Theory of Relativity Part I

 I’ve been talking to eldest and we were talking about space, perpetual motion, light speed, gravity and that.

I tried to explain it in terms of everyday life and all that malarkey.  So here, my loyal reader, is what my science team here at Q@Spurn offered. 

To get into the scale of this firstly let’s think about the Sun. The sun is our heat - remember that. I won’t remind you again. Around 90 million miles away. It’s light, that we see, takes around 8-9 minutes to reach us. So we are seeing where the sun is Eight minutes ago, ie where you see the sun right now isn’t where it is right now. It’s a bit to the right actually RIGHT NOW. In our time. Think about that.

So, we’re seeing the sun where it actually was 8 minutes ago. Now, that light from the sun has taken 8 minutes to get here so how is it that when a cloud that’s a mere 1km away blocks the light but also at the same time the temperature drops?! If we’re seeing the sun 8 minutes previous surely the temperature would drop in 8 minutes?! Well, this is a bit of trick question from Q@Spurns science team and it’s simply the the convection, heat, travels at the speed of light also. so to us it’s in real time, all things happen in our eyes instantly although in this case 8 minutes behind in a grander scale. 

Bit boring this post isn’t it? Yer cock pongs. 

That's much better. 

Now picture  yourself and your mate John sat a few metres apart. John bounces a tennis ball, one bounce, to you which you catch. Fine. To you and John it bounces, continues its path in a direct line to you. Real time. The Earth is spinning, let’s call it 1000 mph around the equator so you and your good mate John are travelling at 1000 mph (not allowing for longitude and latitude for the pedants out there) so why, when John releases the ball, doesn’t the ball shoot through your french doors and the local school at 1000mph. It’s not travelling? We are stuck to the earth through gravity and your french doors are stuck to the earth but now the ball is free and everything is moving at 1000mph?! Of course, simply the ball also takes on that same speed as John has released it whilst travelling at 1000mph so it (by the same forces) is travelling at 1000mph also.

When John throws the ball the light takes that absolute minuscule amount of time to get to your smashing eyeball. So, even YOU are seeing the ball 0.00000000000001 seconds ago. Remember this. I won’t repeat this information. 

You and John are now on a train. I know, the imagery is WILD on Q@Spurn. The train is travelling 70mph. But you’re both travelling at 1000mph due to the spin of the earth. To picture this let’s just say you’re travelling LEFT at 1000mpg and the train (and you) (and John) (oh, and the ball) are travelling RIGHT at 70mph. John throws you the ball with one bounce. You catch. Same deal. You see it in a direct line. Your only other mate, Su Pollard, is stood a fair distance away from the train tracks. Watching you and John throw fucking balls to each other! Now why would Su Pollard be stood watching you and your best mate John throw a ball to each other while you’re on a train? Well. It’s for science and that innit. 

So.

Su Pollard sees your best mate John release the ball yet you’re travelling at 70mph past her, Su Pollard is travelling 1000mph the same way as you and your best mate John. Su Pollard she’s John release the ball, then maybe 10 metres to the left, say, sees it bounce, then another 10 metres along sees you catch it. Su Pollards view of the balls flight is an elliptical release then bounce, then elliptical path into your hand but this is 20 metres wide. You and your best mate John see it as a direct line. 

Relativity is just how it is. The “theory” is just that we can explain it. All forces/speed/space/time/convection/etc are all in massive unison. But. Simply. It just the way it is. If it didn’t “work” the earth is spinning at 1000mph but the toddler across the road has just thrown its dummy, the dummy lost all speed so the earth caught up and the dummy SMASHED through your front window, gave your lass a massive centre parting as it skimmed the top of her swede, went straight through the fence and killed the gardener out the back. 

You’re in the park and you throw your dog in the air as a bit of fun but your tiny cute dog loses all velocity (speed duh) and the earth carries on spinning so the dog has to ABSOLUTELY LAUNCH itself at the neighbouring house and spread various parts of anatomy over a relatively large area for such a tiny cute dog. Mrs SteauaBucharest, who lives there, becomes fed up with tiny, bald dogs splattering their limbs and other parts all over their garden. And wall. So Mrs SteauaBucharest puts up a sign in the park saying “No throwing dogs” And she draws a tiny, bald, baby dog with all its parts missing underneath. 

The big ones go straight through the wall leaving a dog-shaped cartoon-style shape in the wall. 

Let’s go further. The nearest habitable planet hosts intelligent life. One of these life forms, let’s call him or her “Steve Davis”. For reference. Steve Davis is now looking from fucking miles away, like well far and that. The earth is now travelling around the sun at 67000mph! Woah. Spinning around the Sun at 67000mph! That’s how Steve Davis sees it.  You, your best mate John and Su Pollard are now travelling at 67000mph in Steve Davis’s eyes! Holy Shitsauce!   So you, John, and Su Pollard, and the ball, are ALSO travelling at 1000mph to the RIGHT around the Earth, but you and your best mate John are also travelling at 70mph LEFT on the train in Su Pollards eyes, but Steve Davis is also seeing you, your best mate John, and Su Pollard, travelling at 67000mph to the RIGHT. 

Bit mad. I hope you’re following this because I aren’t. 

Your best mate John releases the ball. You see it bounce, Su Pollard sees it bounce 10m later. Steve Davis sees your best mate John release the ball but he sees it bounce 3000 miles to the left. Then another 3000 miles when you caught it. These figures aren’t true by the way. It would take ages to work that out so the science team have just fucked it off and started drinking Rum and overly flirting with the office’s only woman. Let’s call her “Mrs Cock” for reference.

The flight of the ball from your eyes, Johns eyes, Su Pollards eyes, and Steve Davis’s eyes are vastly different. But you and John are just sat there. On a train. 

It all just works. It’s just that we can prove it. Which is remarkable. 

The ball has travelled the two metres between you and John, Su Pollard has seen it travel 20 metres, and Steve Davis has seen it travel 6000 miles. Same ball. 

Coming next time: Fun statistics from astro-physics magazine and a poor attempt at a joke about anything ranging from cocks to Belgium. 

Gregg Wallace: My Saturday

5am I wake up, as normal with my pyjamas covered in rice pudding and a lazy lob on. I check my emails and go and stand on the balcony whilst singing 80s pop classic “Gold” by Spandau  trying not to wake my wife Maureen. It’s a cold morning so I drink a full bucket of rice pudding in one and wave at the next door neighbour, Elton John, who is also up early and has several young men helping him in the garden wearing very little and dancing to  music a DJ is belting out. I think the DJ is Normski.

7am I wake Maureen up so she can go sort our autistic son, Bernard, out and take his restraining straps off. He has, unbeknownst to me, been rather loudly voicing his needs throughout the night. Maureen makes coffee and I do a massive piss all over the kitchen floor.

9am Gym. Exercise is good for the mind as well as the body. Eric Bristow once told me that. I have eight minutes on the rowing machine before drinking a full bucket of rice pudding and relaxing in the sauna. I get the staff to throw everyone else out as they are peasants. 

10am breakfast. Maureen makes eggs benedict but I have to tell her that the hollandaise isn’t thick enough, the eggs could do with a little more seasoning, and the muffin has been shop-bought and at this stage of the competition she should be making her own muffins. I put a ladder up to the 12-foot fence between my house and Elton Johns and climb up only to be met with scenes of debauchery and so forth. I make a hasty retreat and get Maureen to walk the dog. 

1230pm. I’ll have a snooze before lunch if Bernard will stop voicing his needs rather loudly, and retire to the drawing room. I dream about clouds, the ocean, and John Torode. 130pm lunch. Maureen has prepared Sea Bass, on a bed of sautéed potatoes, wilted spinach, and a full bucket of rice pudding. The rice pudding goes everywhere as usual as I attempt to neck it. Bernard has spaghetti hoops with custard but just throws it at the wall. 

258pm I try to spend time with Bernard regularly, even though I didn’t want a child. 

300pm I tie Bernard up as the footballs kicking off. I put Sky Sports News on and cringe every time there’s a goal in the Hartlepool game as the full panel (all women except for a disabled black guy) roll their eyes and reference previous host Jeffrey Stelling in “hilarious” scenes. My 5-fold accumulator isn’t looking good so I go to try to pass stools. 

445pm The acca isn’t looking good at all, but Leeds have had a good result by only conceding six at home to Dagenham and Redbridge. 

450pm Make that seven. I shout over to Elton John asking if I can borrow his lawnmower as I think Maureen should be cutting the grass. Elton John doesn’t answer as it appears he’s still revelling with Normski and the young scantily-clad gentlemen. He must be having a barbecue as there’s lots of sausage flying about, a lot of rump, all served with gentlemen’s relish. Double-entendres are cheap jokes, I find. 

6pm I suddenly inspect all the food cupboards manically, ripping out not one, not two, but three packets of Aldis own Spaghetti. There’s a blackcurrant jelly mix that’s out of date, an onion that’s gone bad, and an unopened jar of pickled red cabbage and it’s not even Christmas. I scream at Maureen “maureen, what on earth is going on here? We’re doing just what the general public do and that is waste food and overstock on groceries that will never be used”. Maureen started screaming “I’ve been so facking stupid, I’m so sorry Greg”, so I punched her in the kidneys as it’s spelt “Gregg” with two g’s. “We’ve got to sort this out” I said. 

7pm Tea. Maureen had Spaghetti with green onion served on a bed of red cabbage followed by jelly and I ordered a chinky. And you can all fuck off, that’s not racialist, it’s known as chinky. It is. Full chinky banquet is a Saturday treat for me. Bernard was still tied up so I’m not sure what he had but it will have been slightly overcooked and needed seasoning. I washed it all down with a full bucket of rice pudding. Ah-bosh! 

8pm I retired to my quarters to work on my own catchphrase. I lit a cigar and changed into some fresh pyjamas and set aside a full bucket of rice pudding for the night ahead. I waved at Elton John and his depraved entourage only to be met with gun fire. I watched Mrs Doubtfire in bed but I didn’t think it was very good, I masturbated furiously, then shouted night to Maureen who was in her quarters and from a distant part of the house, I thought I could hear the sound of a child crying as I dozed off to sleep. 

Female Waxing

As this is a birding blog and there’s lots of Waxwings around I’ve had to (obviously) analyse the pressing topic of female waxing habits. 

And that’s a great segway. 

After deep deliberation, we at Q@Spurn have deduced that only on 2 days in 2/3 weeks they’re happy with their leg hair. 

Sponsored by ClamSmooth (trademark) here’s our findings: 

Women having their legs waxed. I get it. Smooth. A little treatment. Pampering. They can just brush spunk off without it getting caught up in pyoooobs. I get it. But, having their legs waxed isn’t simple, oh no. 

No way. 

They have to grow it/them for 2-3 weeks so the wax can get hold of them. 

Now let’s analyse that. They want smooth legs. No problem. I get it. So what they do is grow their leg pyooobs for2-3 weeks then get them waxed so they’re really smooth. 

Beaut. Nice. Fucking nice smooth shins. 

But. 12-24 hours later, the stubble will be starting to poke through. They’ve gone 2-3 weeks with unshaven, outrageous, spiky, HAIRY, out-of-order, and fucking smelly (maybe) leg hair for the sake of 12-24 hours of smooth, creamy legs PLUS the cost of £15-£35 pounds? 

For me, that doesn’t quite make sense. 

I think this is all about the pampering aspect, something to tell their mate at the school gates an hour after they dropped their offspring off. 

2-3 weeks of hairy legs for 1 day of smoothness? For 30 quid? All because of a night out maybe? 

“i’ve had my legs and clam waxed cos we’re out innit, I didn’t get my anus done cos I won’t lettem go near that, my husband has had to put up with my hairy legs and clam for the last 2-3 weeks but fuck him, we’re out. And that.”

Blokes build up to a night out at 18 was to have a wank in the bath so they’d last longer if they pulled later.

Preparation. 

Back to female clams and the waxing issue….

If the lucky victim had been waxed very recently then fine, you’ve caught them lucky, if they haven’t, you’re not bothered about the hairy legs, the mohair knickers. in fact you don’t even notice. 

Has any bloke ever said:

“I aren’t shagging her, she might have hairy legs for them being waxed and, even worse, how am I gonna concentrate if she’s got hairy shins?  I’ve had 14 pints of lager, a Diamond White,, two Mick Jaggers and a line of cheap whizz, I’m not risking shin hair, I’ll just go do a wank to Eurotrash” 

“and a kebab”

No man has ever said that. 

So men everywhere, tell your missus to shave various parts of their anatomy regularly and vice versa as and when you both feel it benefits all parties and have a deep, really deep, discussion about pyooooooooobs. 

In summary, if I had to have various parts looking good, I’d much rather have them looking “fine” for 13-20 days of 2-3 weeks rather than looking “great” for one day of 2-3 weeks and the rest of the time  it looks like a kebab that you spilt everywhere, or The Haywain by Constable, or the floor in a barbers shop at half four in the afternoon. 

I don’t think I’ve ever looked at my many (7) conquests and actually KNOWN if they had hairy or smooth legs. You don’t do you? I’m ignorant you see. 

Fin.

Not a Clue

I don’t understand shatterproof rulers.

Do you? 

I understand that the manufacturers don’t want them to shatter easily. But, when you think about this, this benefits nobody. The manufacturer or the buyer. So. I’ve never had a ruler shatter on me. Have you? 

Probably because they’re shatterproof. To make a ruler shatter I’d have to put some force into it. When using a ruler, I’m usually quite calm and drawing straight lines, so if I were to make that ruler shatter, I must WANT it to shatter, as in, somethings annoyed me, maybe the ruler has annoyed me, so I SMASH it on the desk or similar everyday household object. But it doesn’t shatter! 

Because It’s shatterproof. 

That’s shatter. 

proof. 

So it doesn’t shatter even though I want it to. All other times, when drawing lines, or measuring random things, etc, the ruler is never in danger of shattering. 

So, it doesn’t shatter when you want it to. Now, the manufacturers would surely sell more rulers if they did actually shatter? Let’s say someone goes mental while they’re drawing really straight lines and takes it out on the poor ruler only to find it doesn’t shatter so throws another arbitrary object at the wall and shatters it thus relieving his/her anger. They then replace the arbitrary object that they’ve just smashed instead of the ruler the very next day, thus the manufacturer of said arbitrary object gains another sale. 

So we can’t smash the ruler if we want to, and it’s not going to shatter itself, but if it did the manufacturers would gain another sale in stationary goods that not only measure random things but you can also draw really straight lines with. 

No one gains. 

Fucking no one. 

Multi-purpose Compost. I thought this through. I’m not a gardener. But I thought I’d give it a whirl. I bought some multi purpose compost. I planted some things that can only be described as plants in said compost. What else can this multi purpose item be used for? I ate some. It didn’t taste very nice to be honest but I hadn’t eaten since June (it was September) so I tucked in and had a slice of bread with it. 

It wasn’t very nice. 

So I put some of it in my car. Like, on the back seats and in the petrol tank. I broke down literally 40 seconds later and had to clean the back seats because there was a load of compost on it. 

Them. 

So I put some on my head. 

That’s it. 

Nothing happened. Obviously. 

Then I put multi purpose compost in my roof space and to this day I’m not sure whether it has made any difference or not. All I know is that there’s limited purposes for compost. So to advertise it as multi purpose is scandalous. It is pretty good for growing plants in, but it tastes shit, cannot be used as fuel for a car, doesn’t do anything to your head but may add some benefit to your loft space even though it smells after 6-8 weeks. 

Begonias. 

Head and Shoulders buyers. None of you have dandruff. 

“I don’t”. 

So you don’t need to buy Head and Shoulders. Buy, erm, a cheaper shampoo because you don’t have dandruff. Only buy expensive stuff like that if you’ve got dandruff or you simply don’t care about your hair or your appearance. Or your tits. I’m not sure where that last bit came from. It was a bit of an outburst. I’m sorry. 

Quilt Shenanigans.

 Welcome to my world. I know all two of you are “desperate” to read my Shetland 2023 write up but tonight there’s more pressing information. Today, I washed my bedding. Now, as a very sensible man that lives on his own sort of, I have two, maybe three different changes of bedding, one or two ready to go on, the other can just fuck off into the washing machine and get fucking washed in fucking non-bio fucking wash powder until the fucker is clean, at this stage I’ll take the fucker out of the fucking washing machine and dry the bastard. 

I realise at this point, I’ve got a little over excited and, perhaps, angry for some reason regarding the washing of said bedding.

So, it was a long day, the bedding was washing itself at home. The clean bedding hiding in the second draw down like a duvet set realising just what fate it awaited. Being a long day, I decided to get blathered. On a Tuesday. Just as a release, obviously. 

Work finally finished, I tackled medial tasks like the bedding. Not hard. 

Ground sheet, and that is the campers term for it not mine, went straight on. Elasticated, self-embracing bottom sheet, straight on. This is easy. Pillows, fuck off. Straight on. No bother. 

Quilt. And I’m a master of quiltery I can tell you. Until now.

Naked quilt, quilt cover. Sort it.  So I did the required stuff. Set it all out and started stuffing the quilt into said quilt cover. I then realised the quilt cover was inside out. Start again. But then, some of it was inside out and the other not. Does that make sense? 

So, here’s the crux. Because something so trivial was boxing my tiny mind, I decided to embrace it every time it went wrong by having a livener and a beer just to do my own head in. This isn’t normal and needs to be addressed. I realise this. But it became a game. Right then, this is easy, but then I got it wrong again. The quilt BASTARD was sideways. Start again. Have another livener because it’s now good fun for this simple thing to be beating a simpleton on a Tuesday. The more I went wrong, the more I wanted to go wrong just for comedy value in my own tiny mind. 

Some of it was really inside-out but some of it, erm, the right way ‘round. What’s going on? Livener. 

Press studs. Sort of. So I sealed the quilt with the press buttons at the bottom. By the end, there were two spare male parts and no female parts. A common trait on most Fridays for some. 

I aren’t having this. The fucking buttons are fucked. Why haven’t the buttons lined up? Right, because it’s doing my nut in again, I’ll have a livener just to do my nut in even more! I’m liking it. The more it goes wrong the more I’m liking it baffling me. 

So I undid the buttons-type-press studs type things. 

“Right, get your head on” thought Mark, now writing in the third person. 

I tried to start again. But now it had done my head in, in an amusing way, I had to carry on ENJOYING the total fuckwittery that I’d succumbed to over the last c.45 minutes. If I fuck up again it will be funny. 

Another livener, I’m now off my fucking head putting a quilt cover on on a Tuesday night and enjoying the fact that something so simple is becoming so difficult! Embrace it. 

The next attempt, the quilt (or the quilt cover) were again at ninety degrees to each other. This wasn’t my fault, it was merely either: 

a) The quilts fault; or

b) The quilt covers fault. 

After ORDERING “them” to get into alignment, I stood there for at least 80 minutes, had another livener and decided to align these inanimate objects myself.

To no avail yet again. 

The quilt had, by now, jumped out of the window (if some person absolutely off their nut had felicitated this, I am not sure) leaving the quilt cover to fend for itself. 

I shouted “Don’t leave me” to no one in particular, and no one answered. 

I’m now freezing with no quilt (it’s fucked off). 

I’m so desperately sad. 

Fin. 

GTA.

 Eldest plays Grand Theft Auto. Where you steal cars, visit strip clubs, do drug deals, shoot the Police, etc. She is seven after all. 

So I started playing it. I asked her the actual aim of the game. She said “don’t get nicked, don’t get shot, don’t die, you lose if you die”, Which is usually the case on various games including Pac-man, Snake and Scramble.  Okay. So I started playing. Easy. I got in my online car and drove to the designated speed limits. Indicating as I went, I wasn’t in an Audi. It was quite easy but after a while I got a little bit bored and returned to my new online home. Then I got  in my online car and drove to the speed limits. THIRTEEN HOURS I drove around to the legal limit, no police chases, no drug deals, no shooting, fuck all. Well there wouldn’t be would there? I went to bed thinking of how many times I’d visited an online imaginary petrol station and how many times I’d gone back to my imaginary online home only to get bored and go for a drive with my seatbelt on. I think I won the game but it didn’t really suggest that I had, indeed, won the game. Ruby, meanwhile, had been killed 38 times, “skord” class A drugs and visited places where imaginary “hoes” dance seductively to the imaginary online world. She had run down 83 pedestrians, been involved in police chases driving at least 56 mph in a 30 zone, car jacked some poor mo fo, had 12 gun fights with the filth, shagged 18 hoes, nicked a school bus and driven it into the middle of Chesterfield, making the residents of Chesterfield going about their daily business run and hide. But I won! So who’s the winner? Me. I had safe, legal fun.

GTA fun facts:

1) GTA was originally called “Drive Within Regulations” (DWR) and had a sub-title “don’t Get killed” but no one bought it. As it wasn’t very good. 

2) Police frown upon the use of drugs and also……..stealing cars. 

3) And hookers.

7) TonyKnowles, the snookerist from Bolton, once potted the final black with his cock! I know! Mad innit?! Whether he chalked the end we are not sure of as it’s not on YouTube. 

4) I’ve just realised that we’ve just jumped straight to Tony Knowles.

5) So “we” need to put some sort of link (segway) in between. 

6) Popular randy 80s sexual snooker player Tony Knowles once played GTA but he just kept going to the online snooker hall for hours until he hadn’t bought a drink, the light had gone out, but he carried on playing! The online bartender asked Tony to put more money in the light but Tony just got sexual. That’s it. 

8) Tony Knowles used to get sexual quite often, even during matches. 

9) Tony Knowles highest break is 58.He once told me in confidence. In a sexy pub. But then he gave a big “wink” and I didn’t know what he meant to be honest. Did he mean he’s never had a 58 break? Or did he mean that his highest break is more than 58? Or did he mean his highest break was 58 in some of sexual way? We, at Q@Spurn, cannot be sure. Knowing Tony Knowles it must have been something sexual.

10) As this is a birding blog today I saw a Chaffinch.She had been bummed by Tony Knowles. In the 80s. I know.,Mad innit? I’m not sure how long Chaffinches live. He never rang her after that. Animal. 

11) After Googling “How long do Chaffinches live?” We found out that the oldest living Chaffinch is one owned by Dennis Taylor. 

Disgraceful scenes.

…..

….

Q@Spurn WORLD EXCLUSIVE! Fred West: His final interview!

World exclusive! Never seen before made-up interview with everyone’s favourite mass murderer, the one and only, lovable Fred West! This was just weeks before his sad demise. 

Q: Thanks for joining us Fred, how are you today? 

Fred: Yeah, I’m fine, thanks for asking. What have you been upto? Have you had breakfast?

Q: Yeah, Ive had scrambled egg. I think I’m meant to ask the questions to be honest! What drove you to do such inhumane acts? 

Fred: Do you have it with brown sauce?

Q: Yes, I did actually.

Fred: I like it, or them, with brown sauce too. How many people have you killed?

Q: None. Yet. 

Fred: Plenty of time. Ha ha ha, I’m such a lovable rogue aren’t I? Ha. Have you got any pets?

Q: Yes, Ive got a dog called fucking Daisy. With a pink lead. Who calls a dog Daisy these days? I look really butch shouting Daisy on field.

Fred: Why don’t you kill it and leave it’s remains under the floorboards? I’m so lovable. 

Q: I never really thought of that Fred to be honest. How come you’re asking the questions, it’s meant to be me doing the interview? 

Fred: Nuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Go on then. 

Q: When you used to spy on your tenants engaging in sexual intercourse, what was you actually doing?

Fred: Bran Flakes.

Q: Bran Flakes?! What does that mean? I’m not sure what you mean?

Fred: Neither do I. I was obviously masturbating  furiously. I mean, come on, that’s a stupid question isn’t it? 

Q: Fair enough. You seen out of Rose?

Fred: No, she’s serving multiple life sentences in a womens jail. 

Q: Do you think you’ll see her again?

Fred: No. She’s serving multiple life sentences in a womens jail. 

Q: Was Rose involved in all of the murders?

Fred West: Yes. She’s serving multiple life sentences in a womens jail.

Q: Who’s idea was it? I mean, how does the topic of spying on tenants, murdering them, and stashing their remains in your house first get raised?

Fred: Just an accident really. I think we were watching Play Your Cards Right and they got a Queen and went lower, and it was another Queen. So I went and cut a hole in the ceiling and starting watching the tenants having sexual intercourse.

Q: What self-respecting landlord could do more? So how did Rose react to this?

Fred: She played Now That’s What I Call Music 3. I’ve wrote a poem about her though. “my Rose has left me, I’m in a mood. She’s gone to Kenya, with a bloke from Allied Carpets”. (vic and bob)

Q: I’m not even sure what I’m talking about here Fred West.

Fred: Neither do I Q, this is all a bit surreal and stupid even for you. Are you pissed? 

Q: A little bit. Sorry Fred West. You’re a really nice chap though.

Fred: Thanks. I’m just misunderstood. Nobody means to rape, murder and bury their tenants and daughters. I actually think you’ve gone a bit too far now, even for you.

Q: Do you get picked on in prison? 

Fred: Yeah a little bit, but I get my own back by cutting holes in the walls and spying on them, like Clint Eastwood in Escape From Alcatraz. 

Q: So, what’s the worst thing that’s happened to you in prison?

Fred: They call me “Tuna” sometimes. They started calling me “John” West after the tinned fish magnate. Then it went to John West Salmon. They’re so mean. Then just to be really mean, they called me Tuna. After the tuna in tins by John West. It got me down for a while but I got over it. Hopefully it’s FINished now. 

Q: You said that on Porpoise.

Fred: Oh Cod.

Q: Are you allowed to speak to Rose? 

Fred: Yeah we speak most days. I’m usually too busy but I still answer because I’m nice like that. 

Q: What’s your middle name? 

Fred: Shitsauce.