Betty's Utility Room

Well, the indignity of posting up a post-Christmas post.

*rolls eyes*

I don't know about you but I still feel as though I'm running on emergency energy supplies and am not quite there. A combination of highly salted and high sugar content foods plus excessive alcohol intake has left me feeling even more slow and bovine than usual. Every time I eat I feel queasy and my thought processes have slowed down to a snail's pace.

I seem to recall a few things happening over Christmas in a strange collage of overheard remarks, a bit like the excellent Ritual Landscape man, but I won't have a go at writing in his style because it would just be crap done by me. Besides, I'm not quite sure what did and didn't happen.

One thing which sticks in my mind is falling asleep ten minutes into watching a DVD by the Cornish comedian Jethro. Well, the person concerned had asked for it as a present but added "don't get any of his crude ones with the bad language on!"

This makes as much sense as asking for a Graham Norton compilation DVD in which he doesn't use the word "penis".

Anway, from what I gather, most of Jethro's act consists of referring to some bloke or other who "gave herrr a porrrtion over the bonnet of a Forrrd Fiesta" or something along those lines.

He was not referring to a gentleman sharing his bag of fish and chips with a young lady. At least I don't think so.

The other thing that sticks in my mind is that someone said to the husband "I know you're not a racist in any way, but ..." which makes a change from the usual conversation opener "I'm not a racist, but ..."

Sorry, I can remember nothing else that has happened since.

I will try to think of some sort of feeble New Year's resolution before 2005 goes belly up.

A final post as we count down to feeling like death warmed up for the next week or so.

Christmas manages to combine some of my least favourite things - family gatherings, spending money on other people, being stuck in shop queues, children and Bailey's Cream. So I won't be entering into the spirit of the season.

Instead, here is a list of rather obvious things.

IF KING HEROD HAD KILLED THIS LOT AT BIRTH, THE WORLD WOULD BE MORE TOLERABLE:

Jono Coleman - I would say that he has a face like a squashed pig and all the personality of a its entrails, but then again pigs are quite endearing creatures.
Chris Moyles - another big, sweaty cunt who loves the sound of his own voice.
The Black Eyed Peas - even if the singer has an incontinence problem.
Kate Thornton
Jessica Simpson and any other simpering anorexic with straightened blonde hair who simpers on about how they see no boundaries to what they can achieve career wise. Fuck off.
Tom Cruise - creepy. Slimey. Sinister.
Noel Edmonds - NOOOOOOO. GO AWAY AGAIN, FUCK RIGHT OFF OUT OF IT.
Westlife - the musical equivalent of the careers teacher who advised you when you were 15 that selling industrial air conditioning units would be an exciting job opportunity.
All self-righteous middle class mothers
The editor of Heat magazine
Jim Davidson
Carole Malone
Tony Parsons
Amanda Platel
Chris Evans
Anne Atkins
Allison Pearson
Nick Ferrari
Jeremy Clarkson

Anway, to everyone else, including all my lovely lovely readers, have a happy and peaceful Christmas and may all your dreams come true xxx

I'm back and relatively healthy. Besides, there is only room for one poorly person in our house: the husband has had a tooth extracted, and will probably spin out the suffering until the first week of the new year.

I'm a hypochondriac though, so any opportunity to wallow in self-pity has to be relished. I take after my grandmother. An innocent enquiry along the lines of "how are you, nan?" would prompt a catalogue of ailments in every body part, more often than not really embarrassing symptoms. I have thousands of cousins and we'd all receive our Christmas presents in September each year with the following explanation: "I'm givin' you yer Christmas box now because I don't think I'll mek it through the next wik or two, let alone ter Christmas day".

Needless to say, she lived to a few months short of her 90th birthday.

* * * * * * *

There have been comments made here and here about the new breed of thuggish carol singer which must be a new way for our lovely young people to try to extort money with menaces out of the public. To top it all, some turned up at our door last night - the procedure nowadays seems to be to knock the door and not start singing until the householder opens. As we heard some giggling outside, we didn't bother to answer, and neither did anyone down our street by the look of things. This is turning into another Hallowe'en phenomenon.

Anyway, I hope this won't put anyone off donating money to my Christmas singing group, the Annoying Acapella Quintet, as we're going out visiting local homes tonight fundraising for The Society For Hard Faced Chainsmoking Women.

We do versions of Christmas songs and carols with an often wry, humorous twist, accompanied by a squeezebox and, at times, a backing tape of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

I'll be the one wearing giant reindeer antlers.

Open up your purses, folks!

Thank you for all your kind get well cards and the bouquet of flowers from someone in Lyme Regis.

I am still too feeble to leave my sick bed for anything other than a little light blogging. After typing up a few sentences I have to have a few blasts from the oxygen mask.

Instead, here is a post contributed by Polly Witterings, gossip columnist (ahem, sorry, Entertainment and Leisure Pursuit Consultant) for the Bexley XtRa (incorporating the Swanley Sewage Works Quarterly).

Cheers,
Betty

* * * * * * *

Hi! Polly Witterings here with a Christmas round up of all the exciting things that have been happening in the world of Entertainment, Leisure and Showbiz! What an incredible year it has been - particularly for me personally as I have been invited to all of the happening parties. A personal highlight for me was seeing the back of Tom Cruise's head in Leicester Square - he is even SHORTER in real life, folks!!!!

As it's Christmas though it's time to hand out my awards to all the faces that have been hot in this year's world of Entertainment, Leisure and Showbiz!!! Remember - it's all just light-hearted fun!

HUNKIEST GUY - Without a doubt it has to go to Brad Pitt yet again!
BIGGEST LOSER - Jude Law! How could he cheat on the gorgeous Sienna with that nanny! The girl had a face like a bull mastiff! Still, he and Sienna are back together. Hope he's learnt his lesson this time round!
MOST STYLISH LADY - Sienna Miller.
ARGH - EXTREME MAKE OVER NEEDED! AWARD - Round The World Yachtslady Ellen MacArthur - AGAIN!!! When WILL she grow her hair and wear some more girly clothes! We can see her with blonde and honey coloured hair extensions, in a sparkly pink shrug and one of the new puffball skirts. I'm so loving that look!!!
MOST AMAZING LADY - Madonna. She has written books, hung around with East London gangland killers, fallen off a horse, brought out her own range of wine and she STILL has a butt to die for despite being 87. Good on you, Madge!!
BEST GAY GUY - David Furnnish - Furrnish - Furnish??? Congratulations to him for finally getting Elton "Hissy Fits" John to settle down and place a ring on his finger!
BEST TELEVISION PROGRAMME - Desperate Housewives. For those of us who were suffering major withdrawal symptoms over Sex And The City - boo hoo! These middle aged ladies still looked great AND they can get into size 6 jeans! Good on you, girls!!!
MOST WEIRD TELEVISION PROGRAMME - Lost. What was it all about??? When will it ever end???
BEST POP STAR - A tie between Will Young who has yet again proved the doubters wrong, and our tip for the top in 2006, Shayne off the X-Factor. This guy has an amazing voice and will no doubt prove the doubters wrong!
CATCHPHRASE: "Am I bovvered?" We were all saying it up and down the country!! Catherine Tate is a very funny lady but most of us don't admit to liking her because, to be honest, she IS a bit on the hefty side! Keep off the canapes this Christmas, Catherine, and we might like you a bit more!!!
BEST WRITER - Wendy Holden, as ever. This lady knows what makes us tick!!!
BEST FILM - King Kong. Naomi Watts is a very talented star in the making and gorgeous looking to boot, although a little on the hefty side. Still, you can't have everything, can you!!!
BEST LOOKING LADY - A tie between Jessica Simpson and Paris Hilton. Not only are they gorgeous with to-die-for figures, they are multi talented and an inspiration to us all.

Well I'm off to another film premier at Greenwich multiplex tonight. A gal's work is never done!!!

Happy Christmas!!!
luv 'n' stuff,
Polly xxxxx

This being the season of standing for hours on end in supermarket and Post Office queues behind reams of people with the sort of aggressive infections normally only found in the pages of a 19th century Russian novel, I am at the moment feeling a bit poorly.

I have one of my winterly sore throats. This means that I wake up in the small hours feeling as though there are several daggers stuck through my throat. I am like a human version of Kerr-plunk, the game the whole family can play.

If I get worse, there is of course a blogging contingency plan. It will be rather like all the radio stations when a member of the royal family dies. How well I remember driving home from a weekend stay with friends in Bedfordshire on the morning that Princess Diana's death was announced. Everywhere along the radio dial you heard the theme music from Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence or Song For Guy by Lord Elton of Watfordshire ... apart from one pirate station obliviously playing speed garage. God it made my blood boil.

Anyway, that was going off at a tangent.

Should I be really ill, I will publish a series of posts that I wrote earlier. They are nice, bland and play to the gallery and should ensure that my stats go up. They include:

* a post about how shop assistants these days are SO RUDE and good manners don't cost anything.

* a tirade against all the woolly liberal, terrorist-appeasing scum who are trying to re-name Christmas "the holiday season" - hah! Not only has Christmas been BANNED from every school in the free world, thus depriving OUR children of ANY enjoyment at this time of year, but loony lefty councils won't even put up CHRISTMAS LIGHTS in our town centres!!!!!

* some pictures of me looking windswept and pink faced from a Med holiday.

* some RILLY CUTE pictures of my nephew at his school nativity play at the last school in the free world which hasn't BANNED Christmas.

(... of course I don't really have a nephew, thank the heck. Not yet, anyway, and this could be my last niece/nephew-free Christmas. I should make the most of it).

I'm off now to make a smoothie consisting of a bottle of Night Nurse, a can of Red Bull, a Lemsip and a handful of Vitamin C tablets. I did this yesterday and listened to the Grateful Dead all day and night: the colours were amaaazing, etc.

May I draw my reader's attention to a catalogue which will hopefully be dropping through their door or has already done so.

I should point out to you if you are hung over/still drunk that I didn't write "dropping her drawers" in the previous paragraph. This is not a follow up to my previous item about disastrous works Christmas parties.

The catalogue in question is by a company whose name rhymes with Lettermare (I wouldn't shamelessly plug them - you might think that I had a vested interest and as you know I violently oppose capitalism at every available opportunity).

I quite like flicking through catalogues with innovative new devices which save literally seconds of a busy housewife's time or reduce the suffering of the elderly (elasticated socks and chairs with recliners are standbys). This catalogue has the advantage of having an array of festive decorations, including some plastic icicles which can be attached to a window ledge and look like melted lard dripping down towards the floor.

My favourite product description encourages us to "recreate the days of the Wild West with this set of amusing rubber ducks".

However, the company has really pulled off a major coup because it has managed to get endorsements from Mr Softee Whip-haired queen of mid-afternoon telly, Gloria Hunniford (for a very small fee, I should imagine).

Gloria is pictured shampooing a carpet, pouring gravy over a roast, cleaning some Venetian blinds, filing her nails and placing a bottle of wine on a difficult to reach cupboard top (not that it would REALLY discourage her. It's sad and it's pathetic).

Her piece de resistance, however, is the back cover picture where she is scraping an icy car window while dressed like Julian Cope of the Teardrop Explodes circa Reward. An ice scraper and mitt in one! It would also be a useful weapon in gangland revenge attacks, but this is not mentioned in the catalogue for some reason.

Now, get back down to Argos, you.

This is the season of ghastly works Christmas events. I often wonder if the parties of legend, where people photocopy their bottoms and Debbie from accounts gets knocked up in a broom cupboard by Nigel who does the wages actually happen, or if they have been mythologised to make people think that their works get togethers are going to be more interesting than they think.

All I can recall from my working past is an unpleasant procession of sitdown meals which were not much removed from school dinners in style, except that at the school Christmas dinner there was the added excitement of searching for the sixpence in the pudding (I "won" in 1972: it was one of the few triumphs in my life).

At works meals I found myself wearing a rictus grin for the rest of the afternoon/evening as colleagues forced themselves to let their hair down by attempting to be slightly amusing at best. All around me, people were laughing at great volume as my rictus grin started to give me cramp. Even the fifth glass of wine couldn't stop me from being true to my nature: I'm a miserable old hag.

One of life's rules is that you always work with people who you would avoid in everyday life. Having to spend time with them as they drink "one over the eight" (or more likely, "one over the two", such is their unfamiliarity with alcohol for the rest of the year) listening to confessions about the troubled state of their marriage ... well, it's just cruel. And the thought that some of them might end up having drink enhanced sexual relations is even more distressing. It is surely impossible to fancy ANYONE you have ever worked with, ever.

The only thing I can say with not a little smugness is that I've never done anything I regret at a works do. Okay, I once told an awful boss an anecdote about the snooker player Tony Knowles
which went on a bit too long, but otherwise I have maintained my dignity in the face of adversity.

I advise anyone else reading who is attending a works party or meal over the next few days to do the same.

Good luck to you. You will need it.

People of Hertfordshire, England, UK - or perhaps that should read people of south eastern England, UK, should be made aware that, due to the recent Hemel Hempstead oil depot fire, for the next forty years at least they will have to dress like the two fellows here every time they go outdoors.

Top one, nice one, get sorted.

A toast today, folks (as the Old Codgers used to say) for my husband, who is celebrating/tolerating his birthday.

He is much appreciated despite all the mithering.

Besides which, he has to put up with me every day of his life, and nobody else would.

This is a heartfelt plea from the heart.

Tonight, the Record Of The Year is going to be on ITV, and it is going to be voted for by the likes of YOU.

The show is being presented by Vernon Kay, and, I don't know about you, but an hour rarely goes by when I don't think of what I could do if I ran my hands through that dishevelled mop of chestnut hair!!

Anyway, I am going to ask YOU, the reader, to consider voting for She Is Beyond Good And Evil by the Pop Group.

Unfortunately, the affable Bristol guys are up against some stiff competition! The other finalists include:

Two Islands In A Sea Of Indifference - Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb
Drop A Dress Size For Christmas - Michelle McManus
Just A Ribena, Red Bull And Surgical Spirit Spritzer For Me Love. Oh, Go On, Make It A Double - Charlotte Church
Walking Through Town Is Quite SCAREY, A Man In A Tracksuit APPROACHED Me - Kaiser Chiefs
You Climb Me Up The Highest Mountain - Westlife
My Wife Is Brilliant ... My Wife Is Brilliant ... - James Blunt

Anyway, I urge you to get dialling and make those dreams come true for Gareth, Mark and the lads.

You know it makes sense!

There is already the threat that we are going to get "something for the house" as a Christmas gift (from one quarter, anyway). I would honestly rather have vouchers where at least you can buy something you want rather than something useless and cumbersome which will take up too much room. Thing is, I suppose, vouchers don't make for a very interesting shaped present, and that's the main thing, isn't it?

I'm not that difficult to get gifts for, but I have made myself so unpopular over the years with my grumpy, uncommunicative ways that I don't get many presents. Anyway, these are always the top three choices (in theory but not necessarily in practice for numbers 2 and 3 anyway):

1. French perfume. I like my perfume like my men - old fashioned, heavy and Oriental ("??"). Don't understand modern perfumes, or "scent" as men always say. Who wants to smell of "the ocean" (yeurk!) or "have a fresh melony quality". I could buy melons from Quicksave and daub them all over me if I wanted to be "all the fashion", though, and it would be cheap ...

2. French bulldog puppy. French bulldogs are, in this household, judged to be almost the best thing, ever. Mind you, he would have to be able to use the toilet (and not leave the seat up), do the ironing and look after himself when we were on holiday (recording Sky Plus, watering the plants, etc.)

3. One of those slightly haggard looking French men. Which is all hypothetical, as I am happily married. Still, if the husband decides to leave me for a giggly 19 year old I might consider it as not only are they extremely dishy, they apparently have a thing for the older woman. Hmm, a lot of them also have a thing about keeping a mistress or two on the side. Still, you can't have everything at my age.

Happy shopping dahhn Argos at the weekend, folks.

Apologies here as this topic has also been written about by the other blogger in the house. It's bound to happen occasionally. If we led completely separate lives it would be a bit CREEPY really and possibly a sign of impending marital crisis. Which would be good blogging material and would definitely get my stats up. However ...

A few days ago we listened to an old Jimmy Clitheroe show, mainly inspired by these comments on Musings From Middle England . My only memory of Clitheroe is that I may have heard his radio show for a few minutes here and there as a child but my parents didn't reckon much to him - in fact, it seems rare to find anyone who has a good word to say about him, yet the show ran from the 1950's to the 1970's.

I'm just guessing here, but it seemed to be in the tradition of much comedy from the 1930's and '40's. Plenty of northerners who "speak as they find": Sandy "can you hear me moother" Powell; that bloke who used to say "...the day war broke out" and the like. I recall Alan Bennett's memories of listening to the radio as a child: "Tommy Handley never appealed to me". I can only agree - voice like a foghorn and those horrible overblown songs like True or Gold! Any road up ...

I think we put up with about ten minutes of the Clitheroe Kid.

Short of stature and chidlike of voice, there are strange parallels between Jimmy C. and wee Jimmy (aka Jeanette) Krankie . Both dressed as schoolboys in character well into middle age. I wonder if Clitheroe's spirit left his body and passed on to Jeanette Krankie upon his death? This is a terrifying thought, and probably would be more suitable as a Hallowe'en tale. Still, I dedicated a blog post to Jeanette a year ago as she recovered from a preposterous accident in panto when a mechanical beanstalk fell on her. Fortunately she didn't die. This time. When she ceases to be, perhaps she will pass her spirit on to some other lucky beggar - Joe Pasquale, perhaps, or littlemark Owen?

Jimmy Clitheroe apparently moved back in with his mother after she was widowed. Sadly, he took her eventual death rather badly and within a short time died himself from an allegedly accidental overdose of sleeping pills.

The main crux of this post, however, is to shoehorn in what has to be the best comment I've seen in a site guestbook for a long time. It was obviously, lahhk, written by a firrteen year old gurll, innit? God knows how she ended up on the Jimmy Clitheroe website, but she said:

"We loves you even though you is dead! Respect to you you 4 ft midget!"

Props to tha gal.

Christmas Day, 2005. Gary Bartlett, the organist off of Take That, has spent the morning shooting pheasant in the grounds of his 2 gazillion acre stately home with pals Gary Neville and Stan "The Jairmans, The Jairmans" Boardman.

It is 2 o'clock and several generations of the Bartletts are sat in the Main Dining Room on the seventh floor at Bartlett Hall tucking into the very formal Bartlett Christmas Dinner. The mock mediaeval oak table is 93 feet long. Servants run around ceaselessly, and the scullery and kitchens are a hive of activity, but that will not concern us here.

Voices are heard around the table.


Gary: "I had a phone call from Littlemark yesterday trying to tap me for ten quid so he can stand his round on new year's eve. It's getting really embarrassing."

(everyone ignores him as the vegetables are passed round).

Gary: "Mmm, bagsy me the sage and onion stuffing!"

Mrs Barlett (a former Take That dancer): Not for you, Gary. Remember, you've got that tour coming up in a few months. How are you going to fit into that lycra crop top and co-ordinating shorts?"

Marje, Gary's old mum: "Ey up lass, leave the lad alone! He's always been a big bonnie lad. He always had second helpings when he were at home!"

Mrs B.: "No, don't encourage him. He has only just got into those 42 inch waistband formal Christmas trousers. We're going to have to be ruthless I'm afraid".


2.35 pm

Gary: "Mmm. That pudding looks lovely. Bagsy me first for the brandy butter!"

Mrs B.: Not for you Gary. Here, have this apple instead."


3.05 pm

Gary: "The Queen is starting to look her age. Can you pass us that box of Celebrations our mum?"

Mrs B.: "Not for you Gary."


6.15pm

Gary: "...some nuts?"

Mrs B.: "NO"


7.00 pm

Gary: "Christ. Not the Vicar of bloody Dibley. Is that pork pie?

(Mrs B. scowls)


7.07pm

"... some of that pickled cauliflower?"


Take That tour Britain in April 2006.

Tuesday update: phew! All those italics! What WAS I thinking?

Sky News set aside 6 hours to show George Best's funeral, which may be going slightly over the top. I mean to say, did they devote this amount of time to the funeral of one of our smashing smashing royals, such as the lovely Princess Margaret (who was also able to knock back a fair amount of booze in her time)?

As far as I know, the BBC News 24 service didn't use Raymond Baxter to describe the cortege in hushed tones. How times change. I'm sure they could have paid to drag him out of the BBC Home For Retired Ex-Tomorrow's World presenters on such a solemn state occasion. Unless he has actually been dead himself for several years.

* * * * * * *

I must apologise in advance if there are too many posts by me in the next few days. There is a raging inferno in my head and huge numbers of ideas which I feel it may be necessary to share with you. This includes even more posts about garden birds, and some lists.

Looking back to a year ago, I did a daily post as a sort of blogging advent calendar (or attempted to as Blogger engineering works took place on December 1st and 2nd). God, some of it was really awful. I hope the same doesn't happen again but I probably have a tendency to become a bit of a mentalist pre-Christmas.

So, loads of posts with (1) or (0) comments coming up shortly.

For the past two days, I've seen a song thrush in our garden.

"Oh, so what?" sez the reader.

Well, I'll have you know that the song thrush is an increasingly rare sight these days - a combination of changes in the environment has meant that its normal food preferences are no longer so readily available. I have a theory that this population fall has also coincided with the increasing number of blackbirds, which are slightly bigger and more aggressive and, having similar eating habits, tend to elbow song thrushes out of their territory.

The best thing about the song thrush, though, is its song, predictably enough. It sings all year round , unlike the blackbird, and is best heard at this time of year in the morning, preferably as the sun is trying to break through the clouds on a misty day for added atmospherics. Or at dusk, when very little is visible through fog and you feel as though you are in some sort of vortex (although *that's probably just me*).

Its song has a spooky, otherworldy, spirit-of-the-woods quality reminiscent of the first Cocteau Twins album (particularly the track The Hollow Men, although *that's probably just me*).

There's one particular tree in Greenwich Park where a song thrush seems to offer up a few melodies whenever I'm there. I usually insist on us standing near there for a few minutes for a good listen, thus meaning that we look like a right pair of fools.

I'm thinking of blogging about more garden bird nonsense in the next few days: fun for me, mind boggling for you.

Alright, you can stop looking at me like that now. Move along, both of you.

The day that the in-laws go "on-line" is drawing ever nearer, rather like an appointment for a particularly embarrassing and painful medical examination which has been delayed and delayed by the NHS. They have the computer but it has to be set up by someone and there is a "part" which they need.

In one way their lack of computer access has been occasionally annoying. Once every few months they will insist on the husband searching every airline going for the best ticket deal when they are planning one of their numerous holidays. Only the other night he was on the phone for over an hour as he attempted to book up tickets to see A Frank Sinatra Experience at the London Palladium (as some of you may already be aware). From what I can gather, there isn't even an imitation Frank involved - just some sort of televised image with a band playing behind him (not the Jools Holland Big Band as has been mischievously suggested elsewhere). It all costs upward of 40 quid a ticket even for the cheapest seats! For that sort of money I would expect that at least his dug-up corpse would be propped up on stage, or someone would be performing his songs, such as Robbie "Bobbie"* "Royal Variety Club Of Great Britain" "Mad Staring Eyes" "Boo Hoo Nobody Understands Me" Williams, although, heh heh, come to think of it someone would have to pay me for the latter option ...

Anyways, the in-laws just dropped in to have a nose pay a cheery visit while the central heating was being done, and our computer was on although not in use. The husband offered to show them one of his numerous blogs which are clogging up the information superhighway and like a heat seeking missile, the mother-in-law was drawn to his Jamie Oliver dream.

"What's that comments thing?" sed she.

"Okay, I'll show you. You might as well see" sed G.

Of course, the mother-in-law read out the following comment from the inimitable surly girl:

"i hope you told jamie oliver to fuck right off. pasty-faced, fat-tongued, shit-haired monkey wanker."

"It's not monkey, it's mockney," G. helpfully pointed out.

"What's a mockney?" the mother-in-law asked (G. explained).

"She doesn't pull her punches, that one" I added.

"Well I suppose you gave her a bullet to fire back at you" the mother-in-law decided, and I made a mental note to use this expression in conversation a lot in future.

Still, I am dreading the day they finally go on-line because it can only be a matter of time before they find this blog, however I might try to hide it, and a desperate process of censorship will have to take place. Older readers may remember the time that the Daily Mirror insisted that it would fight to the very last man before the awful Robert Maxwell took over ownership of the paper. Then came the fateful day when the editorial cheerily announced that they had a great great new owner - Robert Maxwell! - and infinite pictures of him with his fucking yacht, with his fucking family, offering generous amounts of money to some charidee, attending charidee dinners etc. appeared in the paper until his death at sea (see, it's not always the good who die before their time).

Ahem, it will be on a slightly smaller scale, of course, despite my readership scraping the dizzy heights of nearly a handful of bemused drug addicts one on the days in September.


*thanks to R. for this choice of name, up there with his calling Kurt Cobain Kunt Cobblers the once.