Fillery Bumstead came home last night to be greeted by a battery of papparazi and massed ranks of TV news cameras. Facing a bank of microphones and looking somewhat bewildered, Fillery Bumstead was lost for words as he blinked into the lights like a cornered animal.
We were there at the invitation of Mrs Armistad Bumstead, who informed us that her husband was probably Britain's most hopeless drunk and that when he went out drinking he often got into a right state.
Never a team to look a gift horse in the mouth, we went off to Fillery Bumstead's home to record Britain's most hopeless drunk for posterity.
Quite frankly, it wasn't a very impressive entrance. Fillery Bumstead came lurching into the sitting room, bleary eyed while Armistad Bumstead scowled with her arms folded.
"Now do you see what he's like?" Armistad Bumstead growled. "Now do you see what I have to put up with?"
Indeed we did. And it was a horrible event to behold. Armistad then slapped her husband around the head and told him to "get up them fucking stairs, and don't you dare piss in the wardrobe again. You drunken shit!"
Fillery Bumstead wobbled for a moment, lurched, reeled a bit, belched, and then headed for the stairs. His actions spoke volumes about the UK's binge drinking culture.
"That's it!" Armistad Bumstead screeched at the press. "You've got what you wanted now you fucking parasites! Now go on! Fuck off!"
Never ones to outstay our welcome, we ruminated on the nature of binge drinking and broken Britain for a few moments.
Then we fucked off.
More as we get it.
