Winston Wellington-Jones, please be advised that I am, without question, in the initial stages of a pilgrimage to Twillingsgate and when I arrive I will personally seek you out, wrestle you to the floor and smear home-made plum jam into your spats. Sir, you are a fat idiot and it would not surpise me if your fedora smells of stale yoghourt. I have met your type before. It would be an honour to pit my cheerleading skills against your ancient boxing skills; prepare for humiliation, you finch-rearing maggot.