He lived an incredible life. So much drama. Pure Hollywood. His first wank was off the edge of a cliff watching an African sunrise. You couldn't write that script, except you could.

I met him in the jungle. He was fighting the chief of a local tribe to death, and I coulnd't help but like him straight away. He really knew how to do the gap year thing properly. He graduated first of his class. He was first class guy. His only flaw was that he was a massive racist. He'd even complain about weather fronts that had drifted in from the middle east as if it was all their fault.

Nothing annoyed him more than people adding an S when talking about a single Tesco store. Nothing scared him more than people being able to smell his bodily odours. He wouldn't even shit in his own house if he knew someone might be coming over that day. He always carried a travel size deodorant in his left pocket to keep his arm pits dry and fresh, which is sadly what killed him. Diving in front of a bullet to save a Peruvian orphan boy, only to have it hit his pocket.

There was only one way he was ever going to go, and that was in a scene of explosions and flames. Nothing would have made him happier than knowing that onlookers didn't have to suffer the scent of the burning flesh of his corpse, because it was masked by the exploded can of Lynx. His actions that day saved the village. He was a hero.

Jimmy, Bradford.

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