When I get nervous, my bladder turns into this pathetic little weakling and whimpers, "Empty me!". But my sister insisted that I did not have time to run upstairs to the loo and make it back before Miss Helen's Call was due (sis said the sound of my unfit lungs heaving down the phone line would not be too becoming).
So whilst sitting frantically crossing my legs waiting for the phone to ring, I had the misfortune of seeing Channel 10's shoddy piece of Friday night fodder, Russell Crowe: Behind The Gladiator. Behind the gladiator was one Molly Meldrum, doing his indecipherable mumbling and arse kissing routine. It was painful to watch. Almost as painful as the sound of Mr Crowe's band, 30 Odd Foot Pile Of Steaming Dog Turds. Imagine if you will the tunelessness of my mother singing along to Stairway To Heaven in the car, and combine it with the soaring axe-wielding talents of a spotty 15 year old who only knows two chords. Please stick to the acting, Russie babes.