Friday, March 17, 2006

A Whiff of Onions

There's a powerful smell of onions on the landing today for some reason. Not an unpleasant smell, it always reminds me of old Fred West, the serial killer. Fred was here for a few weeks on remand, before the whole grisly story emerged and he went into solitary.
Anyway, while he was here, Fred would sometimes drop in for a chat and very often when he did, he would be holding a big raw onion. He ate them like apples, taking great noisy bites. I could never understand that about him. How could anyone eat an onion whole like that?

If all that wasn't enough, I looked up Fred's case on the internet and it turns out that the name of the policeman who finally squeezed the confession out of him, was Detective Sergeant Terence Onions. And they say there's no such thing as coincidence.

2 Comments:

Anonymous Vapid said...

The paper i worked for accidently ran a pic of Fred and Rose on a story about the Canadian prime minister.

It also ran a whole back-page exclusive interview with Frederick Forsythe with an enormous pic of brucey - as he's never been an export out of the UK, the production folk had no idea why the author of Day of the Jackal was striking such an odd pose.

Clearly it's a presitgious publication.

12:05 PM  
Blogger Earl Jackson said...

I didn't know Brucie was never exported. It was his teeth, I suppose.
Monkehouse, on the other hand, was huge in Japan, I hear.

1:25 PM  

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