So I sat on Barty Crouch's front garden this morning. (It's at 98 Smiddy Road, Caithness, Scotland, for those of you still interested in sending letters or, preferably, egging his house.) And what can I say other than WHAT A FUCKING WASTE OF TIME. Though it was funny to see Paisley Moonjava, cockmuncher extraordinaire, cry and lead a sing-a-long,
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