Having worked out that we are no longer sending ambulances to that address that might just be a Woolworth’s in the East End, our obsessive hoaxer has now taken to telling us he is at Gatwick Airport. Sitting on the runaway. Suffering from an itchy penis. Offering us bananas. I must have spoken to him twenty times last night.
I swear that if I ever come across this individual, I will do something with a banana which necessitates a genuine phone call to the emergency services.
