Jan Moir…. Well, would you? Even after a skinful and enough GHB to tranquilise a team of Clydesdales? From a personal perspective, an evening spent in a crack den, trepanning myself with a rusty hand drill holds more appeal. Tongue firmly lodged in the anal profundities of The Daily Quail and Anton Vowl.
My friend Karahi emailed me this morning postulating the following intriguing hypothesis: Perhaps the family was using him as an interesting coffee table objet/conversation piece. Being mostly plastic I doubt he’d have decomposed much. I think I’m inclined to go with this theory.