…you can relax, Foggy has arrived and is inexplicably typing about himself in the third person.
Foggy likes sour cream, all manner of perishable goods, breathing, and the miracle of sight. He is not ashamed of his goatee, nor his embryonic tash and bushy mutton chops, and nor should he be, despite what ‘people’ say. They who say this appearance is most suited to somebody twenty years older, wearing a flat cap and dragging along a whippet on a string while drinking in a musty brown pub occupied by three old geezers and a three-legged dog can get knotted. They also need to incorporate more commas into their sentences. In any case, the string is being used to hold his trousers up.
He thinks certain examples of grafitti should be framed. Viewing fees should be charged. Guards posted with sticks. He foolishly thinks it’s art, the daft plumb.
He has never saved a life. Ever. In point of fact, it’s rumoured he’s indirectly encouraged several souls to end theirs. This scandalous gossip will NOT be tolerated. Zip it back there. No mumbling.
In his spare time, Foggy likes to harvest his ear wax and sculp tiny motorbikes out of it. He is labouring to perfect tiny wax bikers to ride them. He plans to catapult them together at huge speeds using elastic bands. As you may gather, Foggy gets bored quickly.
He does not, and this cannot be stressed enough, condone pushing toddlers in front of trains. Even if they are really annoying. Not ever.
Foggy dislikes flippant, lengthy first posts, and ITV. And cheese and onion crisps. And desk fans that make that distracting clicking noise.
His favourite words are STUPIFACTION, and BOON. His favourite colour is that one between orange and red that only he and specially trained dogs can see. His favourite mythical beast is the Unicorn, though minotaurs are cool as well. Both, after all, have hooves.
Love him or loathe him, always remember: he has no idea who you are.
Goodmorrow to you all! May all your days be reasonably okay.