North, East, South, Fred West

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Greetings, Fred West here.

You might remember from such news stories as the Cromwell Street murders or the lesser known story from the Gloucester gazette in April of 1978, raising doubts about my character after our Rose was hospitalised when she fell arse-first onto a upturned chair leg forty-seven times. As you know, I am dead! I have ceased to be. I am late. I am an ex-Fred. Don't believe what you read papers though, that was no suicide - I went out Carridine-style, fucking my cell mate in the ass, I can tell you - the cunts just don't want to give me the credit for it.

Anyway, I am speaking to you from... Heaven! Yes, that's right people - HEAVEN! I shit you not! I am God's right-hand fucking man - and I don't mean for hand-shandies. I've got a set of wings, my own detached cloud, and if I pass my probation in 6 months time I get my fucking harp. Who'd have thought it eh - old Fred West - PA to the nigger in charge! In fact, he's really taken a shine to me and he's even introduced me to his inner-circle. Tomorrow I'm partnering with Jesus in the Heaven Senior Management table-tennis doubles tournament, and next Saturday me and St. Peter are re-tarmacing the driveway outside the pearly gates - Pete's bringing the beers, I'm bringing my copy of 'The Best 80's Power Ballads In The World.... EVER!'

It turns out none of those whores me and our Rose killed (or my dirty dozen as our Rose called them) were christened, so in God's eyes I was only carrying out my sworn duty as a Christian. By the way, I didn't tell him I just fancied a fuck so lets keep that between you and me. Speaking of fucks, last night I nailed mother Mary right up the shitter. We'd been doing tequila slammers in the Heaven Discotheque since 7 O'clock and ended up back at her place... only she was having her period. I said I didn't mind the blood, fuck it, but she insisted "we're not Muslims, Fred, God saw fit to bless me with two holes".

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I tell you what, I've never had it so good. I remember back in the day when I was alive, when it was murder trying to get a fuck - quite literally if our Rose caught me. And therein lies the problem - getting caught by our Rose invariably meant a week's worth of plastering work, or a backbreaking few days out in the garden with a pick axe and a cement mixer. I remember one night I was buggering a young sort in the kitchen and our Rose appeared in the kitchen doorway from her afternoon nap in a see-through pink baby doll nightie. She'd heard me put the deep fat frier on, you see, and fancied a chip buttie. She just stood there for a good few seconds aghast at me bending our daughter's school friend over the kitchen table (in hindsight I probably should have stopped shouting who's your daddy at that point), she then clamly removed her NHS glasses and went fucking wild. She tore off her pink neglige Hulk Hogan style and rushed at me, deftly picking up a Steak Tenderiser on the way, which she proceeded to smash right into the back of the poor little cunts head, shattering her skull instantly. Then she gave me a scolding look and said "get rid of THAT by tomorrow", gesturing to the body with the hammer and then back to me theateningly.

Grateful I didn't have my head caved in too, I finished up, knocked up some eggs, chips and beans and watched countdown, and then slung her in the garden underneath a rather tasteful mock Roman-mosaic patio. Rose was most pleased with it and the following night we were like newlyweds again as we ate Findus Crispy Pancakes and waffles, and drank pink babycham off some plastic patio furniture that was on sale at ASDA.

I tell you what though, as much of a ballache as it was....

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"I'd relay my patio for that"