chef, fucked a page 3 girl, and went to bars that only dicks could get in and all the while, the etiquette of critical blindness he was digesting (like the catholic church is anti-abortion because their priests need children for molesting) next, he got a job on Eurosport covering dominoes, falconry and kendo then went mainstream and won awards, for dirty-old-man-isms and innuendo went to premieres with Dani Behr and fathered Graham Nortons baby watched the sewage at Stamford Bridge, ghost wrote the best seller "Learn To Say Maybe" and the stinkier his flatulence the column inches'd just grow louder breeding a self righteous flambouyance fuelled by columbian marching powder but he was all heart and the turd he gave to Comic Relief is now part of showbiz folklore and the day he died, the public cried, but as he would have said, "less is the new more" thin man, ready and waiting to spill the beans down his shirt scumbag, all jealous and hating you can bet your secrets his minds on the dirt foul smell, well look kid whos talking he cannot live for asking to die his hell is the street that he's walking it's truely gruesome, his shitty little mind and his ears burn as he listens to shit stir mouth ablaze, bits of sex in her teeth his mind aglow, his face ugly and twisted there's naught up front, even less underneath bring me the head, the head of the stirrer i know he's dead,