It happened in Burnley - Part Free!

Jonathan was a tall man. The only other person I've seen as tall as him was Andre the Giant. And he was a giant. He reminded me of someone off the television but I can't think who. I remember looking into his big round brown and red eyes. They were deep, as if he was thinking really, really hard about something all the time. Maybe he was. Or maybe in his head he just had the theme from M*A*S*H spinning around eternally. Who was it he looked like. And what was his story?

I mean to say, why would a man of his age who obviously has plenty of moolah stacked up, be living on his own in a houseboat off the coast of Burnley? I understand that it's a beautiful place to be. Sometimes I sit out on my mum's roof eating peas with a tuning fork and watching the sun slowly set on the horizon. The mill chimneys alight with pink wash. The black clouds, heavy and pendulous, slowly moving and raining over Rochdale. The faint sound of rabied dogs howling and rats sniffing through bins fills the air, as the water from the seaside laps around your feet. My mums house is built very upside-downy. It's beautiful. The whole damned scene is beautiful.

But that doesn't explain the houseboat. Why not buy a house that you don't have to tie up in fear of it floating off? Why not buy a nice bungalow or semi-detached castle?

The other thing that strikes me as odd about Jonathan is the way he continually removes his wooden leg and fills it with crisps. Usually cheese and onion, but sometimes it's prawn cocktail. The limb, you understand, is hollow. The outer casing is made from a delicate balance of wood, plastic, gold and coconut matting. There is a very intricate design running down one side, like an Indian inscription. The other side has a picture of Betty Boo eating an orange painted on in Tip-ex. It's good too. He didn't do either of them himself. He says he's not very artistic, and that he got the children from the local synagogue to do it.

He lost his leg in the Great Fijian War of 1999. He put it down somewhere but can't remember where. He phoned the hotels lost property and filed a report, but it came to no avail. He lost his real leg in Doncaster city centres MacDonald's where he fell over an awkwardly positioned Fillet -O-Fish. He filed a report but it came to no avail. He often says that having a wooden leg is a bit like being an untalented chef. You can try and try but you'll never be able to pull off a decent Salsa. He does have another leg that he never wears. His mother sent it to him last christmas. It wasn't his main present, just a stocking filler.

So he lives alone, on a boat, on his own, in Burnley harbour, by himself, eating crisps from his leg and watching old re-runs of Blankety Blank. The Terry Wogan version. He says that all joking aside, Les Dawson just couldn't pull it off. I'm not sure if he means the presenting job or if he was banging on about his leg again. And don't even get him started on Lilly Savage. He thinks she dies her roots black.

I still can't think of who it is he reminds me of. As well as his deep browny coloured eyes, he has very pale hair, like a sandy coloured albino. His face is weary and tired, and his hair is wirey and layered. The scars of time are written all over his face. It's difficult to put an age on him. I would say he's between... 28 and 76. Roughly. His height makes him more attractive to people though and he's apparently had a string of glamourpuss women decorating his past. He used to date Nora from the corner shop and she'd discount his milk roll in return and before that he was having a secret affair with Hilary Swank's sister, Susie.
You're probably wondering how I know so much about him? Well....

TO BE CONTINUED. WHEN? WHEN YOUR BUM DROPS OFF.