To the useless, society spongeing cretin that tried to steal my Little Brothers motorbike and didn’t succeed because he secured it with something that couldn’t be snipped with some wire cutters and so out of a cruel act of spitefullness because you couldn’t get your way you decided to cut every visible pipe in the engine in a destructive act of vandelism.

I hope you get bollock cancer which manifests itself in tumours and legions that burst open and weep a foul smelling green puss which make your pants stick to the delicate skin so that every time you have to pull your underwear down to go for a piss it rips chunks of flesh off.

I also hope that around this time the NHS goes broke so you can’t get treatment.

However, they find a free cure.

But it involves dousing your nether regions in petrol and setting fire to them.

And then there is a petrol shortage.

But suddenly in a turn of luck the shortage becomes an overstock.

But my Little Brother owns the only box of matches.