Local man and sometime Skoob News correspondent, Martin Shuttlecock, today explained that on a purely personal level, the last seven days have been: "A bit shit. To be honest."
Upon being asked for further details, Shuttlecock revealed that last Sunday evening as he was browsing his favourite satirical website, his internet connection went down. As the hour was somewhat late, Shuttlecock decided that "Oh fuck it for now" was the attitude to take, and retired to bed.
With the intention of following up as time allowed. Which wasn't until 11pm on Monday evening, which was when Shuttlecock phoned his Internet Service Provider's technical helpline.
Upon being informed by an Indian technician that his broadband router was effectively "fucked" - Shuttlecock placed an order for a replacement.
Suffice to say, the order got lost somewhere as it floated over the ether in the middle east, and had to be renewed with some bloke from Yorkshire, who in all fairness didn't keep asking Shuttlecock to repeat himself.
Nothing too tragic there then - but there was worse to follow.
Much worse. As Shuttlecock explains: "I'd been talking to this daft Bolivian dictator I know - albeit only vaguely - and as the good lady wife and I were getting ready to start the 2-10pm shift, the phone rang. It was the care home where me dear old dad lives. (Lived-Ed) and they told me that he'd passed away peacefully in his sleep during the night.
It was a bit of a shock, but not wholly unexpected. I'd have preferred it if they'd just told me that me dad was dead - all this passed on and gone over bollocks doesn't really cut it for me. All the flowery bullshit talk about passing away doesn't really change the reality. My dad's fucking dead, right? Don't over egg the fucking pudding."
"He's a bit upset, I think," said long suffering wife, Anne. Following several visits to the fridge, and looking slightly bleary of eye and a tad unsteady on his feet, Shuttlecock resumed. Following a deep inhalation of breath, he announced: "The poor sod can barely have gone cold, before I get a phone call from my beloved brother asking me if I'm okay. You can bet your arse I wasn't okay. That prick hasn't spoken to me in six years, after he walked out on my old man. But hey, somebody died - there may be money in it. So I told him to fuck right off."
"He did," said Anne, as she put her arm around her husband. In what it must be said was an uncharacteristic display of protective, caring, sharing body language. "He told him to fuck right off. I didn't know he had it in him!"
"It started to sink in when I collected the death certificate," Shuttlecock said. "That sort of confirmed things. I had to inform the Coal Hole Firm that I'd be unable to make a gangster convention we'd arranged weeks ago. Which was happen as well, as four pound for a two hundred yard London Underground journey from Waterloo to Embankment is fucking extortionate if you ask me.
"Anyway, I rounded the week off with an appointment to register me dad's death at the local registry office. Which is where we got married. We went there in a big red fire engine. Don't ask..."
"He's upset," long suffering wife Anne intervened at that point. "Has anyone got a cream cake? It won't do him much good but it'll work wonders for me. Hank Marvin I am."
In spite of this seemingly calamitous set of circumstances, Shuttlecock somehow persevered. "I got me internet back on," he said. "That was on Friday. After I got me new router - neat little black number. You can only imagine my pain as I opened websites after a sorely missed absence - for me at least - only to find that there was one message saying that I am insane and need therapy (I already know that, thanks.) and another message from some absolute and utter cock who appeared to be suggesting that I'm delusional, and that I think I'm fucking God or something. Some sort of Messiah. Or a Judas. What the fuck is that all about? Anyway - the prick who wrote that can suck my sweaty arse. And slurp my knob cheese. Talentless fuckwit. Next thing I know, I'll be getting banned off Arsebook because some talentless wanker objects to my use of Anglo-Saxon vernacular. Get the beers in..."
And on that bombshell...long suffering wife Anne explained: "He's had a bad week. His dad died, his internet went down, and people weren't quite being fair to him. Usually he rides this kind of thing. I think he's worried that he's losing his vice like grip on the Coal Hole Firm. And even more devastatingly - one of the firm has a really nice Hugo Boss coat. He loves fancy coats, like most midgets, - he's got a Roman coat and a Florentine full length leather number, and he can't stand feeling left out. He's equally confused with hats. And shoes. I think I'll buy him a new shirt or something. That should cheer the grumpy bastard up."
"I doubt it," Shuttlecock retorted. "I shan't sleep until those fucking two faced..."
"I think that's enough!" Anne interjected, somewhat emotionally. "I hope you pricks feel proud of yourselves. Whoever you are."
More as we get it. Although when is anybody's guess.