Billy Pearce

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Ah, the Pearce partition. A blight and a curse on humour (to say nothing of the human race and the world's already seriously besmirched track record) since the 1980s, Pearce's complete lack of any discernible talent is matched only by his absolute refusal to face up to the glaringly obvious fact that nobody outside of retarded Northern working men's clubs and fat old women on coach trips to Eastbourne find the sight of spiky-topped arseclags pretending to be all camp and flustered remotely amusing. Each and every year is like Groundhog Day for young Billiam - an endless wait for the pantomime season to start, so he can queue up with all the other has-beens, never-weres, oleaginous politicians, soap actors, reality TV splashfarts and regional television presenters for the plum roles of Pussycunt Willum, Old Mother Cunt, Widow Cuntee, Humpty Cunty and the Cunty Sisters. When he's not ploughing his life's savings into doomed business plans or Googling himself, young Billiam can be found crying into his king-size jar of Poundland hair gel.