Northerner comes across as rather quiet and shy, which means target for bullying by some people.

Maybe tell a counter-story?

Once there was a man who could never stop criticizing other people's work. Didn't matter if it was the way a busdriver drove his bus, the way a shop assistant bagged up his socks, or the way a cricket commentator described the game, there was always something he could find fault with. And he went on like that to the end of his life, complaining that the nurses didn't put his bedpan properly under his bum and wouldn't turn the lights up bright enough when his sight was failing. So, he died. The Angel of Death swept him up in the folds of his cloak (only to hear him moaning about how it wasn't tied right) and took him up to the Seat of Judgment. Where he immediately started telling the Lord off about what He'd got wrong. The appendix. Piles. Why did He create midges, anyway? Couldn't He arrange the stars in a more attractive pattern? And why did He let Jade ever win on Big Brother? So, the Almighty answered:

- You know, you've got a point. I'm going to let you take my job over for a while.

And so the Lord showed him round the Creative Creation Suite where He sat in his Almighty Posture Chair and designed stuff. He showed the critic everything: all the design specs (version 37.2345[A2]X.11A) for the pubic hairs of the dog flea, the environmental impact statement for the orbital path of Ganymede, the way a neutron wiggling around inside a star 45 billion light years from earth was designed to keep in time with a the mating call of a semigaseous but rather sluglike organism the other side of the universe which sounded a bit like "Goodbye Porkpie Hat", and so on. (The Creative Creation Suite was kinda big).

- OK? Just start anywhere. How about this bit? I've never been happy with it myself.

So, the critic started. Billions of light years away from Earth, there was a kind of centipede-ish carrot-ish megnetic-field-secreting creature whose left antenna tended to fall off. It didn't exactly have DNA, more a sort of purply glowing stuff that teleported new antennae into existence out of lost Earth socks. After a few hundred years of reading the design files, the critic tried to rearrange the wiggle a bit. It went orange instead of purple and every galaxy beginning with P turned into brown sludge. So the critic went back to looking at the design files for another few thousand years, and after another rearrangement of the wiggle the creatures turned more volcano-ish than centipede-ish and ate every magnetic field line in the universe that wouldn't swear allegiance to the Immortal Crotch Rot Fungus of the Cosmic Turtle, but their left antennae still fell off.

He's still there trying. His last attempt got Paris Hilton let out of jail.

(The question is how far you could get with a story like that before the penny dropped and the bully stormed out in a screaming tantrum).