According to sources, local man, Martin Shuttlecock has announced that he is losing the will to live after being subjected to continuous abuse on what was once his favourite internet website, TheSpoof.com
Long suffering wife Anne, looking grievous as she invited the press into the Shuttlecock's modest lounge, told reporters:
"I don't know what's up with the silly bastard. He's gone to bed and he says he's never getting up again. Says he just wants to die. He's never been right since he assembled that composter I bought off eBay on Sunday. It all started when he assembled it upside down, and I made him take it apart. Then assemble it all over again. It got worse when I asked him to paint the hallway, then when I said he'd painted it the wrong shade of magnolia, and that he'd have to do it all again, he just got the hump, blamed TheSpoof.com and said he was off to bed and that he was never gonna get up again until he's dead."
Although Shuttlecock was unavailable for comment, as he was in his words: "Dying a slow and painful death with a shattered undercarriage, a dodgy knee, and a blackened thumb," independent research appears to bear out that Shuttlecock has indeed been subjected to somewhat vitriolic treatment on his hitherto favourite website.
A quick search through the archives revealed that an unspecified piratical one time mariner has mercilessly lampooned the hapless victim, accusing him of consorting with Pompey Lil (a common harlot of ill repute) gazebo neglect, and of allowing seventeen families of Roma gypsies to squat in his modest back garden, whilst also having short arms, long pockets and a morbid fear of rats in London's Tothill Street.
Further research revealed that a certain defrocked Jesuit, (no names mentioned, DuBois, you heartless bastard) accused Shuttlecock of being the not so proud possessor of 'The World's Smallest Penis' an accusation which Anne vehemently denied.
"There's a bloke in Plymouth..." she said, before assembled reporters lost interest entirely.
Shuttlecock has also been accused of being a fishnet stocking wearing, transvestite, pre-op transsexual, homosexual arse bandit, as well as a pus filled sore on the nose of a fat American woman, despite being at least half Irish and still in possession of a full head of hair (albeit somewhat greyer than it used to be) and a pork pie hat.
To cover up the hair with.
The end result of these continued and persistent attacks on Shuttlecock's credibility and integrity, apparently led to him declaring: "It's all bollocks anyway," and sloping off to bed.
"He's been at the bottle again," long suffering wife Anne explained.
"Don't worry about me!" Shuttlecock yelled from upstairs. "I can take it! I'm fucking bulletproof me! Ya fuggin' basterds..."
Followed by a loud bump.
"I'm all right! Honest!" he called down seconds later. "But I think I might have split me head open...Don't worry about it matey. I'll be fine in the mornin'!"
It seems that the Martin Shuttlecock story is headed for more controversy. But what can anyone do with local men?
More as we get it.