The year is 1984. I am seven years old and clutching a pillow case. I have way too much make-up on and the sweat beading on my forehead has started to make it run. Feverishly I scan the row of houses to see if any lights are still on. There! Four houses down and on the right, I spot them – burning yellow eyes. I run.
Whistler's dirtiest secrets are revealed by an Insider who discovered that all his local knowledge amounted to naught when he couldn't find a place to change his new daughter's diaper, pronto. A tour of Whistler's dark side reveals some very nice places to survive a Poo–mageddon.