Tom is unbearably ugly and fat, but even the ugliest and fattest of us (and that is actually Tom) needs to have someone to love and who loves him. Tom also believes that the fact that he’s entirely obnoxious, and enrages even shop assistants whose entire dealings with him have lasted 20 seconds into forming vigilante anti-Tom groups, should be no impediment to a long-term relationship. But he’s not stupid – or at least not fucking thick enough to think he’ll get anywhere with anyone face to face, at least not until he’s made them drink two litres of methylated spirit and eat an entire field of skunk plants. He’s going to try Internet dating, which suits him right down to the ground because he doesn’t like leaving his computer except to find a Kleenex after he’s blown his load over yet another new download of Japanese lolita manga pictures.
After inputting all the details he can about himself, including stating, whimsically, that he’s “large and in charge”, he gets to searching all of the available females in the surrounding area for age, interests and willingness to let a fat spotty retard into their vadge within 20 seconds of meeting up. This doesn’t take him long, considering that nobody shares his interests (which are limited almost entirely to things that everyone else in the world considers dull or actually nauseating). He therefore aims to just find anyone who’s single and wants to fuck someone who looks, on a good day, like a sweating pink Michelin man with a miniscule erection. This succeeds; Tom has found his prey, and he cuts straight to the chase; subscribes to the site, asks for her address, gets it and rings his local taxi firm. Right, he thinks, tonight will be the night I finally get the chance to inject my fetid tartare sauce of love into the soft, wet womanly passage of someone who is neither canine nor unwilling. He gets into the taxi, tips the driver with a crisp new £10 note and knocks on the door of his exciting new paramour…
To be greeted by a stocky, bald Popeye lookalike wearing nothing but a tattoo of a swastika and a manic facial expression roughly similar to the one you might expect Peter Sutcliffe to wear after opening a particularly large gas bill. The unnamed man, who for no reason whatsoever is named Barry, wastes no time in turning Tom into a squealing, vastly oversized teacosy-alike for his cock, pausing every 20 seconds to beat the rotund little twat with a splintery plank of wood. Finally, finished and satiated, Barry turns around and kicks Tom hard up the arse, sending him flying out of a first floor window into a skip filled with HIV-infected medical sharps, 6 inch long oriental cockroaches and rusty nails, where he stays for a full four days until anyone can ship in the huge crane required to lift him; not that they do, of course, preferring simply to stand back and throw bricks at him out of the first floor window, causing him untold cranial damage and making Barry a millionaire from his new tourist attraction, which he eloquently names as “Cunt In A Skip.”
