Whilst frequenting various Oxford hostelries of ill-repute, whilst in the prescence of the respective dulcet tones of Brian Blessed and Edward Fox, I happened to stumble upon the supposedly deceased general paractioner Dr. Harold Shipman.
Seated in a green leather chair, afflicted by senescence, the Doctor imperceptibly smoked a saccharine blend of Cavendish tobacco with a felictious demenour that would disarm an old age pensioner.
It was to be an ephemeral occasion, as the Doctor had to visit the local building society to open another account, but not before he had accepted a pint of the local ale.
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