People 29

Gerald Smythe-Smythe-Smythe (pictured) was the result of a drunken liaison between a yard of sharp sand and 3 feet of gravel in the back of a Ford Capri in the late 1960s. After an office Christmas party, since you asked.

Abandoned by his mother shortly after birth, Gerald spent his youth selling his sweet tushy on street corners and briskly fellating elderly men in exchange for their medication. By 7 and a half, Gerald had his own private colostemy bag collection, and a devoted following of lice.

On his thirteenth birthday Gerald was robbed, buggered, strapped to a barrel and left for dead on a traffic island in East Cheam. His unlikely rescuers, 3 sardines in sarongs and a pickled cucumber, were to prove both his saviours and his lunch.

Wracked by guilt and pant-shattering wind having consumed those who had helped him, Gerald made a vow to erect a church on that very spot to St. Fishy and The Tangy One. A vow he was soon to forget, however, due to drug induced amnesia and a double frontal labotomy administered by surgeons after we was hit, full on, by a bus leaving the traffic island.

Thrust back into the community, short to the tune of the front half of his brain, Gerald took to the scientific community as a means of getting laid cheaply and easily. Accepted readily by Engineering Faculties across the land, Gerald lived a facile life of nerdy bespectacled discourse and embarrassing, apologetic sex in the dark.

He also did some research, but it was all rubbish.

Gerald was eventually kidnapped and turned into the south-facing wall of a shed. Serves him right. Tosser.

People Schmeeple

Name: Anton “Frere” Hutchings-Colossomi
Occupation: Full-time weaver of wicker baskets; Transcendental clay artist; Secretary-general for the Society for the Rights of Nomads and Vagrants; Insurance underwriter
Where: Lives in a converted bus shelter in and around Macclesfield
What: Not a scientist per se, Hutchings-Colossomi has nevertheless been instrumental in several recent, rather astonishing and possibly implausible discoveries. They include:
*being the first retarded person to find the quickest route between Salford and Worksop (a feat that has re-invigorated the once declining trade in exotic spices and dead mice);
*turning ice into water in a lukewarm place (both assisted and unassisted to avoid ambiguity);
*constructing the definitive pie-chart (pictured);
*managing to successfully weld the theory of quantum mechanics to the carburettor of an ageing Fiat Panda;
*the now widely accepted method for genetically manipulating the common (and most recently the rare) lisp (pictured).
Anton is currently working on a self-assembly AirFix kit of the USS Viagara and has plans to expand his renowned wicker basket road show to include certain postcodes in the North East and a brief stop-over in Guernsey
Favourite book: “He’s cool bruv – the hip version of the bible” by Frantz Sudovikamaan
Likes: A hairy back
Dislikes: Diffraction; Soya; Food laced with arsenic; Being called a spazzer (pictured)
Favourite word: Spam (pictured)
In brief: Severely mentally handicapped by his own volition. Approach with due diligence

People > 3 fl.oz

Sir Francis Shamal Davenport is at age 12 currently the oldest living scientist in Suffolk (if you discount Larry Lammambear, who for all intents and purposes is the older of the two). Most of our readers will already be familiar with Davenport and his work, especially his contribution to the world of regional science.
Sir Francis is a self-proclaimed neo-physicist with a background in dense geospatial meta-geometry, a subject that he invented aged only eight (this is disputed; some claim he invented it at age nine).
He is one of three members of the Suffolk Higher Intelligence Taverna who has a key to the auditorium, a fact that frequently thrills Sir Francis to the point of questionable ejaculation.
Despite being a very busy man (he regularly works anywhere between five and seven hours a week, often in the afternoon), he agreed to take time out of his schedule to do the following interview. We met him in a science lab behind the Harry Ramsden fish and chips restaurant near Brent:

PG: Sir Francis, thank you for taking time out from your busy schedule to do this interview. I would like to start, if I may, with your latest project, the Van der Graaf Degenerator. Could you tell us a bit about it?
FSE: Yes, yes I suppose I could. Is now a good time?
PG: Yes go ahead. How did you get the idea for the degenerator, and how does it differ from the standard Van Der Graaf generator?
FSE: Well for starters, it looks different. You may have noticed that it is painted entirely in mauve, whereas the classic Van Der Graaf tends to be of the stainless steel finish variety. That and the name is different, too. I've added a “de” to the beginning of the “generator” part. Mine has more buttons as well. Buttons are important. Sorry what was the other question again?
PG: How did yo get the idea for the machine?
FSE: I haven't got the faintest idea. What was the question again?
PG: errm.. the question was: how did you come up with the idea for this invention?
FSE: ahh yes, I see. I see.
PG: ..was it the result of research or did the idea for the degenerator originate somewhere else?
FSE: yes, absolutely. Very much so.
PG: absolutely as in it was the result of research, or absolutely as in the idea originated somewhere else?
FSE: I would much prefer to talk about my more recent work, if that is at all viable?
PG: .. yes of course. That is fine. What are you working on currently?
FSE: I've been trying to tell you all afternoon. I've invented, and indeed roadtested, a Van Der Graaf Degenerator. Can we talk about that instead?
PG: by all means, please proceed...
FSE: Thank you. Could I have a glass of water? I am feeling rather parched
PG: there is a glass right in front you Sir Francis -
FSE: So there is, so there is. This is why I love science.
PG: What, exactly, does the Degenerator do?
FSE: ahh excellent question! I am glad you asked that. This interview is going rather well, wouldn't you say?
PG: ..well yes, but -
FSE: Very well. I might have a quick nap. Would you pass me that pillow?
PG: Of course I can, but Sir Francis, what about.. wait a minute, what pillow? We're in a lab?
FSE: Sorry I thought it was a pillow. My mistake. You won't write that, will you? Makes me seem rather silly. I'm afraid I'm rather prone to silliness prior to taking a nap. Cost me my marriage and, in hindsight, probably about 11.34 euros as well. I never got the money back, either. That wasn't a happy time. I'd rather not talk about it anymore. Would you like a mint? I make them myself.
PG: err, yeah, sure, why not? Thank you.
FSE: -
PG: hang on, that's not a mint! It's a piece of chalk!
FSE: Rather clever, wouldn't you say? Looks like a mint, but doesn't taste like one. Tastes like chalk.
PG: look can we please return to the interview? We asked you how you got the idea for the Degenerator?
FSE: ahh yes, yes. The idea. Well you see it all started because I have this rather infuriating problem, - no one understands me
PG: what do you mean?
FSE: you see?!? you see??
PG: no, I just meant -
FSE: well this has been great. I will now have a nap. Can you pass me that duvet good man?

At this point Sir Francis stood up, flapped his arms whilst letting out odd guttural sounds (that his agent later attributed to Davenport's diet and early onset of dementia, and his alcohol problem) and proceeded to run into a wall repeatedly until he passed out in a foetal position on the floor. We decided now would probably be a good time to wrap up the interview.
Despite his fierce intellect and incredible gift for solving complex equations using krills as X, he has yet to find permanent employment, preferring instead to pretend he is an average sculptor relying on patronage from a fictional Marquis known to Sir Francis as Leo for sustenance.

People 9:15pm

Boris Yegor "EQuail Rights" Podomatsky has had lived out his feathery existence blighted by misfortune. Accompanied by his ever-faithful top hat "Sexy Bitch", Boris was laughed out of kindergarten for not having any pockets, shunned by the opposite sex for insisting on bringing "Sexy Bitch" on dates and booking a separate seat for it on aeroplanes, and denied a place at Oxford University on the grounds that he was "just a fucking quail for God's sake".

A lesser quail would have quailed at such adversity (I am so very very sorry. Really I am.) but not Boris. Spurred on by his blind, screaming stupidity and the sweet sweet loving afforded him by his milinary chum, Boris took up the sword of self-rightiousness, the shield of justice and the underpants of bed-wetting and started the campaign that was to earn him his nickname "EQuail Rights".

With the wind at his back (brought on principally by his diet of refried beans and millet) Boris started a dull and uninspired leaflet campaign demanding that Quails receive adequate representation in both Parliament, and the work place.

While this campaign went entirely unnoticed by everyone, it did have one strange side effect. A telemarketing company in Hove was so wracked with guilt at its own singular failure to employ anything not of the Homo Sapiens flavour, that it immediately gave 3 senior marketing executive positions to a travelling trio of giraffes, much to the chagrin of the door frames and ceiling tiles of West Sussex.

In his spare time Boris researches the gambling habits of poultry and the static electricity he creates in dry-humping his, largely felt, "Sexy Bitch" could power one electric eel for approximately 0.385795 seconds.


Please note: This is no way simply a vehicle to allow me to Photoshop a top hat on to a Quail. Just so you know.

People 44

Morritz “Neville” Schumann has just been appointed chief editor for the Wigan toiletry manufacturers’ trade publication ‘Faecal Matters’. Schumann has stepped into the role following the shock departure of the previous editor, Jacques Jacaville Jacobaueys, who quit only a few hours ago citing “irreconcilable differences with the general realms of Braille”.
Morritz (pictured) has had a long a and colourful career before joining the Turd, as the publication is known in the industry. He started his own gravel pit at the age of just nine with the help of loan from his deceased gran. He sold it to a mate for a few shilling the year after and began branching out in to different areas of enterprise, including such diverse areas of pseudo-commerce as ‘air vender’, ‘purveyor of lintrubbings’ and a brief stint as Mayor of Clydesdale.
Some insiders in the industry believe “Neville” is the perfect man for the job, having only just recovered from a protracted and quite unnecessary lobotomy at the Oldham Royal and General, where he also sold shoelaces to the infirm. Minority Faecal Matter shareholder Ryan Giggs (perhaps mainly remembered by some for his lacklustre career as a sportsman for amateur football club Manchester United) is pleased with the appointment. “Schumann will be a great asset to the publication. A great asset” he told SpasmGasm earlier this evening, whilst eating someone’s spleen.
Schumann’s first move as chief editor will be to install a fridge in the third floor gents, commission a piece on the irregularities of Haydn and declare himself a persona non-grata. “I can’t wait to get stuck in” Morritz said at a press briefing just minutes ago, before going to the lavatory for a quick curl.
Schumann, despite his relatively bland history, harbours many secrets. He is an avid fan of modern necrophilia (and currently a fulltime practitioner, pending further action by Accrington constabulatory), he likes spending time with his family and enjoys the rigorous demands of jazzercise, which he finds “about as invigorating as debasing a corpse – really great stuff”.
“Neville” does have his work cut out for him, and we shall follow his progress with glee.
Jacobaueys, who during the last 83 years managed to steer the publication from being side-player in the industry to the fully-fledged voice of northern toiletry manufacturing we know it as today, is believed to be somewhat devastated and rather baffled by his own decision to quit. Speaking from a house in Rattby, a close friend of his informed the Gasmpire that despite the upheaval (some thought he would die in his post), Jacobaueys is content, albeit baffled and devastated. Some guys in a pub that we spoke to suggested that Jacobaueys “take a couple of days off and then decide what to”. “Yes” added another.
Jacobaueys is widely believed to have his eyes on the editor’s job currently unavailable at the local Brunswick News and Mart newspaper, owned in part by ex-Leicester City journeyman Steve Claridge.
We wish Jacobaueys the best of luck and look forward to a new glorious era of toiletry-related scoops and analysis at the helm of Schumann, who sadly died last year from hypothermia whilst cleaning out his garage.

People #666

Friedrich ‘Z’ Schmaltze is the current inventor of the wheel.
He started and still runs a home somewhere not far from Dorset for castrated Belgian mime artists and their children. When he’s not busy knitting triangular woolly sleeves in gradients of beige, he likes to campaign for the extended rights of dead elks. His commitment to the latter is presumably partly attributable to his rather astonishing achievements as a participant in the annual 1983 Moose Cup, where to date he has finished 2nd, 37th, 11th, 16th and 321st, respectively. Sadly he was disqualified during last year’s competition for having an unruly moustache.
After several failed attempts at garrotting himself with a rope made from ovulating snails, he has now set his sights on growing a crooked beak.
His favourite food is tripe served on a bed of cured eel.
He also does stuff with chemistry, but as this in itself is rather boring, we won’t go there.