I wandered around to the back of the petrochemical plant where they’d found Mr. Gwatkin’s jacket in 1974. Sleeves turned inside out with a tin of sweetcorn in each pocket. The rumours surrounding his disappearance are many and varied. Though we should, for the time being at least, accept the version of events given to us by the lamentable chap himself on his eventual return. In doing this however, we must also keep in our thoughts the findings of better minds who conclude that Gwatkin as-is no longer represents Gwatkin as-was.

Piecing together an occasional vague sentence and some garbled chanting heard during the small hours, it appears that our victim was making his way home from the Pessimist Festival in Mollington when he was set upon by a gang of miscreants, chief malefactor of whom was a particularly vicious character going by the name of Bridgedale. So called on account of a thermal sock with which he gloved his fist whenever he became tetchy and needed to punch something.

Unable to comply with the rabble’s hot-tempered demands for unreasonable things such as cathedral juice and vicar shit, the heavily pummeled innocent was dragged into the churchyard of St Lawrence and there left to his own devices next to the grave of young Nelson Burt, whose own tragic tale is of particular interest to the local historian.

It is believed that within twenty minutes of this episode, a further attack was witnessed by one Slow Dempsey of Woodside Farm, who alleged that he saw the aforementioned Bridgedale scuttle a full four hundred feet along the Wervin Turnpike to deliver a perfect haymaker onto a stray colt.

This afternoon I visited Daniel Gwatkin in the confined place which he will probably never leave. I was offered redbush tea and a fig roll. The pleasantry gave hope for lengthy discourse but cheer was swiftly dismissed as the pitiful subject proceeded to gaze out of a large window for what seemed like an age, before turning around to fix me with pitch black sockets, which simply said: “Help me”. Then came the song:

Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
I write to people. They don’t get back to me. I write a second time. They don’t reply
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
To ease the loneliness and pass the time, I pace the room, inventing bands
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Experimental trio from Borehamwood: Hall, Stairs and Landing; they’re really good
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Scott Verplank did not get back to me. Newcombe and Roche, still no response
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Congolesi Unsworth: Glaswegian loons; the singer’s granddad writes all the tunes
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd. Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Uh-oh, Chongo! It’s Danger Island!
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd.
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Cresta!