Mr. Hedgehog has blasted all those bastards that have been wiping their mucky boots on his spikes.
The local woodland dweller often drops by to town for the odd drink or ten at The Drunken Wench on Cockswell St. Being a hedgehog - and unable to open doors - he often waits outside while the busty barmaid brings him his beverage.
"When the locals are entering the place they often mistake me for one of those garden ornaments you sometimes see, and they wipe their great big muddy wellies on me blimmin' spikes!", Mr. Hedgehog squealed.
He's had enough of it.
"I get home and the wife is always asking why me bloody spikes are so dirty, and bangin' on about how she'll never get them clean", he added.
Mr. Hedgehog is worried that humans may eventually start wiping their arses on his back.
"Human beings - for it is generally that sort who wipes themselves on my beloved protuberances - are a pack of spineless bastards!", he whimpered.
He has now purchased a megaphone and shouts into it whenever they get near to him.
"I tell them to get to fuck and go wipe their stinkin' feet on someone else's back, I do", he smiled proudly.
Tom, the local hunchback has now the honour of occupying that position.
