The woman known only as 'Shovel Face' last night eluded a mental health team in a Burnley Cemetery, and once again fled screaming into the night.
Ted Tenter, of the local mental health team told reporters:
"We're desperate to contact this individual. She's obviously in need of immediate medical attention - as you would be, if you'd been smashed so hard in the face with a shovel that you have to eat your Cadbury's Fruit and Nut through the back of your head, and you're left with a face like a one eyed cow pat. With a great big gob hole and a maggot for a tongue. That's enough to induce mental illness into even the most well adjusted of individuals."
According to sources, Shovel Face - who was apparently digging her own grave again, for the umpteenth time - sprinted off through a ground mist, shreiking like a banshee, and tearing at her hair like a demented harridan, as the mental health team approached, brandishing big nets.
And then fled into the arms of a nautical man, who had been lying in wait on the other side of the wall, in Cemetery Lane, in a parked up two seater hybrid smart car, with the engine running.
Gravestone mason, Hugo De'Ath - whose bedroom overlooks Cemetery Lane, told how he saw the fleeing Shovel Face scattering marquee sized items of gunk soiled underwear among the gravestones before melting into the arms of a man who slightly resembled a kind of arthritic version of Johnny Depp's Captain Jack Sparrow out of the Pirates Of The Caribbean film franchise.
"He looked the part, but his movements were a bit stiff," De'Ath said. "He threw a big trenchcoat around the woman and told her in no uncertain terms that she should cover up her state of undress as she was scaring the bats to death, and then after a short struggle, the duo got into the vehicle and sped off at eleven miles per hour up Rossendale Road. I could hear her screeching, and him telling her that she'd already said way too much, so to shut the hell up before she put the both of them in a potentially embarrassing situation."
But it didn't end there.
Following a brief examination of the discarded underwear, Detective Chief Inspector Alfred Hussain of the Burnley Forensic Police told reporters:
"I told my men not to go anywhere near them big knickers. Well - you wouldn't mess about with weapons grade uranium, would you? It was horrible. They were huge! And who on earth wears knickers made out of cross ply vulcanised steel reinforced rubber these days anyway? Christ - I thought the wife's whiffed a bit, but these bloomers looked like they'd been around the world in eighty days. And not in a Jules Verne way. And they were fucking rotten! I mean, not even the M25 could do that to vulcanised rubber. And the stench! Well, we even had complaints about it from Iceland. Not the frozen food people - the country. Mind you, it makes a change from us putting up with all their stinky volcanic shit."
Following the Burnley police's reluctance to further investigate the crime scene (Crimes Against Humanity) Scotland Yard despatched their master detective, Juanlock Humes, along with his untrustworthy sidekick, Dr John Littlecock to the scene.
A visibly shaken Humes, pale of face and puffing on his trusty meerschaum announced in a discourse overheard by reporters:
"Wot a fecking fetid stench! Wot a flocking loony! For blinking flip's sake! I am left bereft of inspiration, blank of mind, and denuded of deduction in this extraordinary case Doctor Littlecock! I demand an alimentary!"
"What? In public governor?" Littlecock spluttered.
"Of course not! You fucking dolt! Do you not dig it? The master is bereft of a solution...unless it involves seven percent..."
"I know!" Littlecock stoated, weasel that he is.
"What?" Humes' voice descended in tone as his intrigue became piqued.
"I could make another daft YouTube video, but this time all about Shovel Face and trumpet her scabrous real name all across the interweb, state her address, telephone number, and tell people how to access that footage of her with the blind donkey, the pygmies and the stud manatee..."
"For God's sake man! Get a grip! Nobody deserves that!" Juanlock said.
"I'm begging your difference Humes," Littlecock said. "One should never stir a sleeping dragon."
"Who might this sleeping dragon be, Littlecock?"
"I was only kiddin' Humes. Anyone fancy a pint?"
Intrigue upon intrigue.
More as we get it.