The Last Will and Testicle of the Rant of the Week Editor!
I, Brian Hughes, being of sound mind (well, sounder mind than Tony Blair, George Bush, John Howard and Huan Carlos Benito Muscle Organ, Prime Minister of Spain, aka Buttman...which isn't saying much I know but ought to stand up in a French court) hereby bequeath the underwritten (for illegal insurance purposes) to the persons and/or institutions herein named.
1) My collection of Scrag End cartoons will be left to Mrs Oaktree from Fleetwood pet shop who, judging by the smell from that mangy old collection of feathers and scaly bald skin she calls her parrot, could seriously do with some new cage liners.
2) The Greyminster Chronicles I leave to posterity...or more precisely anybody's posterior that happens to visit my bathroom when we're out of loo roll.
3) Terry Sedgwick's heart and lungs will go to medical science...preferably in three days time whether he's dead or not.
4) The collection of bestial porno mags hidden in the airing cupboard will be delivered to fat bastard and know it all Mr Houghton at the grocers on Lancaster Grove, Fleetwood. They must be concealed in a plain brown envelope and left under the lid of his coalbunker whereupon, shortly afterwards, the police will be informed of their whereabouts.
5) My Nintendo 64 will be returned to Curries, complete with receipt, and asked to be exchanged for its original price at a very loud volume.
6) My computer will be buried along with my remains, three pairs of socks, half a pound of mushrooms and a stamped, self addressed envelope in case of emergency, in the middle of Lord Street, Fleetwood, during market day...just to annoy the fuck out of the local residents who have annoyed me with their stumbling about and standing pointlessly in front of me when I wanted to get past them every day of my miserable life.
I hereby agree to all of the above and now I'm off to hospital to give birth to a bouncing baby gallbladder. Should the operation take a turn for the worst I shall be back in charge of this board as soon as possible. In the event of my death at the hands of Dr Raj Patel, however, I shall be contacting both my solicitors and the new acting editor through Doris Stokes' grand daughter, Emily, and her amazing ectoplasmic gerbil.
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