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.