At least you're out there on crowd control. We're heroically managing things here whilst Musket is downing his ninth pint of Adnams. One of the biddies wants the bog but Swollox won't come out. She's groaning like mad in there. You'll have to call the numbers very loudly to drown her out. God, those big, rasping farts of hers are gonna have to stop, I tell you. Bloody women. Do NOT tell me you're still going to accordion practice. This is exactly how schisms start. Is it still 999 for the cops?