With a voice that could charm the bats from their caves and a torso as chiselled as Martin Kemp's chin, Vincent Crepuscular (1949 -) found fame as a musician, model, and heart throb for the alternative scene over the course of three decades.
In the mid 90s Crepuscular's band 'the Crypts' split due to creative differences but were contractually bound to record one final album together ('Last Nail in the Coffin' - 1996). Due to increasingly aggressive feuds Vincent recorded vocals in a seperate session from the band, who later sabotaged the instruments and recording equipment with semi-automatic weapons rendering many of their tracks unuseable. Unbeknownst to the frontman at that time, desperate executives drafted in the band recording a Poundstretcher jingle in the neighbouring sound booth to fill gaps in production. Needless to say, the album bombed and journalist Vaugh Highside famously dubbed the star "Vincent Craptacular" in 'Music Yeah Wow' issue #932.
Crepuscular retired from the music industry and took to writing poetry, though controversy over his last publication saw it recalled after PTA members reported he was 'thinly masking vampirism as a metaphor for themes of paedophilia'.
Eliza Trembleshroud's (born Sharon Flepps. 1975) reign of inconvenience began in the summer of 1991 when she landed a Saturday job in John Menzies, Rotherham. All seemed to go smoothly for the first few weeks until Mrs Ida Lenthorpe (now deceased) returned her copy of People's Friend after she discovered that every face in the magazine had been replaced with that of popular goth heart throb, Vincent Crepuscular. On closer examination of the magazine racks it was revealed that Eliza had drawn bats throughout every copy of "Caravanning Today", penned an indecent poem about Vincent Crepuscular on the contents page of "Our Pets" and inserted a "free gift" of a freeze-dried weasel's tear in every copy of "What Radiator". She was last seen working in Greggs in Whitby.
There was a man named Lammity who spent time in the army, see
his postings to far distant lands played into Lammo's wicked hands.
He spent a little time in Guam and did
The most OUTRAGEOUS harm
to our relations with the French, he hid
Their diplomat's best hat inside the ceremonial shed
And cried out loud "that golden hutch"
(That all are forbidden to touch)
"contains the trilby; velvet, red,
of French Ambassador Jean Noir, abandoned
in the throes of passion (and in the most EGREGIOUS fashion)
as he made love unto his car."
Lammity caused quite a stir, a small fracas; in French a "guerre"
But ultimately it was found, there was no truth in that rogue's words and
if his lies were for the birds then prison was the only place,
but Lammo ran (as run one might) all fleet of foot,
he could not face incarceration in a gaol; he fled by night. But
bullets cut him down, that fugitive run had to fail, he put a foot wrong thus, you see, (1929-63)
Tibbton Skivs, (1983-) is a secretive soul. Much of his past is cloaked in the sludge of time. He can however often been found lurking outside the worlds least popular museums.
Several of these sightings have been outside 'The Hall of Oars', where he would interrogate visitors, covering all aspects of their lives. Please be aware, his questions always lead to what extent you will sponsor his lifestyle.
Other targeted areas include:
The Decorative Plate Foundation
The Royal Hall of Oars,
The North Wales Gallery of Scared Cats,
The Lost Glove Emporium (only on Tuesdays),
Sir Craigson Dirv's Filthy Aquarium,
If encountered mention 'apple pudding' and he should leave you be.
For all his cheerful mediocrity, Portus Gwent ultimately did more damage to polite society than any "reality TV show" or "stand-up comedienne" ever could. As an apprentice in 1957, reaching for a piece of dowelling just beyond his grasp, he exceeded the safe "angle of lean" and exposed the upper cleft of his buttocks to housewife Minnie Tinsley. He had invented the clativecius IV or, as it is sometimes known, "builder's bum"
From the earliest days of the guilds, the gluteus maximus of a tradesman had been held under wraps by a mixture of fear and good practice. But following Gwent's initial unveiling of this sacred zone, the floodgates opened. By 1964, few maiden aunts were ignorant of the form and pallor of the inter-buttock crevice. Britain had lost its innocence, the Beatles were on the charts, and nothing would ever be the same again.