylinder turbo diesel, producing 185 brake horsepower, mated to an Allison five-speed automatic gearbox.
This gave the Jackal a top road speed of approximately 80 mph. Off-road, across open desert, it could sustain over 50. The suspension was the key. Independent double wishbone air springs, manufactured by Fox Racing, allowed the crew to raise or lower the ride height on the move. Raised to maximum, the Jackal cleared nearly 400 mm of ground, enough to pass over rocks and ruts that would strand a conventional truck.
Lowered onto its bump stops, the vehicle became a stable flat firing platform. Those weapons were substantial. The primary mount accepted either a 12.7 mm heavy machine gun or a 40 mm Heckler & Koch grenade machine gun. A secondary mount carried a 7.62 mm general-purpose machine gun. Three crew members could lay while moving at speed across open ground.
The vehicle weighed approximately 6,650 kg. It could carry a combat payload across a range of nearly 500 mi without resupply. It could ford a meter of water. It could climb a 60% gradient. And it could be slung beneath a Chinook helicopter and dropped into a remote patrol base overnight. But the detail that defined the Jackal, the detail that made it either brilliant or insane, depending on who you asked, was what it deliberately did not have.
No roof, no doors, no enclosed cabin, no mine-resistant hull of the kind the Americans were bolting onto every vehicle in Iraq. The crew sat in blast-attenuating seats behind armored plate, protected from small arms fire and fragmentation. But from above and from the sides, they were open to the sky. The Ministry of Defense called this a feature.
Critics called it a death warrant. Now, before we get into where the Jackal actually fought and what happened when it met the roads of Helmand, if you’re enjoying this deep dive into British military engineering, hit subscribe. It takes a second, costs nothing, and helps this channel keep telling these stories.
The Jackal made its operational debut on April 8, 2008, deployed with 16 Air Assault Brigade and 3 Commando Brigade Royal Marines into Helmand Province. The effect was immediate. Patrols that had been restricted to predictable routes in slow, vulnerable Land Rovers suddenly had range.
Jackal crews could leave the road entirely, cutting across open desert at speed, approaching objectives from directions the Taliban had never planned for. The vehicle’s off-road performance meant patrols could avoid the choke points, the culverts, the narrow tracks where IEDs were most commonly buried. The Household Cavalry Regiment was among the first units to take the Jackal into sustained operations, operating north of Lashkar Gah and around Musa Qala.
Their reconnaissance troops mixed Jackals with Simitar light tanks, pushing deep into contested terrain to locate and fix insurgent positions. The Jackal’s speed allowed these patrols to cover ground that heavier vehicles simply could not reach, and when contact came, its firepower meant crews could suppress the enemy and break clean rather than fighting from a standing position.
The Light Dragoons ran Jackals through central Helmand during Operation Panther’s Claw in the summer of 2009, the largest British military operation in Afghanistan. Their crews provided reconnaissance and fire support across a front stretching north of Lashkar Gah, probing Taliban defensive lines along canal networks and irrigation ditches.
The vehicle’s ability to reposition rapidly under fire became a defining tactical advantage. Crews could engage, displace to a new position, and re-engage from a different angle before the enemy could adjust. But the Jackal’s most dramatic moment came not on a desert patrol, but inside the wire.
September 14th, 2012, Camp Bastion, Helmand. Shortly after 2200 hours, approximately 15 insurgents breached the perimeter of the largest British base in Afghanistan. They were wearing American military uniforms. They carried automatic weapons, rocket-propelled grenades, and suicide vests. Within minutes, they had destroyed or damaged six United States Marine Corps Harrier jets and set fuel stores ablaze.
RAF Regiment Sergeant Roy Geddes was commanding a 12-man quick reaction force. He loaded his men into Jackals and drove directly into the breach. The scene was chaos. Burning aircraft illuminated the darkness. Explosions tore across the flight line. Geddes could see tracer of cutting through the smoke, but could not identify how many attackers had penetrated the perimeter.
He pushed his Jackals forward anyway. One vehicle took a direct hit from a rocket-propelled grenade. The blast wounded the entire crew, including Geddes, who took shrapnel to the knee. He refused evacuation. He extracted his wounded men, reorganized what remained of his force, and re-engaged the attackers from a new firing position.
The battle lasted through the night. By dawn, every insurgent inside the wire was dead. Sergeant Geddes was awarded the Military Cross, only the second member of the RAF to receive the decoration for service in Afghanistan. Corporal Curtly received a mention in dispatches. The Jackal had proven beyond question what it could do in a firefight: fast, aggressive, mobile, lethal.
But, the vehicle’s record was not written only in victories. The roads of Helmand told a different story. On October 15th, 2008, Trooper James Munday, 21 years old, Household Cavalry Regiment, was driving a Jackal on patrol approximately 23 km north of Forward Operating Base Delhi. His vehicle detonated a contact-triggered IED buried in the track. Trooper Munday was killed.
He was among the first British soldiers to die in a Jackal. On March 15th, 2009, Corporal Graeme Stiff and Corporal Dean John, both Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers attached to First the Queen’s Dragoon Guards, were killed west of Gamsir when their Jackal struck a buried explosive device and was destroyed.
On June 19th, 2009, Major Sean Birchall of the 1st Battalion Welsh Guards was killed near Basharan when his Jackal detonated an IED during a patrol south of Lashkar Gah. He was 33 years old and the highest-ranking officer killed in a Jackal during the war. By August 2009, according to contemporary reporting, 13 British soldiers had been killed in Jackals. The media turned.
Newspapers called the vehicle a death trap. Members of Parliament demanded answers in the House of Commons. One member told the chamber that young soldiers love driving the Jackal until they or their mates are killed or maimed. The Ministry of Defense held its position. The Jackal was never designed to survive a direct IED strike.
It was designed to avoid one, and in the vast majority of patrols it did. But when the blast came, and on the roads of Helmand the blast always came, the open-topped cabin offered nothing. The loss was real. The grief was real. So, and yet the troops who drove it kept requesting more. The Americans chose a different answer to the same problem.
The MRAP program produced nearly 28,000 heavily armored vehicles for Iraq and Afghanistan. Massive V-shaped hulls designed to deflect blast energy away from the crew, thick armored cabins, sealed interiors. By 2011, nearly 15,000 MRAPs had been delivered to Afghanistan alone. The results were dramatic. Casualty rates in MRAPs dropped to approximately 6% compared to roughly 22% in standard up-armored Humvees.
The vehicles saved thousands of lives, but they came with a cost the terrain itself imposed. Many MRAPs deployed to Afghanistan were deemed too heavy for Afghan roads, and too large for Afghan bridges. They lacked the cross-country mobility to operate off established routes. They were road-bound. And road-bound in a country where the enemy buried bombs in roads meant predictable.
The Jackal was the opposite philosophy. Lighter, faster, unpredictable, its crews could cross open desert, ford waders, and climb gradients that no MRAP could attempt. They could approach objectives from directions no buried bomb could anticipate. The British ran mixed fleets. Jackals for reconnaissance and strike, Mastiffs and Ridgebacks for protected route movement.
Each vehicle matched to the task that suited its strengths, rather than forcing one platform to do everything. The doctrinal difference was sharp. The Americans built vehicles to survive the blast. The British built a vehicle to never be where the blast was buried. Neither approach was wrong. Both saved lives. Both cost lives.
The difference was which risk each nation chose to accept. The Jackal evolved continuously. Jackal 2 entered service in August 2009 with a larger 6.7 L engine, a forward mounted 360° gun ring, capacity for four crew, and significantly improved blast protection beneath the hull. Jackal 2A followed in 2010 with an integrated mine blast cab.
The 6×6 Coyote tactical support vehicle extended the family into logistics and resupply. Over 600 Jackal and Coyote vehicles were assembled at Babcock’s Devonport facility within 3 years. After Afghanistan, the Jackal did not disappear. It became the backbone of Britain’s light cavalry reconnaissance force.
The Light Dragoons deployed Jackals to Poland under NATO’s enhanced forward presence. First, the Queen’s Dragoon Guards took them to Mali for long-range desert patrols with the United Nations. Vehicles were loaned to Estonia and donated to Ukraine. In 2023, the Ministry of Defense ordered 70 Jackal 3 vehicles at a cost of 90 million pounds with options for up to 240 more.
Convertible between four-wheel and six-wheel drive, the Jackal 3 is designed to sustain the platform into the mid-2030s. A vehicle the newspapers called a death trap is still being ordered, still being built, and still being deployed. 2007, a workshop floor in Devon, a machine with no roof, no doors, and no armored cabin rolled out of a small factory and into the most violent battlefield the British Army had faced in a generation.
It was not mine resistant. It was not blast proof. It could not protect its crew from a direct IED strike on a predictable road. It lacked the sealed pressurized hull that the Americans wrapped around their soldiers by the tens of thousands, and it was never supposed to. The Jackal was built on a bet. A bet that in a war where the enemy buried bombs in roads, the most dangerous thing a vehicle could do was stay on the road.
A bet that speed, range, and unpredictability could save more lives than steel. It was a bet that cost lives. 13 confirmed dead by the summer of 2009. More in the years that followed. families destroyed, a national debate about what a government owes the soldiers it sends to war. And yet, the parachute regiment requested more.
The Royal Marines requested more. The Household Cavalry, the Light Dragoons, the Queen’s Dragoon Guards, the RAF Regiment. Every unit that drove the Jackal into combat asked for it again. Over 600 were built. The platform is now in its third generation. It remains in frontline service from the Baltic to West Africa.
A new production line is running in Devon today. The Jackal was not comfortable. It was not safe. It was not the vehicle any politician wanted to defend on the floor of the House of Commons, but it was the vehicle that every soldier who drove it into Helmand wanted under them when the shooting started. That is not a failure of engineering.
That is a statement of trust. And in a war fought on roads laced with buried explosives, trust was the only armor that mattered.
QQ4 Bob Dylan and Keith Richards have been close friends for nearly 40 years. The friendship began on a live television program in November of 1986 in the 11 seconds after Bob Dylan called Keith Richards music derivative on camera. Keith Richard’s response to that assessment, one sentence said without anger, without performance, with the specific directness of a man who has nothing to prove and knows it made Bob Dylan laugh.
Then made Bob Dylan go quiet. then made Bob Dylan say two words that people who know Bob Dylan say he almost never said to anyone. This is the story of those 11 seconds and the 40 years that followed them. The program was a live music interview special broadcast on an American network on the evening of November 3rd, 1986. The format was simple.
Two musicians, a host, an hour of conversation about music and the state of it. The producers had assembled the pairing of Bob Dylan and Keith Richards with the specific calculation of television producers who understand that two people with equally strong and potentially incompatible views about what music is and what it should do will produce better television than two people who agree about everything.
The calculation was correct, though not in the way the producers had anticipated. Bob Dylan was 45 years old in November of 1986. Bob Dylan had released Empire Burlesque the previous year and had been on the road for most of the intervening period as part of the True Confessions tour with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
Bob Dylan was in November of 1986 in one of the most prolific and restless phases of a career that had consisted almost entirely of prolific and restless phases. A career that had moved through folk, rock, country, gospel, and back again, that had been declared finished at least six times by the music press, and at each time continued with the serene indifference of a river to the opinions of people standing on its banks.
Bob Dylan had been redefining what music could be. Since 1962, Bob Dylan had invented and reinvented himself so many times that reinvention had become his defining characteristic, not in the superficial sense of a performer changing costumes, but in the deeper sense of a musician who had never allowed his work to settle into a form that could be anticipated or categorized from the outside.
Bob Dylan understood influence and originality and the relationship between them better than almost anyone alive in 1986. Bob Dylan had spent 24 years thinking carefully and specifically about where music came from and where music was going and what it meant that those two things were always in constant conversation with each other.
Keith Richards was 42 years old in November of 1986. Keith Richards had been playing guitar professionally since 1962. Keith Richards had built a career on a foundation of American blues and rhythm and blues. A foundation that Keith Richards had studied with the systematic devotion of someone who understood that the tradition he was building on was not incidental to the music he was making, but essential to it.
that you could not understand what Keith Richards did without understanding where Keith Richards had come from and what Keith Richards had been listening to since he was a teenager in Dartford with American Import Records and a secondhand guitar and no teacher except the recordings themselves. Keith Richards had never pretended otherwise. Keith Richards had in fact spent considerable energy across his career making the lineage explicit, naming the artists, citing the recordings, insisting on the acknowledgement of influence that the mainstream music
industry had a long history of suppressing or ignoring or crediting to the wrong people. If anything, Keith Richards was more transparent about his sources than most musicians of his generation. Keith Richards had always said openly that the Rolling Stones came directly from the blues, that Muddy Waters and Robert Johnson and the specific tradition of the Mississippi Delta were not background influences, but foundational ones.
The music Keith Richards made was in direct and sustained conversation with that tradition, something Keith Richards considered not a limitation, but a responsibility and a form of respect. The interview had been running for 8 minutes when the host asked Bob Dylan about the current state of rock and roll.
Bob Dylan answered with the density and the indirection that characterized Bob Dylan’s responses to direct questions, turning the question over, approaching it from an unexpected angle, finding his way to what he actually thought through a series of observations that moved like a river rather than a road. Bob Dylan was not a straightforward interview subject.
Bob Dylan had been asked about rock and roll in hundreds of interviews across 24 years and had developed the habit of treating the question as an invitation to think out loud rather than a request for a prepared position. The producer Gerald Sherman said afterward that in the first 8 minutes of the interview, he had been slightly anxious, not because anything was going wrong, but because nothing was going anywhere in particular yet.
The interview had the feeling of two conversations happening simultaneously. Bob Dylan’s internal one and the external one visible to the cameras. And Gerald Sherman was not certain in those first eight minutes that the two conversations would converge into something. Bob Dylan talked about influence. Bob Dylan talked about originality.
Bob Dylan talked about the difference between music that absorbed a tradition and transformed it and music that absorbed a tradition and reproduced it. And then Bob Dylan made his assessment. And then Bob Dylan said with the precision of a man making a musical assessment rather than a personal judgment that the Rolling Stones work, and Bob Dylan was specific, naming Keith Richards as the guitarist whose approach he was discussing was derivative in a way that Bob Dylan found limiting.
Bob Dylan said it without hostility. Bob Dylan said it as a technical observation about the relationship between source material and the work that came from it. Bob Dylan said that Keith Richards played the blues the way the blues had already been played, rather than using the blues as a starting point for something that had not yet been played.
Keith Richards had been listening to this with the specific attention Keith Richards gave to things being said about music by people who knew music. Keith Richards did not interrupt. Keith Richards did not shift in his chair or display any of the visible signals of a person preparing a defensive response. Keith Richards listened to Bob Dylan’s complete observation all the way to its conclusion without interrupting and without displaying any visible signal of preparing a response.
Then Keith Richards said one sentence. The sentence was not a rebuttal. The sentence did not defend Keith Richards music or argue for its originality or challenge Bob Dylan’s characterization of what the blues meant in the context of rock and roll. The sentence was something else entirely, something that required a specific kind of confidence to say.
The confidence of a person who has spent long enough thinking about the same things as the person they are talking to that they can locate the exact point where their thinking diverges and say something useful about that point rather than simply defending their own position. The sentence acknowledged everything Bob Dylan had said, the assessment, the distinction Bob Dylan was drawing, the specific musical concern underlying the observation, and then turned it 90°.
Keith Richards took Bob Dylan’s own framework, the one Bob Dylan had used to analyze Keith Richards relationship to the blues tradition, and applied it back to Bob Dylan’s work with the same precision Bob Dylan had used to apply it to Keith Richards. Spare aimed. The sentence asked Bob Dylan something about Bob Dylan’s own music, about the relationship between Bob Dylan’s sources and Bob Dylan’s output that Bob Dylan had not been asked on television before.
The sentence did not attack. The sentence illuminated. Bob Dylan laughed. The laugh was not the polite laugh of someone responding to a joke. The laugh was the involuntary laugh of someone who has been genuinely surprised. The specific kind of surprise that a person of exceptional intelligence experiences when someone else’s intelligence exceeds their expectations.
Bob Dylan laughed for 4 seconds. Then Bob Dylan stopped laughing. Then Bob Dylan was quiet for 3 seconds in the way that Bob Dylan was quiet when Bob Dylan was thinking rather than performing thought. Then Bob Dylan said, “You’re right.” The producer in the booth, a man named Gerald Sherman, who had been working in television for 14 years, said afterward that in 14 years of live television production, he had never heard Bob Dylan say those two words in a public forum.
Gerald Sherman said he had worked with Bob Dylan on two previous occasions and had observed Bob Dylan in numerous other contexts and that you’re right was not a phrase that Bob Dylan deployed easily or often because Bob Dylan had spent 24 years being right about music in ways that other people eventually caught up with. And the experience of being right ahead of everyone else does not generally produce a man who says you’re right readily when someone else makes a point.
The host of the program, a journalist named Patricia Wells, who had been interviewing musicians for 12 years, said afterward that the 11 seconds between Bob Dylan’s assessment and Bob Dylan saying, “You’re right,” were the most extraordinary 11 seconds of television she had been present for. Patricia Wells said that what she witnessed in those 11 seconds was not a debate or a confrontation or a celebrity exchange of competing opinions.
Patricia Wells said what she witnessed was one musician recognizing another musician as an equal, which was in the specific context of Bob Dylan in 1986, not something that happened in public very often. The interview continued for another 42 minutes after those 11 seconds. The conversation between Bob Dylan and Keith Richards in the remaining 42 minutes was described by everyone who watched it as fundamentally different from the first 8 minutes.
The host, Patricia Wells, who had been conducting music interviews for 12 years and understood the difference between the performance of conversation and actual conversation, said that at approximately the 9-minute mark, something shifted in the studio. That the formal interview, architecture dissolved, and what replaced it was something less structured and more genuine.
Bob Dylan and Keith Richards talked about influence and originality and the blues and what it meant to build on a tradition without being consumed by it. They talked about specific recordings and specific musicians with the specificity of two people who had spent their entire adult lives thinking about these things and rarely found another person who had thought about them with equivalent care.
They talked about where music came from and where music was going and whether those two questions were actually one question or two. Patricia Wells said afterward that she had asked approximately four questions in the remaining 42 minutes because Bob Dylan and Keith Richards did not require questions. They required only a room and a camera and the shared understanding that what they were saying together was worth recording carefully.
She said it was the best interview she had ever conducted and that she had conducted the smallest part of it. After the program, Bob Dylan and Keith Richards were in the corridor outside the studio when the host Patricia Wells passed them. Patricia Wells said she did not stop because she did not want to interrupt.
She observed them for approximately 30 seconds from a distance. She said they were talking with the ease of people who had known each other for years rather than people who had met for the first time 2 hours earlier. She said that something had shifted between them during the broadcast that the broadcast had made permanent rather than temporary.
She continued down the corridor and did not look back. She said in her account of that evening that she had decided in that moment not to interrupt the conversation because some conversations are more valuable than any question a journalist might ask and that the conversation she had observed for 30 seconds in the corridor outside the studio was one of them.
She had been a music journalist for 12 years. She recognized the difference. Bob Dylan and Keith Richards have maintained their friendship across four decades. They have appeared together at various events, most significantly at the concert for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1995, where people who were present described them as inseparable for most of the evening, occupying the same corner of the backstage area and talking with the concentrated attention of people who only have a limited amount of time together and intend to use it
well. Bob Dylan has spoken about Keith Richards in interviews with the specific thoughtful care that Bob Dylan reserves for musicians whose work Bob Dylan considers genuinely important rather than merely culturally prominent. Keith Richards has spoken about Bob Dylan in similar terms with the specific respect of someone who recognizes in another person a commitment to music that goes deeper than career.
Neither Bob Dylan nor Keith Richards has made a public statement specifically about how the friendship began or about the November 1986 interview. Bob Dylan has not mentioned the 11 seconds. Keith Richards has not mentioned the sentence. The interview exists in the archive. The 11 seconds are there. The laugh is there. The two words are there.
What is also there for anyone who watches the interview from its beginning and pays attention to the shift that happens at the 9-minute mark is the specific moment when two people who thought they were appearing on a television program discovered they were actually talking to each other. What Keith Richards said in that one sentence has never been officially reported.
The people who were in the studio that evening, Gerald Sherman, Patricia Wells, the floor crew, the two camera operators, the makeup artist who was watching from the side of the set, have described the sentence in consistent terms. They have described its effect. They have described Bob Dylan’s laugh and Bob Dylan’s silence and Bob Dylan’s two words.
They have not repeated the sentence itself in the specific understanding that the sentence was said between two musicians on a television program and that its power resided in the specific context of that exchange and would not survive removal from it intact. What can be said is this. Keith Richards said something to Bob Dylan about Bob Dylan’s music that used Bob Dylan’s own observation about Keith Richards as its starting point and arrived somewhere that Bob Dylan had not anticipated.
Keith Richards turned Bob Dylan’s assessment 90° and showed Bob Dylan something about the music they had both spent their lives making that Bob Dylan recognized immediately as true. And Bob Dylan said, “You’re right.” Two words said by Bob Dylan in public on live television in 1986 to Keith Richards in response to a single sentence Keith Richards had said about music.
Two words that Gerald Sherman, who had worked with Bob Dylan on two previous occasions, said he had never heard Bob Dylan say in a public forum. Two words that Patricia Wells, who had been interviewing musicians for 12 years, said were the most significant two words she had heard in those 12 years. Not because of their content, but because of who said them and what it cost to say them and what it meant that Keith Richards had produced them in 11 seconds from a conversation that began with Bob Dylan calling Keith Richards’s music derivative. And Keith Richards and
Bob Dylan have been close friends for nearly 40 years. The sentence did its work in 11 seconds on the evening of November 3rd, 1986. The work has been ongoing ever since. If this story moved you, subscribe and leave a comment below. Have you ever said something to someone that turned a potential disagreement into an unexpected and lasting connection? Tell us about it in the comments below.
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