James

The bastard lovechild of Rowan Atkinson and Moira Stewart, James was born prematurely in a small Welsh stream during a repeat of the sitcom classic Terry & June. He quickly developed a love of all things geographical, and as a toddler was often left to fend for himself in ox-bow lakes, happily collecting stool samples and studying areas of erosion and deposition whilst his parents experimented with smack in bus stops. At the age of eight, James was involved in a hideous fossil-related accident whilst studying glacial flow in Norway; an experience which caused him to spurn the natural world, and move to Luton. Desperately needing to channel his creative energies in a new direction, it was here that he developed an unhealthy fascination with deep-fat fryers and hula dancing. Touring post-natal depression workshops and greasy spoon cafes, James’s sensual tropical styling was soon the ‘hot ticket’ in town. His career quickly began to take off, but with a major tour of northern jizz clubs all but in the bag, the hand of fate dealt the young maverick another crushing blow. Following an unseemly public row over windscreen-washer pumps, Vauxhall Motors decided to axe their sponsorship of James’s grass skirts and coconut-shell bras. Effectively crushing his spirit, the loss of support sent James into a downward emotional spiral, denying audiences as yet unborn the chance to appreciate potentially the biggest talent in low-rent erotica since Bella Emberg. Nine years old and all washed up, James went through a period of depression, experimentation with cooking fats and going to school; spending some time at the Christopher Biggins Centre to recover from a life threatening vegetable oil dependency. At the age of twelve, James turned briefly to religion after becoming convinced that Jesus had appeared to him in a lard-fuelled nightmare; even though Christ was a bit more stocky than he had imagined, didn't have a beard and smelt vaguely of stale Special Brew. Distraught at the discovery that he was not being visited by the son of God - but only portly TV drunk Keith Chegwin on community service - he ran away to sea where he has lived happily in a barnacle-covered barrel ever since.