And so on, and so on, ad infinitum until Mr. B is rolling in piles of crisp £20 notes.
When investigating such criminal behavior, I must call upon my amazing powers of under-cover disguise. I wrapped myself in a couple of old bin liners and hid inside this skip for several days, living off food scraps, until it was collected and taken to an outlet for the recycled crap.
I had not wasted my time in the skip at night, and by the light of a nearby street lamp had managed to cobble together a working if not terribly attractive camera from bog roll tubes and a bottle-bottom. Through this device, I managed to take this tell tale picture of the outlet in a town in the South West of England.
Potentially thousands if not millions of pounds per day cross the palms of the vendors of misery inside. Shortly after this photo was taken, I was spotted by security and had to make a desperate dash for freedom. I'd have got(ten) away with it if it weren't for those meddling security guards. I've only just returned from one of their sweat shops making Easter bunnies out of discarded Christmas tree baubles. My fingers are still sore.
Don't be sucked into this nightmare. Avoid any contact with Gordon Bennett at all costs.