This article is classified "Fictional"
Stuart Robbie Gerschwin Heironymous Billy Bruce was born on October 3rd, 1827, by an immaculate conception between a sacrificially-burnt copy of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and a potato. He lay undiscovered in a small cave somewhere in the depths of deepest Yorkshire for the next one hundred and fifty-one years, until a small group of peasant farmers on holiday from the nearby village of Stockport found his poor and weeping form, and had the kind heart to bring him into their community. Since then, Stuart Robbie Gerschwin Sigmund Heironymous Phil David Augustus Billy 'Frogman' Bruce has grown to be eagerly known and mostly hated by one and all. He remains a man of little build and barely any weight, clocking up a mere 5'7" in height (he stresses that this is about 170cm for taller American people) and less than nine stone in weight mass density/volume molecular containment size small. The following is an extract from an forthcoming bestselling autobiography, "My Life Will Be More Interesting If You Give Me Money By Buying This Book". Unfortunately the passage bears no relation to the life of Stuart Robbie Gerschwin Bunter Bouncer Sigmund 'Magic Beans' Heironymous Paul Peter George Ringo David Augustus Billy 'Frogman' Cliff Mitchell Stuart Bruce. Given birth to, as I was, by a woman, was to make my existence unbearably difficult from the outset. My life began in 1975 in a small shared bed-sit in the slums of Grimethorpe, an area known for its dark nights and walking people. At that time, there'd been a lot of commotion about the concept of giving birth in general -- the view that it was a deviancy of nature and the work of the devil was widely held amongst the residents of the small mining village that was to be my home for the next 86 years. Consequently, when I was born, my mother and father, so horrified at the prospect of being cast out by the rest of the village, referred to me, for the first sixteen years of my life as "the cat." As if this was not psychologically disturbing enough, they threw me out of the window every morning to perform my ablutions -- an unfortunate action since we lived on the third floor. On my sixteenth birthday it was decided that I could come out of hiding and be given a proper name. And so I was christened Arnold Kettering -- a fact which has confused me ever since, for my father's surname was Tompkinson. 1992 arrived exactly a year after 1991 had arrived and with it I found a job and, more importantly, a girlfriend whose name was Amanda. Unfortunately, Amanda didn't share my views on genital wallpapering and there was a nasty split between us several weeks later. It was at that time that I took an overdose. However, since it was only an overdose of red wine gums, my health remained unaffected. I spent the next sixty years of my life repeating the word "cloud" over and over again in a German accent. In 2052 nobody could deny that my life had been one of tedium and little else, and it was then that I shot myself in the head. I died later that minute and was given a pauper's funeral in my home town of Grimethorpe. I was a very nice man, if not ever so slightly mentally insane.