Obituaries: 1

Dave Sock, née Sock (9), a 50% cotton - 50% polyester foot warmer first staggered blinking into the light at the Ningbo Go-Go Knitting factory as the result of an argument between a burlap sack and a collection of militant toupees.

Adopted by a camp ball of worsted yarn, Dave's nascent perversion and prediliction for the absurd saw him grow into a fine and dynamic entrepreneur who capitalised on the demand for herring in the smaller bottom-wiping communities of the Lower Indus.

Later, his treatise on bed-wetting among middle-aged shire horses earned him a free haircut, and, inexplicably, a flatulence coupon to the value of £3.09.

It was not until his philanthropic undertakings took root though, that Dave reached the peak of his achievements. His "brown icky thing that smells of France" is internationally acknowledged as his seminal work, although he has since gone on record as saying "That's not semen, it's toothpaste. Honest."

The acclaim and wealth resulting from "Brown icky thing" allowed Dave to pursue his lifelong ambition of moving to the country. Sadly the country was Belgium, and he saw out his twighlight years under a railway bridge, in a damp cardboard box with a semi-perished novelty prophylactic and a selection of inquisitive woodlice called Deborah.

He died suddenly on March 3rd 1983, as the result of a chronic bout of flatulence during an attempt to saw a disused tank mine in half. He is survived by his illegitimate offspring: a pair of Y-fronts called Claire and a bikini twin-set, Bernard, of no fixed abode.