Wolfie

Haddock, if you please.

MC will be stepping in to save the day. Expect to see 'Chav & Dave' headlining this Christmas.

Coaxing children with sweets is clearly one of few skills bestowed upon you, Frank.

It was simply known as 'The Mulberry' before you set foot in it.

While one's imagination doesn't need to work too hard, I'm fairly sure she does flash her most alluring bit of anatomy at some point, though I can't recall precisely when. Neil?

In a few years, if things get really bad, do you think we'll end up in the same shit state as Ireland? P.S. I hope your morning hangover is as painful and brutal as it could possibly ever get.

It wasn't my intention to agitate you on the matter, though I hope you forgive me for not realising your obvious sensitivity to it. If you wish to spend thousands on looking like an effeminate Greek waiter, then good luck to you.

All that money, yet his ego impedes his ability to show any true class.

'Eavens: in spite of being a complete idiot, I do admire your resilience. But this ongoing dog shit really is just so. All you're doing is demonstrating the extent to which Frank has gotten under your skin. He sent you into meltdown a couple of months ago, and assuming the time you've been image-editing with a Weimaraner, it looks as though a similar pattern is unfolding. Are you quite sure this place is healthy for you?

Bon appetit, faguette.

That's Frank's Christmas list sorted.

In all honesty, the only thing that'd prevent me from spaffing up Charlie is my desire to avoid bestiality charges.

This must be reminiscent of Gyps at karaoke night after a visit to the Turkish barber and bottle of Poundland Liebfraumilch.

The fast-food chain was actually Pizza Hut, which goes some way to explaining why he'll be taking delivery of a brand new Quattroformaggi once the insurer, er, pays out. That being said, MC could always put his son's spare £50k to good use.

You don't live far away Stubbs, hence you could deliver by hand. When you get to Much Fibbing-In-The-Marsh, just follow the pathway of broken beer bottles and syringes crunching underfoot, looking out for the first terrace house with faux Roman colosseum pillars and year-round Christmas lights hanging from the gutters. If there's a rusting Burberry pram crammed with empty pizza boxes sitting in the corner of an unkempt garden, and it's called 'Auschwitz Towers' with a stolen Audi badge nailed next to it, you might have found it.

I love the new avatar, Alf. I assume Gyps' lover sees something very similar each time she goes onto all-fours, though parting her bum cheeks must sound like two Velcro straps being violently pulled apart.

Admitting this must have been especially difficult, Frank, as few would have suspected it with the loafers you wear. If he's a shop assistant from Slowear who has pipe cleaners for legs, I'd imagine you could not only talk fashion but also share outfits.

My apologies. It's difficult conversing with people I've never actually met, and I can only draw conclusions from what I've seen. I'm sure you understand.

To some it's not; to others it doesn't matter. I'd happily invest in a new pair of Belgian loafers, though in all honesty I'm quite keen to avoid looking like a complete fucking faggot.

It depends on how much money one has – and how they choose to spend it, of course. I stand corrected. For these reasons I'd downgrade from a Hermitage La Chapelle to buy a new mattress and have a bottle of Mateus Rosé removed from my rectum via private procedure.

I've just had a browse of the Slowear website. There's not a great deal that appeals to me, other than some of the trainers. Admittedly I'm shocked to see they retail for £350-400. For this sort of money, I could wine and dine a local hooker and end up at mine for a night of utter filth after polishing off an elegant yet robust 2010 Paul Jaboulet-Aîné Hermitage La Chapelle and gram of 90% pure cocaine. Don't you think you're missing out on life's other pleasures while spending this kind of cash on clothing?

You don't look a day older than 50, Frank. Typically, when men reach a half-century (or near to it), they tend to relive their youth – or at least try in vain to hold onto it. Why, therefore, do you share a similar taste in clothing to Bergerac's Charlie Hungerford? This is merely an observation from a general scruffbag who lives in old work boots and wouldn't spunk money on expensive clothes if his life depended on it.

A most fitting self-appraisal.

Deep down, we both know you find me utterly irresistible xx.

While on the subject of all things Brazilian, I'd imagine its national football shirt fits you differently based on whether you've had your back waxed.