For Sale: Foffa Single Speed Custom-built bicycle

A mate of mine, Leather Pete, was in a really, really crap rock band. Genuine rubbish. They'd tour the Yorkshire pub scene in a knackered transit van in classic style, kipping in the van between gigs.
One of the band members, Big Andy, was about thirty five stone. He was fucking massive. He lived on kebabs and pints of bitter. He was perfectly spherical, like a Mister Man. A ball with little arms and legs sticking out the sides.
Anyway, Big Andy's diet had completely fucked his guts. It got to the point where he had to fashion a kind of arse Tampax out of bog roll every night and ram it between his massive spotty arse cheeks to stop himself shitting his pants in the night.
One morning, at a remote layby off a God-forsaken A-road somewhere near Hull, Leather Pete was woken by the sounds of giggling. He heard Big Andy calling his name. Leather Pete famously suffered from viscious hangovers and he was feeling particularly fragile that morning, so he gingerly peeped out of the rusty van, blinking in the agonising sunlight.
He saw Big Andy standing behind a tree with his pants down. When Big Andy saw Leather Pete he reached back and pulled the bog roll from out of his arse.
It released the floodgates.
A great torrent of liquid shit burst out of his arse under pressure, spitting and spattering into huge steaming pool of crap in the grass.
It was too much for Leather Pete.
He started puking, hoying out of the van door onto the ground, and this made Big Andy shit even harder from laughing and this made Leather Pete puke even more.
It nearly killed him.
He almost gave himself a hernia from puking and he burst so many blood vessels in his eyes that the whites were a deep red for weeks afterwards and he had to wear shades all the time to stop freaking people out.

I don't think Big Andy is alive anymore. Hardly surprising.