Once a failure, always a failure. Such is life, it seems, for perennial loser The Crossbow Cannibal.
He seems to be a bit shit at killing himself, despite proving to be adept at it when it comes to ordinary people - especially prostitutes.
After todays failed suicide bid using a plastic bag and a sock (WTF?), poor old Stephen Griffiths is now recuperating in a prison ward next to other nutters.
And he has immediately cheered up after meeting his bed-mate (literally), The Yorkshite (sic) Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe.
Sutcliffe - an immense dickhead of a man, with a stupid white-man afro - is as cock-eyed as they come, having lost his sight in one eye after being stabbed by a pen pal, and almost losing the other eye through wanking.
"Me and Peter see eye-to-eye", said a cheered up Stephen today, "thats very rare for Peter - considering he always appears to be looking in the opposite direction all the time".
They discuss the numerous things they have in common: a love of Abba, wearing tight lycra stockings, life in Bradford, wanking, and of course killing innocent defenseless women for their own sadistic pleasure.
The two are inseparable - like dried dog shit on the soles of a pair of size 15 Doc Martins.
They both enjoy watching the telly and never miss an episode of Emmerdale; both being obsessed with how nearly every single character in the show has got away with murder at one time or the other.
They are especially impressed with how Carl King continues to prance about the village despite having killed the local postman and burying him, and also murdering his own father, Tom.
"He's our inspiration. Whenever we get out out of here, me and my bum-chum Peter intend to move there and live out our dreams", said Stephen with a gay smile.