Singletons

Back in October, the winter league singles competition began with eighty seven entrants. Months of freezing fingers and icicled extremities later and fourteen players remain with a realistic chance of qualification for the grand final. Four players will earn their place provided they’ve completed the minimum ten rounds, most of the front runners have accomplished this but a sprinkling of challengers are coming up on the rails so there’s still plenty to play for.

At the risk of embarrassing myself with elementary arithmetic miscalculation, the contenders are as follows, their average stableford scores are alongside.

S McGhie             39

IP Smith               37

S Hutcheon         37*

G Docherty         36

A Darragh           36

C Nicol                  36*

M Ritchie             35

D Hepburn          35

AD Smith             35

J Nowak               35

K Gordon             35

G Forrester         34

J Christie              34

P McRobb           34*

*not completed ten rounds yet

Another thirteen players can still complete the requisite ten rounds in time but I’m not wasting space naming them, they’re toast. I’ll eat my hat if the four qualifiers don’t come from the list above. Indeed I’ll play the gully in a leopardskin thong using a plastic cricket bat and a medicine ball. In the Winter. No offence chaps but Rory couldn’t drag it back from here, you’re better off staying at home to watch Grandstand or clean the motor.

No competition is complete without its' also rans. Mention must be made of the hapless couple of dozen who bailed from the tournament having completed no more than two of the minimum ten rounds. The winter league seemed a good idea at the time didn’t it gentlemen? That’s until you realised it meant rolling out of bed in sub-zero temperatures to thin so many iron shots that you couldn’t feel your fingers anymore. Prize to the most random entrant, who will remain nameless, goes to the fellow who waited until week 8 to make his debut and promptly called it quits right there, after one solitary round. As object lessons in futility go this rivals my attempt to climb Ben Mohr in January wearing plimsolls.

To all singles competitors I wish you good luck. It goes without saying that had I entered myself the tournament would effectively have only three places to play for but you have Keith Douglas to thank for dragging me away to the doubles. Partnering Douglas hasn’t come without its travails and my back is shot to pieces having had to carry him around the course all winter. Remind me to play the singles or take up snooker next year.

The grand final is on March 19^th with the four qualifiers adding their points tally on that day to the average points tally accumulated during the winter. S McGhie is sitting pretty but as we all know, a couple of lucy lockets and a dose of the yips and it can all change. It’s still there for the taking, but don’t make me dig out that thong.

Round 9 - Is it a bird? Is it a plane?

Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s Keith Douglas failing to reach the humps…again. Today saw a classic faux pas by the hapless Douglas, you just couldn’t make it up.

As I greeted him by the 1^st tee he introduced me to the solicitor representing him in his libel case against me. (For those of you not up to speed, Douglas is taking me to court for libelling him with ‘untruths’ regarding our winter league golfing partnership. The crux of his case appears to be that I exaggerate his ineptitude and fail to give him sufficient credit for our team scores every week, all of which is patent nonsense which I have little doubt the judge will laugh out of court).

Anyway, there he stands by the first tee, appraising his solicitor of latest developments, bleating about my latest report in which I again (correctly) call him out for being crap. He goes on to grumble about me claiming all the glory from our best rounds and blaming him for our bad ones, whining that he’s nowhere near the rotten player that I describe him to be.  Finally the moaning stops and he steps up to his opening tee shot and what does he do? He duffs it fifty yards! Not only does his ball fail to reach the humps, it fails to alight even halfway, the halfwit near on hit a fresh air shot. I looked over at his solicitor to find him scribbling a resignation letter having seen first hand that I’d been telling the truth all along. Lawyers want dead certs only and his client hadn’t a leg to stand on.

You’ve shot yourself in the foot there Douglas and no mistake, no brief will get you out of this one and just in case you’re tempted to deny your hopeless duff ever happened, you’ll notice that I took the trouble to photograph you playing your second shot (see attached). Let the record show that you are standing a million miles short of the humps, you useless oaf, as you attempt to make amends for the ludicrous grubber you topped off the first tee. You’re bang to rights son, in your face Douglas, in your face. And before you try to have this photo censored, remember there were half a dozen witnesses standing outside the clubhouse, laughing up their sleeves. If I were you I’d withdraw your threat of legal action before you make any more of a fool of yourself. No lawyer will take you seriously, save your money and buy some lessons instead chum.

Turning now to the rest of the round, we scored a gross 63 which was highly commendable given we were on winter greens and the cold was of Baltic proportions. Our playing partners, Colin Polson and Martin McCoy, notched a nett 59 and were excellent company, they’ll testify that I provided the lion’s share of our scores today with Keith playing no more than a supporting role until his par at the last. I shone through despite being hampered by two injuries; a poorly finger following a disagreement with an Irn Bru bottle’s screw top, and a bad back.

 I’d been to the physio again in the week, she’s been trying to ease my back pain for a while now but has succeeded only in humiliating me so far. Week one she had me shivering in my smalls, week two she pressed so hard on my back as I lay face down that my testicles got squashed beneath me and this week she was laughing at my arse.

“ Your bottom isn’t offering any support to your back when you go running” she said. “ You’ve got a jelly for a bottom, no muscle tone to your buttocks. They’re meant to act as shock absorbers for the base of your spine when you’re pounding the streets but with you having such a weak arse they do nothing” she finished. The cheek. Shivering moobs, pancaked bollocks and a fat arse. What next? A swollen helmet? Cracked ringpiece? I’ve a good mind to sack her off.

But back to the golf. Our 63 was the result of 15 pars and 3 birdies (10, 16, 17) with a number of clutch putts saving our bacon. I found myself having to shoulder the bulk of the burden, nervelessly sinking six footers on 2, 4, 7, 9 and 12. In addition I routinely parred the gully leaving Douglas questioning whether he’d even bother to play it in future. Quite right too, that’s six rounds straight that I’ve parred the gully now.

Despite our differences, we were able to share a light hearted moment on the 16^th fairway as we stood adjacent to the 4^th hole waiting to play our second shots. Three herberts on the 4^th tee peppered us with hooked drives, they had us hopping around like cats on a hot tin roof as we avoided their spherical missiles.

“ It’s a shame one of those didn’t knock your fu*#ing teeth out Russon” said Keith.

I laughed, turning to him to share the joke, but he wasn’t laughing. He was staring through me with deadpan eyes that could kill.  Anyone would think he’d actually meant it.

So that’s nine rounds played with one more to go. We’re due on stage at 10am next Saturday if any out of work lawyers want to come along and pitch for Douglas’s business. If you’re not sure what he looks like just wait until someone tops his drive off the first and fails to reach the humps, that’s your man.

Round 8 - One Step Closer

I've given Keith some fearful stick since starting this blog and some folk have questioned whether we're likely to remain on speaking terms long enough to complete the tournament. I can't guarantee that but for a split second today we found ourselves sharing a joke and Keith's brother, Jack, was on hand to record the event for posterity. Keith has his hands in his pockets because I insisted he didn't give me the infantile 'bunny ears', I have my hands in my pockets in case he steals my wallet. For those who aren't familiar with either of us, I'm the handsome, strapping, athletic one on the right, Keith's the headgear wearing bumpkin on the left.

This photo has us standing on the 17th tee moments before I notch yet another birdie. I followed this by rescuing our score on the final hole after Keith carelessly careered his drive out of bounds. While he looked on sheepishly, I holed a tricky six footer to cement our eighteen hole total of 65 which keeps us well in the hunt for the final.

The round had begun spectacularly with Keith holing an eagle putt on the 1st after grubbing a thinner off the tee all the way to the green. After that however it was meat and potatoes golf, no fireworks and plenty of eventless pars. Once again I parred the entire gully, check the scorecard Douglas if you don't believe me, and Keith contributed his solitary birdie on the very short par five 16th. Steady, unspectacular golf was the order of the day and Jack's company ensured his brother and I didn't come to fisticuffs on the 7th when I threatened to use an unflattering photograph of him on this blog. He made it crystal clear to me that were I to use said picture, it would be the last photograph my mobile phone ever took unless I found a way to retrieve the device from three foot up my arsehole. Charming.

So a 65 and one step closer to completing our ten rounds. It's quite possible Keith and I have only three more rounds of golf to partner each other before the winter league draws to a close. I'd like to say it's been a pleasure...but my Mum always told me Santa doesn't come to those who tell fibs. No, joking aside, I've had great fun re-uniting with an old friend after thirty years away from Stonehaven Golf Club and this winter league has been a real tonic. I'm looking forward to defending our trophy next year already. Now that's fightin' talk.

Last Knockin's At The Wacky Races

32 teams entered The Winter League Scratch Pairs competition and as we enter the last knockings, 8 are still in with a chance of qualifying for the final. A detailed explanation of the rules would have you losing the will to live, suffice to say the final will be contested by the 4 teams with the ten lowest accumalative scores. Let’s just leave the accompanying rules and sub-rules for another day.

Miraculously, Keith Douglas and I are still in with a shout. Despite months of squabbling, name calling and even an exchange of solicitor’s letters, we remain a partnership and sit in fourth position with an average score of 66. The three leading partnerships are each averaging 64 and look nailed on for qualification which leaves a straight fight between five other teams, ours included, with average scores from 66-69. In truth, it’s probably tatties for the Arthur/Officer combo at 69 but they may shoot the lights out you never know. It’s definitely tatties for anyone scoring worse than an average of 69, great big hairy ones shaped like phallic symbols. Sadly, some partnerships have scored so poorly that ‘tatties’ doesn’t cover it, an entire Aberdeenshire potato crop couldn’t ably describe their chances and in one particular case the gross domestic output of the UK’s potato industry wouldn’t be adequate. No, the truth is it’s down to 8 likely contestants.

Here’s a list of the 8 contenders, some have completed their ten rounds while others have further rounds to complete (*). For ease of use I’ve simply averaged teams’ scores to formulate this leaderboard –

64 Irvine/Roulston

64 Dempster/McGilvary

64 Pittendreigh/Adamson*

66 Russon/Douglas*

67 Robb/McFarlane*

68 Duncan/Wood

68 Taylor/McAllan

69 Arthur/Officer

There are only four more opportunities to complete the ten round total for those marked *. Pittendreigh/Adamson have only played six rounds, all it’ll take is one bad curry and a dose of the squits to rule them out so they need to be careful, but if they avoid disaster they should qualify. This therefore leaves the fourth and final qualifying spot as a likely battle between myself/Douglas and Robb/McFarlane.

I’m all for an even contest but feel duty-bound to warn Messrs Robb & McFarlane of peculiar happenings at Stonehaven Golf Club in recent years. Superstition has never been a part of my life, I’m quite happy to walk under a ladder and enter a doorway with no.13 above it, I couldn’t care a fig. Others are less cavalier however so I thought I’d point out that, according to folklore,  every year during the weekends of late February and early March, gangs of hoodlums wearing balaclavas have been known to accost car owners as they enter the driveway of Stonehaven Golf Club.  A peculiar yet noteworthy aspect of these confrontations has been that they are only dished out to gentlemen carrying the surnames of “Robb” and “MacFarlane”, and ALWAYS end with A SEVERE THRASHING OF THE VICTIMS TO WITHIN AN INCH OF THEIR LIVES .   

I mention this only in passing since, I repeat, I’m not superstitious, but that said, it might be deemed irresponsible to ignore such a warning were your name to be Robb or MacFarlane. Some might suggest that for them to cock a snook at this warning might be to invite trouble. I’ll leave it there but all things considered, I know that if I were them I WOULDN’T RISK BEING WITHIN A MILLION MILES OF STONEHAVEN GOLF CLUB FOR THE NEXT MONTH OR SO. Just sayin’ like.

Over and out from deepest Auchenblae.

Round 7 - clickety click 66

You play in some pretty cold conditions during the winter league but this weekend it was beyond

Baltic. We were bedecked in hats, snoods, scarves, balaclavas and that’s before we left the clubhouse. Try swinging a golf club when you’re wearing enough layers to set up a chain of clothes stores. Still, it was dry and the sun was shining, we were grateful for small mercies.

Keith and I were playing our seventh round of the winter league alongside two senior members, Donald Gordon and Derek Freeland. I went to school with Donald’s daughter (Tanya) back in the 80s and asked what she was doing these days. When he explained she was a lawyer in Edinburgh I left the conversation there, there’s nothing worse than feeling inadequate. I switched the chat over to Derek only to discover he was the owner of a sizeable local business so packed in talking to him too. Ego heavily bruised, I buried my hands into my pockets and walked ahead.

Your ten best scores are aggregated at the end of the league fixtures to decide upon qualification for the final. We’re in the mix, our scores are averaging better than par, but we needed to maintain momentum with a good round this weekend and this we duly delivered (well I did, my partner very much playing second fiddle).   We were conscious that a score of 66 or better was imperative so when Keith muffed the first hole with a scruffy bogey it was important I stepped up to the plate with a solid par 4, this I did. We grubbed along for the next three holes without any fireworks until I took charge with a spectacular tap-in birdie on the 5^th while Keith continued to contemplate his naval, and I narrowly missed a birdie on the following hole too. I don’t want to describe the entire round, there’s nothing more boring than a golfer detailing his performance, but suffice to say I took responsibility for our team’s score while Keith weighed in only sporadically. He nudged in a birdie putt on 10 but that apart wasn’t at the races. I’m sad to say the atmosphere was once again pretty poor between us, indeed we almost came to blows on the 16^th following an incident typifying his selfish attitude.

The 16^th is a par five which I made mincemeat out of with a booming drive and medium iron to eight feet while Keith scrambled his way to the green in three shots. Miraculously however, Keith holed his birdie putt leaving me with a free hit at an eagle. Most partners would encourage and cajole their teammate, help them line the putt up and offer words of support. Not Keith. Instead, he mumbled something unrepeatable, trod on my line and returned his putter to his golf bag with enough noise to drown out a helicopter, just as I began my backswing. This distraction was sufficient to put me off my stroke and miss the eagle attempt, Keith providing a soundtrack of bellowed laughter as my putt missed to the right. What a waster. I was strongly tempted to offer him out there and then but thought better of it, Donald and Derek didn’t need to see blood on the dancefloor, but if he does it again I’ll break his bleedin’ nose.

The round ended with a par, naturally mine, which achieved our targeted total of 66. There are three rounds to go and, provided we don’t knock each other’s blocks off, we hope to qualify. The good news for Messrs Gordon & Freeland is that their 18 holes with Keith ended right there, the bad news for them is that we’re scheduled to accompany them again next weekend.

In closing I’ll leave you with a pleasant photograph of Donald and Derek playing from the 7^th tee. People sometimes ask me why I moved back to Aberdeenshire from Birmingham, well it’s because of views such as this (the backdrop not their backsides). I’ve also included a photo of the 5^th hole which I expertly birdied and next week I hope to have a photograph of Keith stood in the dock of Aberdeen Sheriff Court. The local constabulary have charged him for wasting police time with his spurious accusation that I published libellous content on this site. In your face Douglas, you’re going down son.

Anal Announcement

Here is a photograph of a man’s bottom. I’ll give you a moment or two to absorb the image. Finished? Okay, let me explain.

My golf was poor last week. It’s seldom better than average but on this occasion it was particularly poor. Duck hooks on holes 9 and 10 threatened travellers on passing trains and a preposterous slice on 16 finally enabled my ball to locate the railway track it clearly coveted. Long irons were slapped, pitches muffed, it was a miserable performance and opened the door for my winter league partner, Keith Douglas, to ridicule me all the way round. Marvellous isn’t it when your team partner extracts the Michael rather than offering  encouragement but I’m mostly reconciled to his infantile behaviour having endured six rounds with the useless oaf.

Nevertheless, I was determined that our next game would see a vast improvement in form, I was wounded by his criticism, so I booked another appointment with my doctor to address the worsening back pain which was causing my golf to suffer. Golfers are adept at offering excuses but mine was a very genuine ailment and it needed sorting. I’d seen the doctor recently, he’d advised a physio, but regrettably her manipulation of my back had no effect so I was back at the quack’s again. To suggest this experience was harrowing, however, would be an understatement.

I shuffled into the doctor’s surgery and gave him a description of my ailment before handing him a letter which the physio had written. He peered over his spectacles to read the letter before ushering me over to the examination table. He explained that the letter suggested other issues may be at play causing my back pain and he needed to investigate these possibilities.

“ It could be a kidney complaint or more likely a urinary problem” he said. “ Until we rule these or other causes out it’s difficult to diagnose. Drop your trousers and underpants below your knees please” he said nonchalantly.

“ P..p..p pardon?” I replied, somewhat taken aback.

“ Breeks doon, airse oot, you won’t feel a thing” said he.

“ What are you going to do?” I was getting worried now

.

“ A rectal examination, we need to check your prostate” he replied.

“ Hells bells, I’ve got a sore back, what’s my backside got to do with it?”

“ I’ve explained the situation Mr Russon, we need to investigate all possibilities. I’ll book you in for blood tests but first we need to check your prostate. Lie down on your side facing the wall”.

And before you could say ‘Jack Robinson’ or ‘ I want my Mummy’, he’d plunged his middle finger deep into my anus and was rummaging around as if searching for a lost set of keys in a glovebox. It wasn’t painful and was over in seconds but I have to confess it was somewhat disconcerting having another man part my butt cheeks and send a digit through my rusty sheriff’s badge to a place where the sun doesn’t shine. I was in a state of shock. I’d entered the room expecting the obligatory urine sample yet here I was with a veritable stranger seeking access to my inards via my chocolate starfish. It came as quite a surprise I can tell you.

We returned to our chairs, silently, as if nothing had happened. He spoke about blood tests but I wasn’t really listening, I was busy creating a mental image of what had transpired and started to worry about the state of my ringpiece. Had I performed an adequate clean up operation last time I’d parked my breakfast or did my arse weep pungent matter over his hand? Thankfully he didn’t appear too repulsed by his procedure but then again he was hardly likely to share a description of his findings. We shook hands, mercifully he’d washed his, and parted company. It was all over in a flash but I returned to the car park muttering furiously under my breath. “I’ll kill Douglas for this”.

Yes I blame Douglas. It is all his miserable fault. Had he encouraged rather than chastised me last Saturday, offered words of support rather than criticism, I doubt I’d have felt the need to make another doctor’s appointment, I’d have put my poor performance down to a bad day at the office and moved on. But since he’d gone to such lengths to demoralise me, I was left determined to have my injured back repaired, to show him just how good a golfer I could be. The doctor’s appointment, and subsequent anal examination, was therefore all down to him.

He’s going to pay for this I swear. Nobody facilitates the investigation of my marmite runway and get’s away with it.  If you’re reading this Keith, and I don’t want you to be unduly alarmed, I thought I’d share with you a summary of a recent article in The Guardian (that’s a broadsheet newspaper with big words commentating on current affairs, not a comic such as those to which you’re accustomed, telling the world about Cheryl Cole’s latest squeeze). This article was about medieval re-enactments, groups of folk who dress up in medieval garb and provide staged productions so that people, particularly children, can better understand what life was like centuries ago. These re-enactments are very realistic and include accounts of the various types of torture meted out to criminals of that age. Amongst these punishments is the ‘red hot poker’, a particularly ghastly instrument of torture, an iron poker heated up to an extremely high temperature and then inserted into the guilty party’s arsehole. The victim would suffer this invasion of his nethers a number of times until passing out with the pain before awaking to have it repeated all over again. And again. And again.  Apparently, I was reading, from time to time the stage effects from these travelling Medieval drama groups go missing and are later found to have been used by members of the modern day general public for nefarious personal use resulting in hours of agony for the victims.

Did you know Keith, as luck would have it, one of these re-enactments is scheduled for Stonehaven in the near future, on a date where there’s a window in my diary. I suggest you keep this in mind because if you find yourself within a million miles of the area you just might find one of these instruments is heated until it’s white hot, never mind red hot, and locates itself a significant distance up your ample backside until it’s tip appears through your nostrils you complete and utter dipstick. This is not a threat, it is a promise.

Round 6 - Nelson's Column

It's been a triumphant week for my winter league partner, Keith Douglas. First, he got his cheapies when becoming an internet sensation with his online video going viral and second, he finally came to the party in round six of our winter league partnership.

First the online stardom. Keith recorded a nine second video which achieved a remarkable quarter of a million hits in two days. Of the following four situations, three are false and one is correct, which situation do you reckon his video depicted? 

1. Crossing an old lady over the road? 
2. The touching moment when a young child is reunited with a father returning from an armed forces' foreign posting? 
3. Handing over a birthday gift to his brother Jack in a tear jerking moment of sibling love?
4. Mercilessly mocking the Celtic management team as they skulk back to the dressing room having lost to Aberdeen?

Correct. His 'Nelson off The Simpsons' style 'ha ha' ridiculing of John Collins & Ronnie Daeila proved such a hit that it was seen by hundreds of thousands, most of whom appreciated it while others proved less complimentary according to the facebook replies he received. I was going to attach the video here but my laptop's on the blink, visit Keith Douglas Construction on facebook and you'll see it there.

As for Keith's second triumph of the week, he joined me at Stonehaven GC for another round in our winter league tournament and finally turned in a performance. It was pretty frosty when we met and I don't mean the weather. Keith and I had exchanged solicitor's letters during the week (see a previous post) after he'd threatened me with legal action over 'libellous' content on this site, so when we alighted at the golf club he didn't receive me warmly. I was standing beneath the clubhouse window speaking to Barry McGilvary when Keith appeared at the window, looked down at me blankly and drew his index finger across his throat. He may have had an itchy neck but in truth appeared to be suggesting my impending murder. He can look forward to another letter from my brief following that unprovoked gesture.

" You deserve a medal for playing the entire winter league with that tosser" said Barry, " he really is an insufferable arsehole of the highest order. Hats off to you for putting up with golf's biggest waster since Maurice Flitcroft, you have my sympathy". Barry's words not mine, but I have to concur.

However, credit where it's due, Keith put aside our legal disagreement to play eighteen good holes of golf. This was our sixth round, we have four still to play, and up until now his contribution could at best be described as fitful, but he finally came to the party with birdies on 1, 10 and 17 while parring most of the rest. For my part I had an uncharacteristic off-day due to a bad back (suffered as a result of carrying Keith for weeks). Some might say his round of 68 wasn't all that impressive given we were playing the course at it's most benign and in reality there's truth in that. Due to the winter course being foreshortened, you could drive virtually every par 4 with a half swing and hit every par 3 with a pitching wedge, the holes were the size of buckets and preferred lies offered the chance to tee the ball up every time you were about to hit it. It may seem churlish to suggest that anyone capable of holding a golf club the right way round could have broken 70, but there's no doubt this suggestion has some merit. Nevertheless, I'd like to congratulate Keith on a well executed round of golf and George Forrester for putting up with us both. 

We march on to round 7 next week. I hope my back has recovered by then and Keith's solicitor has seen sufficient sense to withdraw his threatened action. I also hope I never see another train track again. I sent my ball toward the railway line three times in five holes this weekend, anymore of this and they'll dub me Thomas The Tank Engine.

Maurice Flitcroft wiki entry https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maurice_Flitcroft

Physio 2

I needn't have bothered buying a new pair of pants for my second physio appointment, I could have worn my tired old Y-fronts after all. Last week my physio had me stripped down to my undercrackers before I'd finished saying " good morning", this week she only wanted me topless. That's bad enough mind you. My wife barely sees me without a shirt yet here I was stood stripped to the waist before a young lady half my age. Some blokes might be delighted at the prospect, I was horrified. It's okay if you're formed like a Greek Adonis, bulging biceps and ripped pectorals, it's no fun though when your pathetic, pale white torso droops apologetically beneath sagging moob action.

I'm ashamed of my body, so to have a super fit physiotherapist regard it from a distance of two paces was chastening indeed. I stood with my handlebars of flesh rolling over my waistband, my one pack hiding itself behind an ocean of blubber and my man breasts hanging forlornly, crying out for a sports bra to give them comfort. This was agonising but worse was to come. She asked me to put my hands on my hips, lean backwards and tell her if there was any pain, there wasn't. I was then instructed to bend forward and touch my toes and in a double whammy of disaster I saw my stomach form three embarrassing tyres as I leant forward and, mortifyingly, I inadvertently broke wind. Mercifully an odour didn't result but the audible guff squeak was enough to cement my deep embarrassment. She pretended she hadn't heard it but there was no denying I'd dropped my lunch, we shuffled across to the physiotherapist bed, wordlessly, while I waited for the ground to swallow me up.

I've never had acupuncture before, not that women haven't been tempted to put needles into me over the years, form an orderly queue ladies. Today though I was to experience it for the first time as my physio pierced the skin at the base of my spine with several pins while talking about the weather. The stretches and excercises I'd been doing hadn't worked so already we were on to acupuncture, if this doesn't work I expect amputation's next.

It was soon over and I buttoned my shirt while she diarised our next session. The back pain persists and my golf remains under threat, it's no fun swinging a club while your back is screaming for you to stop. I'll keep going back though until they fix me, I'll try to keep my sphincter closed next time mind.