I found out to my profound dismay (LOL) that last week, the piss artist known simply as Cludge, passed away outside his local Job Centre, face down on the pavement in a puddle of sick. He died doing what he loved. I wanted to find out more about the circumstances that lead to his death, and why it was that at the age of just 23, the cunt looked fucking 76 years old.
I hopped on a train to Glasgow, (I was going to drive but fuck that shit) and en-route I found myself reminiscing about our time together in Winmx. Ah, the memories... Fortunately this only lasted about 30 seconds, so I dedicated the rest of the time to drinking heavily and playing Tetris on my Nintendoid Gameboy. It's an eerie feeling going north, you can see the progress of evolution unfolding in front of your eyes. At first it wasn't that noticeable... A few down syndromes, a 16 year old mother of six pushing her prams around, smoking fags and talking about her favourite sexual positions loudly and at length over her mobile device, all this sort of thing... But then it became more evident. I began noticing more and more football shirts. The newspaper of choice changed from the Daily Mail to The Sun, and eventually there were no newspapers at all, just men in football shirts openly reading pornographic material such as Readers Wives, or Escort. It was crude, and uncomfortable. By the time I'd arrived at Penrith North there were 8 people sat next to me, all hunched over photocopies of some naked woman called Sue, who was apparently related to one of these animals. I decided to defenestrate myself from the train between stations, and walked the next 8 miles into Glasgow proper. I had an idea where I might be able to meet someone who could shed light on what had exactly happened with Cludge, and this was near the bins round the back of the local KFC.
Here is a verbatim transcript of our conversation:-

Me: "Fucking hello."
Scottish Twat: "Eh? Who the fuck are yous, ye big soft southern cunt?! Ahm fixen dinner here PAL!!"
Me: "There's no need for hostility you vile sack of rancid dog shit. I'd just like to ask you a few questions about someone that died recently."
Scottish Twat: "Ah, nay problems ken, you'll be talkin' aboot Cludge. Fucking tweed wearin boofty cunt, what ah heard, wus that he goat wide to some cunt about Brexit, next thing the doss cunt knows, he's fuckin dead, with his skull plastered all over his troosers. That's just what ah hurd anyway ya fat prick. Wish ah wiz there, I'd huv stolen the cunt's sandals."
Me: "Right. Well, you've been very helpful. Fucking kill yourself."
Scottish Twat: "Aye."

I felt that this was probably the most coherent explanation I could get from the natives, and satisfied that I'd done everything I could do to bring attention to the final hours of this staunch Tory supporting one time English teacher, I decided to flee the fuck back down south to the relative safety of caravans and communal toilets.

R.I.P Sweaty Sock.

Ok.