Strange Boy
Ian.

Ian thought he'd got a cure for cancer. That he was re-taking a post-grad 'enterprise' diploma didn't matter, he'd got the cure for cancer.

Ian had a sloping forehead, a monobrow, a chin the size of Shropshire and a voice that would make Julian Clary sound butch. This didn't stop him asking out every female he'd ever met. I know this, because he admitted it once.

Ian was told by his mum to always use proper crossings at roads. Even at the age of 26, he still did, even if it meant walking 250 yards away from where he was supposed to be getting to.

Ian liked to gatecrash parties. Like the one we had for my mate Steve's birthday. That he was a teetotaller and we all had a bottle of spirits each to see us through the night didn't bother him. Instead, he chose the opportunity to tell us how his uncle went to university with Billy Connolly (!) and how his dad was the guy who copped Mordechai Vannu. Even though his dad was born, and lives in (all his life) London.

Ian was Jewish, apparently. This would have been credible despite the fact he loved a pork pie.

Oh, and one last thing. Ian smelled. He attibuted this to his diabetes, which he said caused his sweat glands to go into overdrive. Fair enough, but perhaps the fact that he seemed to have the same pair of trews on, along with the same cruddy t-shirt, for a year, might have been a more plausible reason.

Still, that was Ian.

Did I tell you about his cure for cancer?
(scentless_apprentice takes two bottles into the shower!, Mon 9 Apr 2007, 23:14, Reply)