Themudhutter6

The Mudhutter Online Issue 6 June 2006

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The Mudhutter Online Issue 6 June 2006

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The intention was to publish Issue 6 of 'The Mudhutter' for the final game of the football season but we (and by we I really mean I) somehow got behind with affairs. It's a hard life surfing the internet all day, you know! We could have published and put it the shops and pubs around town and sold throughout the summer but with design and printing costs needing to be paid within four weeks we simply aren't in a financial position to enable us to do this. As you are aware the magazines we produce and the website we run aren't awash with adverts and pop-ups asking you to "click here and win a holiday" and long may it continue. We have therefore decided to produce three monthly E'zines to keep you entertained over the summer months before we come back with the next hard-copy magazine in time for the first Latics game of next season. So without further ado here's the first one. A couple of serious articles, some music, football, fashion, food (well bread), WN5 folklore and those lot at the Wigan Observer. We travel from Bohemia to Mars via Highbury. All this plus a whole lot more brought to you by: FATHER FINTON STACK, DIRRRRTY_OLD MAN, DOMINIC OLDMAN, TONY TOPPING, K21, OZZIE_OSBOURNE, CADDY, BENSALATIC, MIGS, AM and LATOUCHE We need all your ideas, comments, articles and money (if you are that way inclined) and you can mail us at info@mudhutsmedia.co.uk and visit us at www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk CHEERS VAUGHANIE

DEEP BEHIND NORLEY SHOPS SOMETHING IS STIRRING Famous Wigan Nicknames After receiving some grateful and sometimes complimentary feedback from the "Local Eccentrics" article in a previous issue of 'Mudhutter' it made me realise that not only faces but also nicknames held cult status in Wigan (well it did in the WN5 area). So I put it to the members of Mudhuts as to famous nicknames which they knew. Shortened surnames or Christian names were not allowed.

Posting the names of WN5 will be myself, Caddy, AM and Vaughanie. The rest of them are kindly supplied by Migs and BensaLatic.

Steven "Snib" Hagan - Always been known as Snib due to his lack of height. Always had cold sores. C*nt of the highest order who I'd love to boot all over the estate. Had a brother nicknamed "Sip"- His name was Simon but I'm fucked if I know why he was called Sip. Gary "Soggy" Houghton - Named Soggy by his brother. Could swear it was due to a Christmas time advert for the game Super Striker. There was a fat lad on the advert who their Stey said looked like Gary. Said he was a big "Soggy" bastard.

Chis "Gannet" Sherrington - Worsley Haller and nicknamed Gannet due to the speed he ate his school dinners and the way he'd scav everyone else's.

Shauny "Poo Poo" Hilton - Shit in his pants in a wash house.

Anthony "Tinker" Taylor - Tink to the rest of us. Explains itself really.

Joe "Blackie" Ball - Named by John Barnes. (the pyromaniac NOT the Channel 5 Afro-Caribbean presenter) Joe was of Romany blood and had a strangely brown look about him. Looked like Mowgli from the Jungle Book.

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Paul "Pin" Lindley - Otherwise known as "The Roofer" on the Wigan darts circuit. Pin has TWO explanations: one being he was really thin as a child. The other being due to his slanty eyes. Pin was Nip backwards.

Chrissy "Eggy" Lion - Fell out a tree and landed on his head and shouted "Ow me egg" Tony "Punjab" Williams - Named due to the colour of his neck resembling the colour of an Indian's.

Pey "Aki Bent Dick" Atkinson - Or Pey Atk. Rumoured to have a bent penis.

John "Leggy" Pownall - Anyone know the real reason for Leggy? (And would anybody dare ask him? - Ed) Steven "Josh" Corbett - Named after Joshua N’Komo due to his dark appearance.

Andrew "Jack" Heatley - Named by myself and my cousin when we were fishing on Carr Mill Dam. When he laughed he had gums like Jack from 'On The Buses'. We noticed this and the name stuck like shit to a blanket. Funnily enough my cousin was on a bus a couple of years ago with Jack.

Some girl started talking to them and said: "why do they call you Jack?" He then pointed at my cousin and said "ask him and his daft cousin" Chris "Biscuit" Wilson - Again two rumours. One was that he was always sat on the doorstep eating biscuits. The other due to his pox-ridden face looking like a Rich Tea biscuit.

Wayne "Boy" Jones - No one knew his name for years so Boy it was. Never had a hair on his head until he was 12.Even then it turned out ginger.

Wayne "Oscar" Jones - Oh yes Wayne had TWO nicknames. Oscar after the Seasame Street character who lived in a bin.

Keith "The President" Penny - Rugby league player nicknamed this at school due to him living in a white house (scruffy area of Norley Hall before demolition).

Wayne "Pissflaps" Carney - Karl Melling once watched him having a piss and shouted "Look at the size of your cock, you've got pissflaps".

Cheryl "Wanny Ten Heads" - Fuck knows her name but she had a head the size of a snooker table.

Chris "Legweak" Armstrong - Armstrong - Legweak? Fuck off.

Mark "Stoney" Helmann - Deadly with a stone in his hand. Head shot every time from this lad.

Lesley "La La" Coeman - Mentioned in Jimmy and Vaughnie's book in the bonfire stories. Named "La La" because as a kid he couldn't pronounce Lesley. It came out La La. Jay "One Eye" Davies - Lost his eye when he was a kid.

Dawn "Stig" Davies - One Eye's sister. Went onto become Wigan women's Thai boxing champion. Named Stig at school.

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Gillian "Norman Whiteside" Baldwin - Another of the nicknames I created. She was born with one half of her face and neck covered in a big purple coloured birthmark which recently I've become aware of as a "port wine stain". Good or what, eh?

Keith "Bov" Speakman. Bov was a bovver boy. Had "Bov" tattooed on his neck in Indian ink when he was at one of the Windsor group of hotels!

"Worm" Sherman - Never known his first name. Always been called Worm. Apparently he was a slimy customer. Right fuckin' snake.

"Chizzy" Gerrard - Likes to grab the neck of his T-shirt when angry. One of the most famous nicknames in Wigan without a shadow of a doubt.

Steven "Skinhead" Potter - Had a skinhead in the 70's, when everyone else was going for the "footballer in a bad suit" look. Fuckin mental he was. Probably an accountant now.

Julie "Shakin Stevens" Cross - She used to always shake like a shitting dog.

Billy "Goolies" Roach - Massive, they were. Like two tennis balls.

Alan "Monkey" Norman - His Mam was dead hairy, so it started as an insult to her, and finished up as his nickname.

John "Brassneck" Hoole - He was skinny and had a neck like a giraffe. Named after the ''Dandy'' comic strip.

John "Fingers" Thwaite. Or "Twatty", if he wasn't listening.

Lee ''Sugar'' Grimes. Because he was diabetic. Hadn't seen him for years until last week when I saw him in Leigh, meandering down to the mental health ward.

Larry "The Loop". Not a clue why, he was a bit loopy in his more formative years. Not in a mentally ill way, more a violent crank way. Crackin' lad though, still regard him as a good friend.

Chris ''The Rat'' Naylor- Because he's a fuckin' rat ok!

Terry ''Black Dog'' Gaskell- Wigan's most illustrious amateur football manager and most decorated to boot. A right nowty growling c*nt, if there's any swear word worth shouting he's shouted it, screamed it and been banned for calling the ref it. Got his nickname in the late Seventies whilst playing for Wigan Town, he was a central defender and used to frighten the opposing forwards to death. Long black hair and thick black beard. He was also known in some parts of Wigan as ''Jesus''. When the hair came off early eighties he also bore a striking resemblance to Peter Sutcliffe. He's got grey hair and a big belly now, but he's still a nowty c*nt. Oh, and he's my dad (Bensa) Kevin ''Pemp'' Sheridan- Former manager of Pemps and also my uncle. Think the name comes from everybody thinking his name was Penman (too long a story). Anyroad, it still doesn't get me in after I've called Barbara a fat slut. Our Kevin had his two sisters working on the bar for him, my Mam and my Auntie, on their night off they both went down Pemps for a drink. Barbara says

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"You're not coming in". "But we work here Barbara" "Doesn't make you a member does it, you're not coming in" Mick "Ugly Mick" Atherton - Taxi driver, frequents the Bowling Green and nicknamed Ugly Mick for obvious reasons, even answers to it.

Scott Burp - Newtown, has the loudest burp in history from when he were a kid, has to be heard to be believed.

Chris "Crip" Crompton - Worsely Hall, always wondered why?

John "Feff" Derbyshire - Rose Hillbilly - butcher and all round good egg (until I see him next for taking ten bottles out of the Half Way House and putting them on my tab!!!!) - No idea with the name!

Stephen "Spider" Madden - Pem via Rose Hill, nicknamed due to his ability to climb trees like a spider monkey as a kid.

Stephen "Doc" Cadman - Worsley Hall, younger brother of your hero, nicknamed "Doc" after the legendary Dr Socrates, Brazilian wizard, used to take his penalties like him, ask the older lot, they'll know what I mean.

Tommy "Scarface" Seddon - Founder member of the Scholes Control and all-round bad golfer.

Enjoys Indian cuisine and The Kumars.

"Bonk" Sheridan - Maggie's lad, not a clue on his Christian name, don't even think Maggie has, even she calls him "Bonk".

Tommy "fast fists" - care of the Monty, slowest punch in the world EVER! Nickname tells it all really!!

"I've a broken my leg in three places" - Not a clue what his name is, but you'll all know him, Park-Attendant, always hanging around Newtown cleaning the bins out, walks like his left legs about to collapse, nickname self-explanatory.

Terry "Shuffle" Fairbrother - Worked at ASDA for years. Always shuffling his feet. Lazy c*nt.

David "Jellyfish" - Worked at ASDA as well and was nicknamed Jellyfish because he had no backbone when it came to speaking to the managers.

Carl "Pem Walker / Shoulders" Cumberbirch - One of my neighbours. Had more breakdowns than Dick Dastardly. Always says "Hello Peter" to me even though my name isn't Peter.

David "Wiggy" Fishwick - Named Wiggy due to his hair. Always looked like he had a wig on.

Good lad though and one of my old smoking friends.

Rik "The Rat" - Former smoke salesman from Worsley Hall. Looked like a rat. Good fella though and always offered you a bong before he sold you the smoke as a free tester.

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"Scotch" Archie Nicholson - Fucking scruffy c*nt who moved onto Norley with his tramp Scottish family. Archibald was the oldest of the brothers, William and Angus being the other two. Archie was the most annoying knobhead ever. Had more beatings than a Chipperfield monkey. If I saw him now I'd still twat him. One of those faces that you can't stop kicking.

Paul "No Neck" Woodward - Lived near FT Lees on Larch Avenue. Born without a neck. I knew Paul from school. Whenever my mates saw him they used to say "what's up with his neck Ozzie?" they used to get the same reply each time, "Don't know, but he's got a good head on his shoulders" Gary "Pocker" - Another former "salesman" from the Dalton Road Flats in Upholland. Why he was called Pocker I've no idea.

"Crazy" Christine - Yet another one who worked in "sales" from the Worsley Hall area. Named Crazy Christine as 'er she wasn't plugged in.

Warren "Brains" Stevens - Rugby League player and the only man who goes round Wigan in full suit. Named brains after throwing a brick up in the air then heading it.

Mandy "Bone" Gallagher - Lives on Marsh Bonk, or did. Not seen her for years. Bad Piss/Whizz head from the Kennedy's glory days. Named Bone as she looked like a bone. No I've not had a go.

Yes I nearly did.

Craig "Teabag" Lowe - One of a number of the Kitt Green Brothers who all developed an addictive personality. If it wasn't fruit machines then it was brown. If it wasn't brown it was fruit machines. Named Tea Bag because of the amount of freckles on his face.

Gary “Gagga” Heaton - Now Dr Gary “Gagga” Heaton. Daft as a brush, watches Latics. If he’s your doctor then worry.

“Big Tusk”. Cock of Orrell, Billinge, Tontine, Upholland - everywhere. Had run-ins with Dirk Croston of Pem in early 70s and his hobby was fighting Gyppos when the fair came to town. Still no idea what his real name is but his brother was called “Little Tusk” - he wasn’t .

Andy “Legend” Greenhalgh - Designer of this magazine amongst other things - I’ll let him tell you how he got that name.

John “Pope” Petrie. Given nickname on account that he was one of the few Catholics to drink in Rose & Crown in Orrell.

Dave “Sponge” Unsworth - a mate of mine sadly died a couple of years ago. Known to all and sundry as Sponge due to his ability to soak up all the alcohol.

Dave “Yeddin” Unsworth - played in same Orrell cricket team as “Sponge” - rum lad Carl "Chinny" Tomlinson - The BIGGEST and most famous nickname in Wigan bar none. ExLatics, ex-Starburst, ex-landlord. Chinny even has "CHINNY" tattooed on his forearm. If someone say from, I dunno, Cornwall got off the train at Wallgate looking for Chinny and asked for a "Carl Tomlinson" they'd be looking all fucking year. Ask someone if they know where they can find Chinny and it will take thirty seconds before someone says "Oh I know Chinny". Biggest chin I've ever seen. Could poke a fuckin' fire with it.

Ozzie_Osbourne

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MARS ATTACKS “A group of young men banded together in a plot to cut oxygen lines on the Martians' spacesuits. Creeping up slowly behind them, the youths were poised to strike.

Suddenly the spacemen whirled around, as if an inner sense had warned them of their peril. Firing their guns, the invaders quickly wiped out their attackers. The Martians continued on their way, leaving only the charred bones of the brave youths behind.”

The 1960’s were exciting times. You know the scene in “The Wizard of Oz” when Dorothy walks from the black and white shattered remnants of her home and moves into the vibrant colour in the Land of Oz? Well that’s what the 60’s were like.

USSR put the first man into space and the first woman. USA put the first man on the moon. Pop music exploded onto the airwaves. Doctor Who and Star Trek appeared on TV. Sean Connery was James Bond. Silver Age comics. We had never had it so good. Sadly like Oz it also had a darker side.

U.S. President John F Kennedy assassinated 1963, Robert F Kennedy assassinated 1968. Civil rights leader Martin Luther King assassinated 1968, Malcolm X assassinated 1965. Beginnings of The Troubles in Northern Ireland, Bay of Pigs invasion, Berlin Wall built, Cuban Missile Crisis, The Vietnam War, Racial riots etc, etc.

In the middle of all this madness a boy who had as yet travelled no further in this world than the Lancashire resort of Blackpool, made the short journey from his home to the little terraced shop at the top of the road. In his hand, clenched tightly, was the money his mother had given him for a loaf of bread, and for his trouble a couple of pennies to spend on himself. Getting the loaf was the easy bit; the harder task was deciding what to spend his errand money on. The boy’s eyes scanned the shops interior, hovered over the penny tray, and slowly perused the glass jars lined up neatly on the shelves, decisions, decisions Then he saw them, hidden away on the counter behind the sherbet fountains…"MARS ATTACKS" Mars Attacks were part of an infamous trio of bubblegum cards that caused controversy in the 1960’s. The other two sets of cards were similar in style i.e. wonderfully gruesome, and were called “CIVIL WAR NEWS” and “BATTLE”. Let’s start first of all with Civil War News. It came out in the same year as the Mars Attack collection, 1962. All the sets were produced by the American firm Topps and were drawn in the main by the late great Norm Saunders. The cards naturally enough told the history of the Civil War in America albeit in a potted way. The backs of the cards told the history in news style but it was the fronts that caused sensitive parents to recoil in horror at what little Johnny was collecting. Death was displayed in all its myriad forms and in glorious colour, kids loved it naturally. Thankfully my parents were made of sterner stuff; after all I had been collecting Monster mags since the age of eight or nine. Soldiers of the North and South were depicted impaled, drowning, exploding, crushed, hung, shot, bayoneted, arrowed, burned and being run through by a sabre. Now why would anyone want to ban that! One other aspect of these cards that set them apart from the norm was the inclusion of replica confederate dollar notes. These notes ranged from one

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dollar up to one thousand dollars. Girls especially enjoyed this aspect of collecting them, I know my sisters did. My wife carries on this tradition today only with my money!

The success of these cards led to Mars Attacks being produced later that same year. These took cartoon gore to a new level and were inspired by the E.C. comic “Weird Science” The artists really got their teeth into this set and it later inspired Tim Burton to make a film version of the cards. Now the whole world was a battleground and women and kids were legitimate targets. Oh how I wanted to smash those alien brains in as they groped our young nubile women and death rayed little kids.

But the maddest I got was when they killed a kids pet dog, the dirty low-down slime balls!

Thankfully it all came out good in the end as our cartoon earthlings travelled to Mars and kicked their butts in on their own turf. Sadly though little Johnny’s parents had finally had enough, the cards were quickly withdrawn much to the dismay of smelling salt producers around the world. The story text on the back of these cards was really well done and quite scary but thrilling to a child. I read somewhere that the Topps company had a warehouse full of these cards. Unable to sell them they just dumped them in the river, sad really especially when you consider that a mint set of these cards would cost over $2,000 dollars in the USA. In fact just a perfect wrapper would bring over $1,000 dollars, when I think of how I just ripped those wrappers off!

In 1984 Rosem Enterprises produced a limited edition set of 13 Mars cards. Even then 22 years later on, the cards were considered too explicit and the sexy women were repainted as boys or men and open skulls on victims were painted intact. In 1965 the infamous trilogy was complete when Battle cards appeared on the scene. These World War 2 cards carried on the bad taste benchmark set by the previous sets. Yet again people met grisly ends in every way imaginable, even classrooms were blown up. Servicemen threw themselves on grenades to protect beautiful women (Always in tight fitting jumpers with full make up!) etc etc. In fact three of the cards were considered too bad that they were banned from British shores. Another bonus with this collection was the military cloth badge that was included in the pack.

Sadly this card series didn’t sell very well even though it was very popular at Tommy More School.

Topps carried on producing great card sets in particular the Batman series also drawn by Norm Saunders but the heights reached (Or depths depending on your point of view!) in ‘62 and ‘65 were never to be repeated. The young boy who spent his errand money on the cards grew to be a man, a peace loving man with a love of the uncanny, the weird, and the scary. Is it any wonder he chose Wigan Athletic to support!

Keep the Faith Tony Topping

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MISS MUDHUTTER JUNE 2006

CATHERINE DENEUVE WE SALUTE YOU ALLEZ LES BLEUS The Death of a Dream The purveyor of misery returns for Round 4 in the never ending “The Death of................” series, pouring yet even more scorn on everything and everyone. In this particular offering we see DIRRRRTY_OLD MAN trying to explain away why he is such a failure and how he has met none of the aspirations significant others once held for him.

Maybe if we took his tablets off him then he could meet at least one of our aspirations and curl his fucking toes.

Welcome to 2006 Mudhutters, and what a start it’s been. What about the snow a couple of months back? March and it’s snowing, well bugger me! I was wandering through Mesnes Park on my way home as the snow cascaded down onto its grassy landscape. I have to admit to being touched by all the Mums and Dads and their kiddies building snowmen and generally having good fun. “Dreams and wonderment” I thought to myself, “Dreams and wonderment DOM”. As I wiped a solitary tear from my eye my heart was filled with song.

I close my eyes, drew back the curtain To see for certain what I thought I knew Far far away, someone was weeping But the world was sleeping Any dream will do.

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What a pile of old bollocks eh? Any Dream will do? Not much fucking determination in those words is there? Mind you with Philip “Pipi” Schofield and that bastard Jason Donovan having performed the song in the lead role of the God awful “Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat” it would have to be wishy washy wouldn’t it? Best thing Kylie ever did was dumping soppy Donovan for Hutchence, a real man, even if he did get his neck and his jeans mixed up and “accidentally” hung himself. I still can’t work out why Big Mick had his cock out though?!?! At least he didn’t get it caught in his zip as well as losing at human swing ball that would have been adding insult to injury. Waste of a big lad too by all accounts!

Anyway I’m veering off the point, so I’ll start again and ask the question. Will any dream do? Of course it fucking won’t, so why do many of us settle for second best? Another thing whilst I’m at it, why do others expect, no I’ll re-phrase that, insist that we give up on our dreams? I’m thinking of those around you that tell you’ll never do this or you can’t do that. The friends who sneer when you inform them that you are sacking everything to piss off travelling around the World. The work colleagues who greet you with derisory laughter when you tell them you are going back to college so you can change career. The narrow minded parents telling their little Billy’s and Betty’s “don’t think above your station” and that “sport is all about taking part in and not just winning”. Is it any wonder as an Island we only ever win anything every blue moon? They’re everywhere aren’t they, the killers of dreams, the unimaginative bores who can only ease their own feelings of inadequacy by telling you that your dreams are silly, unachievable and pointless.

Granted the word dream does conjure up a bit of a wet image and if you want to replace it with words like ambition, aspiration, goal or objective then fine, but let’s be straight about one or two things. Without dreams where would most of us be? It’s pretty much intolerable to imagine life without them. Whether it be on a personal level or dreaming about your sporting heroes climbing the steps at Wembley (when the bastard is finally built), life's rich pageant would be duller without them. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, having dreams and trying to achieve them is as vital as breathing.

As a man of advancing years the question of whether I’ve met my own dream(s) is one I ask of myself almost daily. Looking at some of my friends and acquaintances the answers to the same questions are etched over their miserable faces. Stuck with partners they can no longer stand and in fact haven’t been able to stand for years because their mere existence reminds them of the misery that greets them every morning when they wake. The anguish of wondering what might have been if only they had asked the person that they really fancied out for that drink. Trapped in a job that is safe, pays the mortgage and was predicted for them by the Careers Advice Liaison Officer at School, who of course had always wanted to be a Careers Advice Liaison Officer, didn’t they? If I had a penny for every time I heard someone tell me they wanted to be a Careers Advice Liaison Officer I’d have……………………………….? That’s right, fuck all pence, but we still put our trust in these set of failures in crafting our futures when they couldn’t even do it for themselves.

For me the dream I always wanted to achieve was to Box. I loved Boxing and it was one of the few interests my Dad and I shared. I had the lot, the gloves, the skipping rope, a freestanding punch bag graduating to a sand bag tied on to the shed roof beams, my Dad’s unused chest expanders and the instructions to Charles Atlas dynamic tension exercise routine. From the age of 7yrs old I used to get up early, eat raw eggs and milk (before the Rocky films were made I may add) and then head out to the backs between Lawrence St and Earle St in Earlestown to do some road work. I’d go up and down those backs ducking and-a-weaving, punching and-a-jabbing whilst at all times making that sniffing noise with your nose that all kids do when they are pretending to Box. Next was skipping.

Now for all of you reading this thinking skipping is for girls I suggest you think back to your schooldays. Wasn’t it always the hard lads who could skip the best? And wasn’t it always the hard

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lads who could skip that got girlfriends too? Tyson may have the lisp and voice of a man who likes bum fun but the way he skips and bites ears off reeks of masculinity.

After skipping it would be into the shed and down to some bag work. This could only be done after I’d bandaged up my fists with my Dads Tubigrip that he used for his knackered knees and then lace up my gloves. The bastard was when I’d forgotten to put the oil grease on my eyebrows before putting my gloves on and I’d end up having to start all over again. I could have asked my Dad I suppose, but the piss pot could hardly get his can of Special Brew to his mouth without spilling it so I was never going to trust him poking about near my eyes. To finish it was one handed press ups, which saw me, spell boundingly bouncing from one arm to the other, sit ups but with a bag of browning instead of medicine ball and finally chin ups on the concrete lintel over the back gate. I did this for years in preparation for when my Dad would give me the nod and say I was old enough to join a Boxing club.

Then struck disaster.

For a few years fight fans had noticed that Muhammad Ali wasn’t quite the same “float like a butterfly, sting like a bee” boxer of old, and that the “Louisville Lip”, as he was known, was not as lucid as he had once been. Rumours of him being “punch drunk” were constantly doing the rounds and it appeared that the vicious battles including the three fights with Frazier had finally taken their toll. This untimely demise also saw my Dad throwing in the towel on my boxing ambitions.

He’s been dead for many years now, my Dad that is, but I could never quite bring myself to fully forgive him for killing my dream. I guess people are more educated these days and given his time again I’d like to think he would have looked at the whole picture and not just that his hero was ultimately defeated by the noble art and so no-one else should have a go. Ali was my hero too, but he didn’t understand that. Maybe I should have chased a bit harder when I was old enough to make my own decisions, but by then drink, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll had taken boxing’s place.

So if you’ve got dreams hold on to them and don’t let anyone or anything get in the way no matter whom or what the obstacles are. If your kids have got dreams then back them all the way and find out what it is they’re doing by getting involved and put their interests ahead of your own. Always remember, you’re only ever one heartbeat away from closing your eyes forever and Any Dream won’t do, so don’t settle for second best.

Oh and if anyone ever bumps into that Nick Berry from Eastenders/Heartbeat fame who sang “Every Loser Wins” give the fucker an upper cut for me.

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I`m leaning on the camp post on the corner of the street

...until our local

fucking homo walks by........oh me, oh my," I've had one of them days. Everything has been smelling of lavender. Early this morning I found my Dad having his head shaved in the poofters' back garden next door but one to him. Now I know Ken The Barber’s prices aren't the lowest but I'd rather pay the £4.50p than have a grey haired shirtlifter do it for nothing. Not that I'm homophobic or owt. I just prefer to listen to Ken lust over Lauren Waterworth.

Looking back WN5 has had it's fair share of Queens. Tony Bumwhistle (Birtwhistle really) was as camp as Christmas. Blonde scrawny looking AIDS victim who minced like fuck. There was the slightly effeminate David Webb (was he a bandit Finton?). We had the impossibly gay Mr Cairo (RIP).We've even had allegations of Akinwale Arobieke cutting his initials into his victims arse cheeks. But as far as the term "camp" goes then there can be only one winner and that is "Flower Shop Shaun". Oh yes Shaun can mix it on an international level. The voice of an angel meets the green-fingered hands of Percy Thrower (wife beater - Percy not Shaun). Shaun lived on the same street as Sherman for many years and was often spotted around WN5 waiting for a bus to take him into town so he could go to Manchester for a night out. Always impeccably dressed in white shirt and black or brown snooker style waistcoat. Shaun must have been born a puff. He's been known to my family all his life (good friends with my sister) and he was always more interested in dolls and prams than he was smashing windows or setting schools on fire. Most of his adult life he's worked in the flower shop at Orrell Post. He likes flowers you see.WN5`s answer to Elton John. Only the other day I shouted out the car "Alright Shaun ya bent bastard?" only for Shaun to shout "I've changed my ways Ozzie, I've changed my ways" Then minced off up the street like he was trying to keep a large brolly up his arse. That's the thing with the WN5 breed, we don't do things by half. No trannies in our postcode just full on hardened bummers who use no lubrication. None of those pretend queers.

We even had a lorry driver who was happily married and yet still managed to ask two lads who were babysitting his kids if they'd "wank him off for a fiver" just to show his masculinity after he'd had a pint. One of the babysitters eventually went into prison, so looking back he'd have been better off practising on Stan The Lorry Driver so he could make a quid inside in later life (almost like that other big Mary Ellen....Pete Doherty) I will now hand you over to my other roving reporter in the WN5 postcode Father Finton Stack................if I may.

Osbourne, I think you are indeed correct about David Webb. My Gran used to go to church with his Gran and I recall how she used to voice concerns about him being a "bit quiet" and mentioned the lack of girlfriends in a knowing way. However, the poor bastard died when we were in our early 20's although to be honest I don't think it was because he was the only gay on the estate.

In fact, if memory serves, Norley and Pem was fucking rife!!! It was like a low rent version of Canal Street without the sequins, glamour and tight T-shirts. The aforementioned Terry is one of the estate's more colourful characters. He lives near the Green on Norley (same neck of the woods as Oz's sister) and can often be seen shuffling round with his elderly mother linking his arm. Terry is instantly recognisable due to his swept back hair, earring (singular) and his American Chopper-style handlebar 'tache. His mouth is permanently puckered in a Les Dawson "Cissie and Ada" style pose and he is usually kitted out in V-neck jumper, trackie bottoms and slippers. I seem to also remember a small dog under his arm but may be imagining this.

The other glaring omissions Oz forgot both were part of the fantastic Norley shops line up of the late 70's - early 80's. The first was William. Now William worked in the paper shop when it was owned

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by Cockney wide boy and all round good chap James. Now William shared many of the same characteristics and mannerisms as Terry. He lived with his mother (who, apparently, he worshipped) on Severn Drive and, quite tellingly, never married. I once asked the old woman if he was a puff when I was in my early teens and was told a tale of how he had a girl break his heart as a teenager.

How this led him to a liking for cock I'm not quite sure but there you go.

The second omission is a touch more controversial. His name was Eric Slater and he ran Slaters greengrocers next door to the chippy. Now, I say controversial because I always thought he was the father of the two brothers that also ran the shop (Dennis and Nigel). However, I've since learnt he was the eldest brother and apparently, according to some of the older boys, his hand always used to linger a bit longer than was comfortable touching yours when he was giving you your change.

Looking back though, it does make sense. He was always immaculate with horn-rimmed bi-focals (complete with retaining chain) and Tony Hart style cravat. I also remember the old woman calling him a "washerwoman" in a furious row over shortchanging......I can just imagine him fashioning a glory hole from the stock room into the paper shop next door and William being on the other side, Maurice style. He'd get his kicks from knowing it was their little secret.

So there you go. There were a few others and in my year alone at Tommy More, there are at least four lads who've "come out" since leaving school.

Over to the rest of you. Did any of you live in Lower Ince near Martin Prescott? Or perhaps you shared a washing line and hung out your tights at the side of the fledgling Davinia A WN5 PRODUCTION BY OZZIE OSBOURNE & FATHER FINTON STACK

"You can tell by the way that I use my walk I'm a woman's man" Maybe? But, walking around Wigan at the moment you can certainly "tell by the way they walk" what type of TWAT they are.

Talk about stereotypical - us? Of course not, and without further ado we give you:

THE WIGAN WALK "THE GOTH" The whole "Goth" posture is determined by weight. From heavy eyeliner to heavy boots encased in metal their whole uniform drags them down to the pavement. The hair's heavy, the hooded sweatshirt is heavy, the tent like jeans caked in shirt are heavy. They are heavy. This results in all of these Deanery school kids walking around town with the demeanour and stance of the Hunch Back of Notre Dame. Ring the fucking bells Esmerelda.

"THE AMATEUR RUGBY LEAGUE PLAYER" Yeah you've got it. The ones that think they are carrying a roll of carpet under each arm. The "Did you know I play for Pats, me?" mob. Utter tossers. Normally wearing extremely shit clothes with an ugly bottle-blonde bint on their arm.

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"THE 'I'M ON INVALIDITY' HARRY'S BAR MOB" They stagger, nay totter, up King Street - in case anybody from Brocol House spots them - on their walking stick. And then the sight of Harry's and Last Orders propels them at such a rapid rate of knots that Speedy Gonzalez wouldn't catch them. "Jesus I'm cured". Needless to say they can then be seen walking freely between the Brunels/Harrys/Orders Holy Trinity until they are helped into a waiting taxi at some time around 5.45pm "THE SCROTE STROLL" Without doubt the most prevalent walk to be found around the Borough. The Rockport Roll. Three of them spaced across the pavement, basey perched on top of head, expletives coming out of every orifice. Do not cross them. Well, that is what they like you to think. To a boy they are as soft as shite, but hey let's not spoil their fun.

"THE PUSHCHAIR PAULINES" 17 years of age, one kid in tow, one in the pushchair these "little madam's" think they rule Wigan.

Well as they are on ÂŁ400 per week benefits they probably do. They can walk, talk and chew on a Greggs Pastie better than anybody. On the odd occasion that the father of their little bastards is allowed access you'll see him propelling the pram around town at a 100mph. Head bowed down, mastiff on the lead, mobile in one hand while shouting "Hey, Carl have you got my gear?" across Market Street.

"THE PLASTIC HOOLIGAN NO RUNNER" Out and about from early doors on a Saturday - the lad's kitted out entirely from e-bay. Hood up on his expensive ("only ÂŁ80 off the bay") anorak, mobile at the ready as he cockily walks around town (very) occasionally bumping into like-minded friends.

"THE SUNBED SENORITA" Is she white - is she black? No she's orange. Normally with her (identical) Mum walking through Wigan weighed down with Primark bags heading for the nail parlour. The walk consists mainly of pulling their bellies in and having their head at a 45 degree angle so enabling them to check their reflection in the shop window. A real eclipse of the sun.

"THE HAIRDRESSERS MINCE" Stupid fucking haircut? Tick. Ridiculous clothes? Tick And prance. Scarf tied neatly with coffee cup balanced just so. You wish you worked in Toni & Guy in Manchester. And guess what? So do we.

"THE 'WE ARE FIFTY BUT WE THINK WE ARE TWENTY' LADS ABOUT TOWN" Meeting in the Moon at eight all shirts hanging out and covered head to bollock in Aramis they are Wigan's finest studs about town. Guts held in, shoulders up and down like Chas Smash in a Madness video they trawl the pubs looking for one last love of their life. Inevitably end the night in the Stage Door or Pemps telling each other that they "are in with that young blonde next week". Yeah okay boys.

"THE 'WE ARE FIFTY BUT WE THINK WE ARE TWENTY' GIRLS ABOUT TOWN" Meeting in the Moon at eight all tits hanging out and covered head to fanny in Chloe they are Wigan's finest mutton about town. Guts held in, tits shoved out like an ageing soap star they trawl the pubs looking for one last love of their life. Inevitably end the night in the Stage Door or Pemps telling each other that they "are in with that young bloke next week". Sadly for the young lads in Wigan - they are probably right.

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(Well a Weekend Day in the Life of Swinley Resident Dominic Oldman)

Swinley (WN1) is lovingly described around the Mudhuts Towers as “The Bohemian Quarter” of Wigan. The idea for this appraisal has been hanging around for quite some time now, but in large its materialization is in response to the over elaborate musings about all things WN5 in the Christmas edition of The Mudhutter. Like people outside of WN1, I too remember what it was like to be destitute, smelly, unskilled and unemployable. Thankfully my life has taken an upturn in fortunes and here I am in Swinley, the Golden Belt district of Wigan, right on Yah? Such a journey from the doldrums of a working class upbringing in Earlestown to middle class utopia was not just about sacrificing my Socialist/Marxist beliefs. As our illustrious right of the middle PM Tony Blair stated when he drew up his vision of a better Britain, “Education, education, education”, and this I did. Unfortunately the scruffs of WN5 thought he said “Eggs and Bacon, Eggs and Bacon, Eggs and Bacon”, and hence they are all clinically obese with high cholesterol and an average mortality of 42. Not to worry though as this article is not for them anyway. So without further ado here is a diary of a typical day at the weekend in the life of me, Dominic Oldman, and my precious family. Think of it as a little bit of a target to aim toward. In the zone Yah? 7am- Get up with my beautiful wife Brigitte, and our adorable children, Tarquin and Honeysuckle.

Before “breckie” we all make our way out to our modest three acre garden to partake in the morning ritual of Tai Chi. Our 16 year old daughter, Honeysuckle, loves to bend and stretch her taut body, she really has become one of the more popular girls at School. Mr Whittle, her sports teacher, is a particular fan and always raves on about her gymnastic prowess and suppleness at our regular dinner parties. Spiffing!

9am- Breakfast. We do not believe in eating mass produced food, so we buy organic products from local traders. People say that it is more expensive than the supermarkets, but gosh, we only get one Earth to live on, Yah? You just cannot put a figure on doing the right thing and I am quite sure even the poor could manage to go organic if they would stop boozing, smoking and gambling their minimum wages away. I have even considered getting our own allotment so I can get back to basics.

Earthy Yah! Croissants or wholemeal pancakes with maple syrup and a cup of decaffeinated coffee are always the starters for Brigitte and moiré; Honey and Tarquin have purified water and blueberry muffins.

This is followed by a fruit salad of WN1 grown strawberries, melon, grapefruit, kiwi fruit, orange, lemon and lime. The sun always shines in Swinley. Toppo!

11am- After relaxing in our natural hot water springs pool we all trot off down to the Wigan Lourdes Charity Shop on Wigan Lane in Swinley to spend some time helping out behind the counter. It is a tight squeeze fitting all four of us behind there, but as I tell Honey and Tarquin, it was a much tighter squeeze that Moses had fitting all those animals two by two onto the Ark. Besides it is only right that we give a little something back to the world and in particular the poor people of Wigan. Normally we take a bag of our month old clothes to give away in-case there is a day trip of in-bred quadrupeds from Norley Hall. It breaks my brittle heart! High expressed emotion indeed!

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12:30am- Lunchtime. We just love to go to the Brocket Arms at the weekend. In the summertime you can see us all sat outside in our ¾ length pants, open toed sandals, peach t-shirts and trendy haircuts. It is great to bask in the glory of our success and quite often you will hear one of us shocking the others with the precise details of how much in value the price of our house has gone up.

Equity!

3pm- When they are playing at home we go and lend our support to the Wigan Rugby Union Club.

The whole family love Rugger, especially Tarquin and I. Tarquers is a whiz down the wing for the under 15’s team at the Bolton School. If kick-off clashes with Honeys ballet and she cannot attend then Brigitte drives her to class. Honey attends the Wardhaugh Academy of Dance in Poolstock.

Usually we do not venture over to that side of town but Janet Wardhaugh really is excellent, and she is accredited to teach the RAD syllabus. That is the Royal Academy of Dance for those of you not ITK. 5:30pm- Evening Meal. The Bel Air Hotel and Restaurant, again on Wigan Lane Swinley, has superb French Cuisine. The French onion soup, frogs legs and snails are to die for and the aroma of garlic really makes you feel like you are in Provence. Which of course you are, the English and more sophisticated version anyway. We usually alternate weekends between Bel Air and Papa Luigi’s. If any of you have ever been to Little Italy in New York then I think you will agree when I say a meal in Papa Luigi’s is just like being in the Big Apple. I sometimes refer to Swinley as being “Little Swinley” which is always met with terrific laughter.

8pm- The highlight of our family day is the Alpha Course. After a day of some giving, but mostly taking, it is important to focus oneself on why we are here. Due to our high flying careers we have rather neglected the church, and what better way than an Alpha Course to get the principles of Jesus nailed down. It is nice to see some of our peers in there too. Not that we do it because it is trendy you understand!

10pm- By this juncture in the day Tarquers and Honey are bushed and slope off to bed for a well deserved rest, hopefully with the words of God firmly embossed on their young minds.

10:01pm- Mr Whittle, whom you may recall as being our delightful daughters sports teacher arrives with his wife for one of our dinner parties. We just love having dinner parties at the weekend and with another three couples, whom we regularly alternate the venue arriving shortly afterwards, it always lives up to its usual high standards. I simply adore watching Brigitte getting it banged out of her like it is going out of fashion. The expression on her face is an absolute picture as she resembles some kind of Hellmans mayonnaise catastrophe that has exploded in her hair, on her face and on the small of her back. She is a real trooper my Briggers as well as being a damn good Mother to our wonderful children. I myself enjoy a spot of playful indulgence, although I draw the line at anal, as after the last dinner party my ringpiece ending up like a fresh bullet wound. I literally could not sit down to chair the last MD meeting the following week. Watersports and scat are also a definite no due to Pemberton “Fat Bird” Flu and the lack of strict border controls at the junction at TESCO. 1am – Everyone goes home rather contented. Brigitte and I have a cup of hot choccy made with goats milk and gluten free biscuits before bed.

So there you have it, a typical weekend day in the life of me Dominic Oldman and my family. It could be any family in the Swinley area as we all have such spectacular lifestyles. WN1 Suburbia Yah!! WN5 Nah!!

Dominic Oldman

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21 WAYS TO TELL YOUR TEAM IS LOSING (WHEN THE SCOREBOARD ISN'T WORKING) "We'll support you ever more" emanating from the stands People leaving with 20 minutes still to go Met by away fans chanting "We can see you sneaking out" Ironic cheers when your team puts two passes together Calls for the chairman's head Calls for the manager's head Animated schoolchildren in the crowd Fans squaring up to each other in the seats The Boo-Boys favourite getting more stick than usual People going for their half time pie and Bovril after 23 minutes Piss-taking "Ole's" from the away fans Met by even more piss-taking "Ole's" from the home fans "Wigan 'til I die" chants going up The referee getting abused more than usual Season Tickets being ripped up and hurled in the general direction of the dugout People sat with their heads in their hands Not being able to string a sentence together that doesn't include the words fuck, twat, bastard or cunt Nobody at all applauding substitutions People discussing last night's television rather than the match "We're going to win 4-3" emanating from the stands A cheer of encouragement going up when five extra minutes are shown on the board

CORPORATE IDENTITY It is time to consider whether the "Prawn Sandwich" Brigade have had a bad press over the last few years since Roy Keane had his rant. We will pause for a moment and consider…… Right done. They are twats. Every Saturday they appear in my local an hour after the game absolutely bladdered, talking loudly, harassing the girls and being a general pain in the arse. I normally know or recognise at least one of this breed each week and they are acting in a completely alien way than they normally do on a Saturday afternoon when they pay their £20 at the turnstile. So what is it that goes on behind the glass windows?

The myth is that all the people that go on corporate hospitality at sporting events are posh upper class twerps when in reality they are usually normal blokes that are taking full advantage of their (or somebody else's) company's generosity - tax written off, naturally. Instead of their normal jeans and trainers these lads dress up like they think footballers dress up. Shit suit, contrast collar shirt, big fat tie and Ali Baba shoes. In fact just like footballers dress! Passes are gained from the wives and they all meet up in the pub at 11 bells for a few "liveners" before the meal begins at 1pm and the red and white wine flows. The meal will (without fail) be chicken or beef with apple pie and cream for pudding. The sporting clubs take pride in their catering and with good reason in most cases but hospitality is strictly "give the lads what they want and just keep the beer and white flowing". There are a few competitions to enter and a few unfunny anecdotes from the visiting ex-pro to listen to before the game commences and they make their unsteady way to their seats before returning to the bar to order the half-time drinks that they have forgotten about. After attempting to chat up the barely legal barmaid they normally make it to their seats about twenty minutes into the game. Or the time when the rest are going for their first piss break. Pre-ordered pints plus the extra one they sneak

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in are finished just in time for them to catch the final fifteen minutes of the game before they stumble back into the bar.

The post-match beer is livened up when one of their number gets to present the man of the match with his award. He smiles politely and tries not to mention the fact that he was substituted after eleven minutes and can't for the life of him see how he's been the team's best player. More beers are ordered, cigars are spoken and there is a minor altercation with the bar manager as he tries to close the bar so they can tidy up for the wedding reception that is due to start in thirteen minutes time.

They then all order cabs: "Up town, mate. What how long? Sod it we'll walk". And they do unfortunately they only ever get as far as my local! "Alright lad. I've been int' hospitality. Brilliant".

Yeah, great mate. Just one thing you're pissing all over your cream Ali Baba shoes!"

Roy Keane - we are with you on this one.

NUMBER ONE IN A SERIES OF PROBABLY THREE PROPER FOOTBALLERS PUNK: FOOTBALL 1977/78 "No Elvis, Beatles or The Rolling Stones in 1977".

Maybe not - but there was a Silver Jubilee, The Sex Pistols, Rock against Racism, Buzzcocks, Blutos and Wigan Athletic's final season as a nonleague club.

Andrew Vaughan's book details this and so much more. Featuring interviews with players and punk rockers, supporters and soul boys the book encapsulates the period almost 30 years ago when, if anybody had suggested Latics would be appearing in a cup final against Manchester United they would have been incarcerated in Winwick Hospital.

From Jubilee Parties to Division Four via Power Cuts, The Stranglers and Green Goddesses Twelve months and, indeed, a football season that changed everything.

PUNK: FOOTBALL Available October 2006 (Mudhuts Media) Keep your eye on www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk for further updates

FASHION AIR MAX 95 - It's been a good ten years Been good to know you mate but along with Lacoste jumpers, Henri Lloyd jackets, Burberry everything, Timberland and Rockport boots and baseball caps it is now time to put the Air Max 95's back in the box for a well-deserved rest. Yes the Air Max 95 has been adopted on mass by the Beech Hill Chip Shop Massive and every other little "firm" around the borough. One of the most unique training shoe has had its day! I know it's inverted snobbery and all that, and yes it does look different beneath a semi-flared cord than a nasty trackie bottom, and yes the original colourway hasn't made it to the little scrotes' mums catalogue yet but it's over - for now.

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The shoe first hit the terraces and streets in (as the name applies) 1995. Designed by Serfio Lorenzo it was initially took on board by the Nike aficionados and fashionistas. It looked so different. There are the visible air units (including the huge air bubbles right across the shoe and the high tech colours of grey, black, acid yellow and green with the Swoosh tucked away at the rear of the shoe.

On top of that it was just so damn comfy.

So it's to the back of the wardrobe until the little urchins give them up. At this rate there's just New Balance and Walsh trainers left now.

Inappropriately Dressed Wiganers What is it with people from Wigan and the fact that they simply have to take their fucking clothes off as soon as the sun comes out? "It may only be March but I'll tell you Edna get my shorts out I'm off up Wigan. " It's warm in that sun" Yeah if you're in Malaga it is. Marsh Green I'm not so sure.

And it's not just the fat rugby-loving ted that's at it. Everybody's getting their kit off. From the Doris's straight out of "Sunbed Paradise Heaven" to the middle-class divs from Wigan Lane walking the Labrador - the merest hint of sun and the fact that the month doesn't end in ER sees Wigan become Flesh Heaven.

And what do they look like? There are kenches hanging over denim mini skirts and tattooed backs exposed for the world to see as they bob in and out of Primark with eight kids in tow. Whilst the male population exposes big fat white legs and man breasts aplenty as they push the trolley around Morrisons the day the clocks go forward. Whilst The Brocket goes Oakley sunglasses-crazy as the pricks descend on the place to take up home for the next 6 months.

So come on you Wiganers - learn to behave. There is a time and place for bare flesh and the time is summer and the place is Ibiza. And if you're fat put your tee-shirt on before you get up off the sunlounger. It is not warm enough for shorts in Standish in April however you may feel and it is certainly not big and clever. Spring is the time for a light jacket or a sweatshirt. If it gets warm then take it off and carry it or put it around your waist. Shop in ASDA with nothing on and you will look a fool - be it April or July. Try walking around Madrid dressed like that in the height of summer and they'll burn you at the stake. I mean show some decorum. If I want to look at ugly naked women I'll go to Stilettos Lap-dancing bar!

BUILDER CHIC It won't have escaped people's notice that the town has been invaded by hordes of builders "working" on the big new shopping centre. They can be spotted everywhere but mostly they are clogging up the cafĂŠs. And they all have funny accents. I guess the ones with the luxuriant moustaches are from downtown Gdansk or somewhere. As for the others I've not got a clue but it's safe to say they have adopted the "Builder Chic" look that is so prevalent in the north-west area.

Manchester is full of builders as they turn hovels into hotels with Liverpool catching up fast as the culture is put into the city at the expense of character. But why are all these fucking builders such prats? Needless to say they are all (apart from the Poles) coining it but does that really give them the right to walk around our town doing precisely nothing.

If you don't believe me take a look. Go in any pie shop or cafĂŠ at any time of the day and I bet there are at least 5 builders (or is construction workers the correct term?) in there. I've never seen any of them doing anything constructive! And why do they all have to wear these hard hats when they are walking through the Galleries? Hats (on top of hooded sweatshirt with hood up) along with those luminous "hi-visibility" waistcoats they all wear. Walking down the canal the other day I saw some feller putting some groundworks in - resplendent in the full "builder chic" look. Fair enough other

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than he was in the middle of a field with not a chance of being hit by flying brick nor passing motorist! You can bet that the luminous jackets and hard hats will be discarded as soon as the sun comes out as they top up their tans as the roadworks and shopping centres (that nobody wants) slip 6 months behind schedule. I bet the Romans never wore such shit and they would have got the trains to run on time as well!

MUDHUTS TEE SHIRTS - MADE IN WIGAN SEVEN DAYS ARE TOO LONG

For wearing one T-shirt: So treat yourself to a fresh shirt every day with our superb Northern Soul Designs

"Northern Soul Reflective" Sky-Blue tee with Blue and Red design.

A reflective tee shirt for those mellow moments. SOUL is the message with the blue and red lettering representing the town's sporting teams

"Wigan Casino Heart of Soul All-Nighter" Navy tee with Red and White design.

THE classic Heart of Soul badge. 45 rpm of amphetamine-fuelled energy

"Northern Soul - Keep The Faith" Black tee with Black and White design.

The iconic image of the clenched fist with the cry of "Keep the Faith" is the clarion call for all fans of Northern Soul music. More than 30 years later people are still keeping that faith.

"Mr M's" Orange tee with Orange and Red design Mr M's was an integral part of Wigan Casino. A smaller room than the Empress Ballroom M's was arguably playing the bigger and better tunes

"Northern Soul" Black tee with Black and White design.

The iconic image of the clenched fist; this time on the 45rpm record label with those two words that say so much NORTHERN SOUL

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Khaki tee with Shades of Green design on front and Wigan Casino All-Nighter advertisement on the back On 26th April 1975 Betty Wright performed at Wigan Casino All-Nighter. Many consider it the greatest night in the Casino's history. This tee celebrates that night

"Wigan: Heart of Soul and Football" Marl Grey tee with multicoloured design and Wigan Athletic Tree & Crown badge on the back It does what it says on the shirt. At the heart of our town is soul and football. We acknowledge, embrace and celebrate that fact

"CASUALS? Y'KNOW CRAFT knives and crocodiles, headbangers with Head bags". (P.THORNTON 2003) We celebrate those days with some of the quirkier aspect of those (in fact these) days. Starting with:

"Real Northern Sole" Black tee with Multi-coloured design.

A nod and affectionate wink to the greatest running shoes ever made. Bolton-based Walsh Sports continue to make shoes for runners and no runners alike. Forget Adidas and their Third World manufactured shoes these are 100% Northern Sole

"Omega Flame" Marl Grey tee with multicoloured design The Nike Omega Flame trainer was released in 1983-4 and quickly gained a following with the boys that sat in the East Stand at Highbury. Startling colours, a well-kept secret and a shoe that will never been seen outside your local chippy. Unique

"Bjorn Borg" Navy Blue tee with multicoloured design An iconic image of the ice-cool Swedish tennis player. A reflection of the time when tennis caught the imagination of urchins from council estates. "Henman Hill"? Leave it out!

IMAGES OF TEES SCATTERED THROUGHOUT THE eZINE

COMING SOON England T-shirts - with a twist Retro-Scally Scootering - for those Summer months And more LATICS designs

ÂŁ12 plus ÂŁ2 P&P All details and sizes @ www.mudhutsmedia.co.uk

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FOOD BREAD - NO NOT THE SHITE CARLA LANE SCOUSE SITCOM. PROPER BREAD Now my mum is no tree-hugger but she does bake her own bread. She's got one of these breadmaking machines and it makes the best bread I've ever tasted. Two slices of this with best butter (Lurpak Slightly Salted in my case) is as filling as a loaf of the supermarket shite you can buy. But knowing that bread-making isn't a practical option for most in the Wigan area - myself included what should we do? Do we go for Rathbones or Warburtons (Warbies)? The local cesspit or the Notlob nobheads? Giving that "you get what you pay for" and as bread isn't available on ebay I'd go for Warbies every time. But then again is it Warbies Toastie, Danish or Soft Farmhouse Bread.

And then there's the Round or Square? - A big plate of sliced bread on the table for a Friday night chippy tea. Which end of the bread do you go for, square or round? My mate reckons he used to get five chips on the round end but only four to the square. And it was also mathematically possible to judge the exact number of chips on a plate before eating any. Then you knew how many slices of round or square you going to have. Mind you each family member had their own particular favourite. And of course there was always the energy issue. Square - go try and butter a round one and then a square 'un. A square 'un will only take 2-3 swipes for 100% coverage whilst a round 'un is at least a five swiper, therefore using up more energy. There are also the anal retentive amongst us that prefer the shape of the square end as opposed to the round end - it looks neater and has more symmetry. However, an added bonus of this is that the square end tends to be less likely to be burnt the crust on the round end is sometimes a bit too overdone.

Triangular - Until I had actually been to a wedding or catered event I'd never seen a triangular butty in the flesh. I mean, were there any people reading this (perhaps from the Swinley or Wigan Lane areas) whose Mothers had ideas above their station and used to cut them in this way in the home?

And if your mum did try this it really doesn't look right with Dairylea on it! Never felt secure when I have eaten these at a "do". Either or both of the ends start flapping about and there is a very real danger of spillage from both corners.

The Crust - At what age did you get to eat a crust on a regular basis ? Another one of the things in my life that I had to be working and bringing home a wage to eat. Many beating were administered from my Dad for in his words: "Going to the bottom of the loaf for that crust". Coupled with cries such as: "Bread'll go off quicker". Does anyone else actually feel both ends of the unopened loaf and go for the end that you think has the thicker crust? Not forgetting that jam on a toasted crust is so much better.

Brown or White? I have brown every day. However I think there is something immoral about eating chippy chips on anything but fresh white bread. And then there is the question of whether to put sauce on chips before placing on bread but that can be saved for another day? Brown toast - just not right. And what about that bread that is neither brown nor white.

The Blackpool Milk Roll What was it? And why did your Gran always have it? How did you make a decent butty with it without trimming the edges off your boiled ham? Answers that cannot be garnered from Google And what about Barm cakes, rolls, baps and submarine rolls. What the fuck is a submarine roll and is Subway to blame? And what bread to you use for fried bread? Does anybody keep bread in the fridge (fridge not freezer)? And how bad is bread that has been frozen? Should bread

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have sun-dried tomatoes in them? And when has Garlic gone with real bread. How about those French baguettes? If they really are made in France is that why are they go soft the moment you get them home. Why when you ever make toast out of thin bread and tried to butter the blighter with anything less than "spreads straight from the fridge" butter/marge, why does the fooker always snap into a million pieces? When did anybody last eat bread and butter pudding and does anybody dunk buttered bread into their cup of tea. Should bread be fed to pigeons and is a Jacobs cracker a reliable substitute when it's pissing down and you can't be arsed going to the shop. So many questions but overall: Bread we salute you!

Wallgate Circus / The Dead Shores Wigan Music Collective The Tavern - 15th April 2006 Borne of the ashes of several local bands are young upstarts Wallgate Circus – playing third on a bill of four local bands tonight.

About 11:00 they stroll confidently onto stage suited and booted in a very ‘Jamesque’ manner and immediately kick into Mood Like This, a lively guitar-driven opener which both name-checks Weller and also has a feel of his upbeat earlier offerings, even for those who have never seen the band in any form influences and comparisons could be drawn up easily, maybe too easily.

As the band crack on through a seven song set early impressions could have been a bit hasty as you can see that there are clear ska-influences within ‘Molasses’, a very 60’s mod feel to the ballad ‘On It’s Head Again’ – these lads are not some identi-kit clone of a million bands and do seem to be more than capable of knocking out a good batch of tunes across a pretty broad spectrum – with lead singer/guitarist Kieran Devlin’s voice adapting impressively well to each.

As they wrap their set up they’re joined on stage by a swaggering Glynn (Ex-Pemberton Grange, and a figure whose presence and input to the band prove he still very much belongs on stage) for a fine rendition of ‘Ego’ and then as quickly and cockily they arrived on stage they shuffle off again.

Despite this being the first gig in the guise of the four-piece that are show tonight, you can see with the confidence and enthusiasm ‘The Circus’ are displaying here that this doesn’t matter a jot to the lads and they are enjoying every second – they do seem to be pushing the right buttons judging by the reaction from the smoky top deck of the Tavern.

To finish things up here are the most established band on the bill – The Dead Shores. Now I have seen the Shores a shed-load of times and each time they do not get any less energetic or any less entertaining, for me it’s a bit like watching repeats of comedies you love on the telly – you know what’s coming next but you can’t help but smirk when the punchline comes.

Their singer, Crag, is on fine form again tonight - stomping about and swinging from the beams over the stage while rattling off a mixture of their back catalogue and a few new tunes I haven’t heard them do before, ‘Sexy Legs’ being probably the only one of the new ones that I can name for you unfortunately but the whole set goes down well and wraps the live music up for tonight.

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Having been hand-picked for previous support slots playing alongside the likes of The Slits, Babyshambles and The Fall just goes to show that these lads are pretty highly thought of - and rightly so, a lot of familiar faces are dotted about the place who its good to see (many of whom I know or at least recognise from the football who presumably buy, or more likely read someone else’s, copy of this very publication) Apologies to the first two acts on the night that I couldn’t get down for your sets, in your defence if you were nearly as good as the last two that I did manage to see, then I missed half of a great night of music.

I would suggest if you do get the chance, keep your eyes peeled and get out and see either or both of these bands soon - as I know they will be on over the next couple of months.

Review by Shandeye www.wallgatecircus.com www.thedeadshores.co.uk

REVIEW

Corinne Bailey Rae – Manchester Academy 2 - March 28 th 2006 Hey, the sun’s out and it’s momentarily stopped lashing down. It must be gig time!!! Now, being the kind of chap who’s a) unbearably anal about his music and b) refuses to shell out £732 to watch someone lip synch approx a quarter of a mile away in some hangar like arena, that’s not a phrase I get to utter very often. Especially when you consider the amount of decent soul artists who appear incapable of venturing north of London these days. Still, that’s another gripe for another day. No, the last time I dusted off my dancing trousers was to see John Legend in the slightly bigger sister venue last summer. Just before he went absolutely stratospheric. So bear with me here – my track record is half-decent.

I’ve also got a little confession to make at this point. I was thoroughly sick of Ms Rae before I’d even heard any of her tracks. In time honoured lazy journo fashion, some clued up bod had tipped her to be this year’s T-shirt around about January time and every hack and his dog had jumped on board. The omens, frankly, were not good. More pertinently, I remained unconvinced that the world really needed ANOTHER female singer / songwriter to provide the soundtrack to the kind of parties where people ask if you need a glass for that drink then talk school league tables. Still, the missus likes the album so a quick download later and a shufty for the tickets (bargain), we were on our way – because I’m good like that!!!!

For the uninitiated, the Academy 2 is situated in the Manchester University student union and thus has its good and bad points. You can get a pint of Guinness for thruppence ha’penny BUT you’ll have to drink it surrounded by people called Beth or Oliver who talk with their hands, and sit on the floor eating yogurt with their fingers. Anyway, after handing over my loose copper to a lad behind the bar whose white middle class afro screamed “Sideshow Bob” as opposed to “achingly cool” we made it into the venue to catch the support act – yet another nice, polite Home Counties chap with obligatory green army jacket on, immaculately unkempt hair and Tony Blair affectations. I neither know nor care what his name was. He had a guitar though. Honestly, what’s not to like? Mercifully, we only caught one and a half of his songs but this was more than enough. I’d like to label him as “Blunt lite” but I genuinely cannot envisage anything lighter than the foppish coke dealer to the Aristocracy so I’ll have to console myself with a mental picture of him, hopefully, strolling down Oxford Street after the gig. Carrying his fucking guitar by the neck, man bag slung casually over his free shoulder, white earphones in, listening to his own songs (naturally) and basking in his own coolness.……completely oblivious to the pair of Salford grafters who are about to relieve him of all

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his worldly goods, stove his head in with his own guitar and kick him the length of the Mancunian Way. But, I digress.

A quick p1ss, pint and snigger at microphone head behind the bar and it’s back in to the main business of the evening. Now, I love Manchester and going to gigs there but they do tend to be a bit of a lottery crowd wise. If I’m honest, tonight wasn’t the best, although we did actually see ex Radio One DJ “Woo” Gary Davies (on your radio) wandering around the bar forlornly. I did not see his “Bit in the middle”.

80’s throwbacks aside, the aforementioned Beth’s and Oliver’s were a joined by a veritable swathe of 20, 30 and even 40 somethings seemingly transported directly from the pages of the Sunday Times “Style” supplement – all aspirations, Aga’s and Edwardian named offspring. Except for the two Alex Parks look-alikes stood behind us who clearly had their own agenda and who I caught clocking my bird’s arse on more than one occasion. Still, we weren’t there solely to sneer at the stereotypes and once Corinne took the stage, she had our undivided attention.

Clad in a tasteful dress (which looked suspiciously similar to the one on the vid where she’s riding that bike with her ironically trendy multi denominational pals) she seemed genuinely overawed by the size of the crowd and an air of hesitancy seemed prevalent – however, the genuine rather than the affected kind designed purely for effect that’s so commonplace nowadays. Her backing band included Nitin Sawhney’s guitarist and bassist and was as tight as you like. The backing singers, surprisingly, didn’t comprise of her Benetton ad cycling pals but instead, were the kind of REAL women who you just knew would have the kind of voice capable of making grown men weep. Even if they did appear to have been kitted out by Matalan. If the between songs banter seemed uneasy, the vocal performance itself was anything but. She was absolutely flawless and truth told, the songs sounded even better live than on the album. She put some finger cymbals on for “Enchantment” and delivered achingly beautiful renditions of “Till it happens to you” and “Call me when you get this”, the standout tracks on the album for me. As expected, the bulk of the material was album based but she surprised everyone with a superb Hammond organ driven version of Led Zeppelin’s “Since I’ve Been Loving You” and even the lesbians behind us stopped sticking their tongues down each others throats long enough to have a bit of a shuffle to the predictably well received “Put your records on”.

All in all, it was way, way better than I’d expected. As I said, the tracks were much better live but, if I’ve one criticism, it’s that the whole thing seemed a touch one paced. The songs were all slow – mid tempo numbers and she never seemed to have anything to test her vocal capabilities. I’d love to see her have a crack at some full on, balls out screamer of a track but hey, maybe that’s just not her style. Still, anyone who’s heard the album knew exactly what to expect. If laid back Summery jazzy soul is your bag, you’ll not go far wrong and she tends to p1ss from a great height on the Meluah’s and Winehouses she’s (wrongly) categorised with.

Corinne Bailey Rae. More Erykah than Norah. Just.

Words provided by Finton Stack.

Music provided (free of charge) by Soulseek.

Tickets provided by Ebay in conjunction with some poor sod whose missus had fucked off.

This article originally appeared in Swine Magazine Check out their excellent website @ www.swinemagazine.co.uk

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COMMENT Th’Obby Observations.

Now I don’t normally buy Th’Obby, but since my access to the Internet has been disrupted I have found myself purchasing it to keep up with the local issues that I hold dear to my heart. Things like when the chemists are open and local special people sending in letters asking for readers to get in touch with them regarding photographs of their Grandfather from 1892. You know, useful stuff! On the front cover it proclaims itself as, and I quote, “The voice of Wigan for 152 years”. Who am I to contest this declaration, after all I’m not 152 years old and I can honestly say I can’t be bothered to petition the people of Wigan to verify this amazing claim.

I can however speak on behalf of me. On the inside of the front cover of the last Mudhutter (No.4 Autumn 2005) there are a few paragraphs explaining how the magazine represents Wigan in what can only be described as a different way than Th’Obby, “This is the Wigan of chip shops and Cheeky Girls, Fancy Men and Floozies” it goes on “When it comes to sport we “Do it with both balls” and our local celebrities are strictly Z list”. Now this is the Wigan I’m interested in, this is the type of stuff that floats my boat and blows my frock up. Each to their own, as me Mam would say, so to explain my decision I thought I’d do a literary review of Th’Obby and point out why it is Th’Awful and represents nothing I want to be Th’Associated with.

Page 2, the New Arrivals section. Jesus there’s some pig ugly women having kids in Wigan isn’t there, or is it that only ugly people put themselves up for this type of ridicule? As per usual they only show four of the new Mothers with brat in tow and to be honest four’s enough. I presume that the other seven, whose photo’s we have been spared, are even uglier and believe me that would take some fucking doing, I can tell you!

On to page 6, Letters. Who are these people who feel the need to write absolute shite to an uncaring and uninterested audience? This week some halfwit is complaining that the new shopping complex is being built too near to the edge of the road? Who fucking cares! Typical backward, yesteryear Wigan logic, it’s not good enough that we might get some shops worth shopping in. Oh no, that’s insignificant compared to the fact that it’s too near to the road! The best bit is in the first line, which reads, “Can anyone from Wigan Planning Department explain………” Ring them up you soft bugger, why the hell are you writing into Th’Obby for an answer? So who is this unhappy local comedian? We’ll never know, as it’s a “Name and address supplied”. Cowardly as well as a grumbling bastard too. I bet it was a pensioner.

Page 7 and the continuing Mere Oaks Campaign, no complaints about that.

Page 16, Court Report. Can this really be right? Have the people who print these names never made a mistake? What right does anyone have to print your name, address and the offence you’ve been charged with in a local paper? What happened to confidentiality and privacy? You can imagine them all in the Editors suite sniggering and pointing the fingers of blame. I remember a mate of mine who used to deal a bit of weed ringing me up one night telling me to get rid of the Newton and Golborne News as he’d been busted and was all over the front page. So me and a couple of lads bought extra copies and sellotaped his picture and the report on the bog walls where we used to drink. Serious crimes maybe, but a speeding fine, I think not!

Page 17, Weddings. Why oh why would anyone have a photograph of what is supposed to be the happiest day of their lives stuck in Th’Obby? Poor quality photo’s and really rough looking couples guaranteed.

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Page 21, Wigan Society. Priceless! The Wigan Catenian Society annual clergy dinner at Aspull Village Club. It’s so wrong it’s right, old men standing there in bow ties with members of the local clergy, and the bonus is that you can actually order the pictures via the telephone. I’ve not a clue what a Catenian Society is but I’m pretty sure they’d not let me in. (Makes mental note to order them pictures after) At least that’s Christmas sorted!

Pages 37-39, Recruitment. Maybe I’m missing something here but isn’t this a Wigan paper? Then why are the majority of jobs advertised in Preston?

Hang on I hear you say, you’ve missed the best bit! Don’t fear my friends I haven’t forgotten, I’m saving the best for last.

Page 27, Wigan World with Geoffrey Shryhane. Now in my opinion this column epitomises all that is wrong with the self appointed voice of Wigan. This week the author relays a story titled “How I lost my way”, what an enthralling read this article is! Our hero tells a story of how he met with a reader of his column near the River Douglas and after discussing the merits of a fig tree that they had spotted growing wild, he set about his way. After becoming a little disorientated due to some demolition work Mr S. eventually found his way to a trail he recognised. The final line of this literary masterpiece is a classic and sees our intrepid explorer declaring: “Phew…what an unsettling moment” Unsettling you say Geoff? You’re fucking right, the whole sorry mess is unsettling. Is it any bastard wonder that the media see us as a bunch of cloth capped, whippet-racing in-breeds when the people charged with representing us do it so badly! Is this the true mouthpiece for the town and it’s people?

I think not! I’ve not even bothered to tackle the sports pages, and I’m certainly not going to pay credence to the other local rags who have also only acknowledged the existence of the towns football team since Sunday August 14th 2005.

So there you have it, if ugly new Mothers, rough looking newlyweds, cheap photography, whinging bastards and lazy journalism turn you on then fine, it’s 58 pence well spent. However, if you’re under 50 and don’t have a hankering to pontificate from the lofty position of respectable Wigan Socialite then do yourself a favour and spend it on real toilet tissue, it doesn’t chafe as much.

The voice of Wigan for 152 years? My arse!

DIRRRRTY_OLD MAN

FOLLOW MY (WIGAN) LEADER I was just sauntering down the corridors of power at work the other day when totally out of the blue I felt a violent eruption taking place in my lower regions and literally had to leg it to the bogs.

Although having said that, actually running would be out of the question - the motion takes on more of an Olympic standard 50km walker stance due to the need to avoid opening the legs too much as the bowels would inevitably follow.

I just made it although had the cubicles been full; had I experienced a difficult belt unbuckling process; or even after the event had there been no bogroll - because you never look when you're REALLY in a rush - there could have been a nasty accident. As it happens it goes down for me as one of many 'near misses'.

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Still I can only recall three occasions in my life where this has actually happened to me and two can undoubtedly be put down to the demon drink. The first one I remember I was still at school: I know this because I had been out delivering the Wigan Leader (a penny per copy) and was returning from the round, walking up our street when I 'over-farted' and quite a bit popped out and for the first time I got that warm feeling down my legs. A simple case of getting home, binning the boxers (the best ones I had at the time typically) and jumping in the bath.

Another instance happened at Christmas time after too much Mistletoe and Wine. I forget which year but it was a lazy day between Xmas and New Year and I had been boozing every night since the 16th December or summat and my body wasn’t exactly in the condition of a Marine’s. I think it might have been a Sunday and we'd had our usual Sunday blowout and had been in the Moon Under Water for tea and I'd had a bacon cheese burger or something which had sent my head a bit west. It was pounding from all the ale I’d consumed other the past couple of weeks and I really should have rung a taxi and gone home at this point. Nevertheless I walked over the road to the Bees Knees (and it was the Bees Knees then) at about 8pm with my drinking colleagues but whilst crossing Wallgate I got the same familiar bubbling feeling in my guts. Foolishly I farted and got more than I bargained for along with more WLS (Warm Leg Syndrome). The disinfecting zone was the Bees Knees bogs which were minging but I managed a reasonable tidy up exercise and flushed the soiled undies down the bog. Yet more ‘lucky tapping up undies’ ruined and definitely none of that for me this particular evening.

The third occasion occurred in Ibiza in 1997. I had been at it for two and a half days solid. Since the plane landed, we had been hammered and off our heads, drinking for four hours in Steppes and on the plane, all night when we got there and many of our number had been utilising the pills they had secreted up their arses for the flight over. We returned to our hotel just in time to attend the rep's welcoming meeting at 8am the next morning where they plied us with champagne. No point going to bed so we drank through the next day and all through the next evening, although I think I must have fallen asleep on the sunlounger at some point because I had burnt me head, neck and shoulders which were lobster red, I was a human matchstick.

Eleven o’clock the following night and we’re sat in the Welsh bar opposite our hotel watching 24 hour repeats of Only Fools and Horses and ordering our tea, tomato soup and a pepperoni pizza for me prior to our Monday night trip to Manumission. At last we eat something and the soup goes down fine. Unfortunately halfway through the pizza, I come out with my now infamous statement ‘I don’t feel well!’ and seconds later I’m face down in the pizza!! My mate the rat is pegging it down the street to the medical centre and the bar owner is shitting himself (although not in the same sense as I am) as he thinks he’s got a bad Ecstasy case on his hands. I come around a minute or two later and it’s apparent that I’ve let the muddy water out of the locks and rather than get into the waiting ambulance I head straight for the khazi. The colour has returned to the face of the old Welsh fella who offers me the helpful advice of “You lay off those tabs tonight son!” whilst I just hope his continental drainage is up to scratch prior to me flushing yet another pair of Nike undies down his lavatory. Just bottled water for me that night in Manumission as I revelled in the dwarf throwing, live sex acts and general debauchery and at eight quid a bottle I nearly shat myself again!

Please send us your own amusing tales of following through. Pictures not required.

Latouche (Bringing back taste and decency to Mudhutter.)

NEVER BEEN GOOD AT THIEVING You've either got it or you haven't. A good mate of mine is the best sneak thief I've ever met. An upbringing in North Manchester obviously helped the lad and when we were in our twenties he

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could "nick for England". He still has his moments but back then he'd nick to order. From hot pasties from the pie shop to basically anything that wasn't nailed down. Saved us a few pence, I can tell you.

It also stopped me nicking which was a great thing as frankly I was shite at it.

I put it down to getting caught nicking a box of Pontefract Cakes when I was about 9. The problem wasn't exactly that I got caught at our paper shop but more the fact that I thought I was nicking a box of Liquorice Allsorts. Have you ever tasted Pontefract Cakes? Ever since that day I lost my nerve.

Whilst my mates could secrete a nuddy mag inside their Crombie overcoat with ease I'd always be there coppering up for my quarter of Pear Drops. Other lads would eat like a king for exactly nothing as they emptied the whole of the sweet counter out as the dithering old dear was looking for the Paraffin they ordered.

As we got older and started going the match it was always me that got caught on the train without a ticket. The one time I scaled the walls I was lifted due to me wearing a long beige raincoat and blue cravat (don't ask) - clod out and told not to return before I paid, went back in and was immediately ejected again due to my natty attire. Away trips would see me as the only one buying a Ginsters pastie as the motorway shop was relieved of it's contents by all the other lads. At one game I was busy paying while one lad was throwing hot chicken legs over my shoulder to the lads waiting outside. On another occasion I overheard one of the lads say to the checkout girl: "Hurry up love this choc-ice is melting in my pocket" as he casually paid for a 10p chewy bar.

And the times I've been in record shops when it would have been easier to go behind the counter, find the right record put it in it's sleeve and walk out rather than pay are too legion to mention. I've stood and waited five minutes for people to appear to pay for something when I could have lifted the entire shop. I was once stood at a checkout counter in Potter's Bar as two checkout girls were so engrossed in their conversation (about being shagged the night before) that I could have walked out with the four bottles of wine in the basket. Yet I chose to stay and listen to their sordid tales. I've been caught running away from restaurants, and caught double clicking at the turnstiles.

And it's not just me nicking stuff that I'm no good at. The fact the bastards always get me makes it worse. I've been short-changed hundreds of times. I've stood at bars and argued so much that I've been clod out. Once - as well as being short-changed - I was subsequently charged an extra ÂŁ50 plus ÂŁ30 costs for kicking the said establishment's door in. I've been pick-pocketed twice (to my knowledge) and had my house burgled twice. Had football gear stolen and even had a Fila BJ trackie top nicked as it masqueraded as a goal post.

So as I am firmly entrenched in middle age I feel it is time to change my ways. Fuck it I'm going to be a bank robber or a fraudster or a conman that steals old ladies' fortunes. Maybe I could go for some elaborate internet scam or even become a counterfeiter. Whatever, I'm sick of being ripped off.

And to start this life (late in life) of crime I can inform you that the notes I made for the piece have been written on an ASDA "smart price" memo pad. Nicked from ASDA Wigan - cost 9 pence!

I'm on my way!

THE JULY E'ZINE WILL BE MAILED OUT TO ALL REGISTERED USERS OF MUDHUTS AND AVAILABLE AS A DOWNLOADABLE PDF ON THE MUDHUTS MEDIA WEBSITE C. 20TH JUNE 2006 MANY THANKS TO ALL FOR TAKING THE TIME OUT TO READ OUR STUFF

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