Godfrey, fresh from a three-month hiatus at Her Majesty's pleasure in Wandsworth for renting out his back passage on the Charing Cross road, called me in some distress last week.
And finally, after the sobbing had subsided and the degenerate wreck of a person started to construct relatively coherent sentences, I was able to deduce that he was keen - once again - to rejuvenate; eager to cleanse his fragmenting soul of all the evil it had been subjected to. Indeed, what Godfrey had described as a "robust fisting" during his penultimate week of incarceration had pushed both himself and his poop to the very threshold, and Godfrey in turn had attempted to asphyxiate himself with a handful of gravel he'd plucked from the outdoor recreation area. This act landed him in solitary confines where he passed the last week of his term etching poetry onto the walls with a cotton bud. He recited one such composition to me during our phone call:
"This", said Godfrey, "is an ode called 'Fuck'".
"FUUUUCK!" Godfrey roared with furious rage down the telephone.
I understood the sentiment quite clearly. Godfrey was indeed a very troubled man.
I suggested that he join me in a hiking expedition I'd been planning - a day's yomp up and down Mount Snowdon, the highest peak in England and Wales.
Godfrey became excited.
"They do whiskey in Wales, don't they?"
"Yes, Godfrey. Alcohol will be present in Wales."
We met the following day and journeyed to Snowdonia. Godfrey was an ailing mess of a person even by his usual standards. His hair was matted and tangled, his fringe stuck fast to his forehead. His attire, a mishmash of an old pair of ill-fitting corduroys, a jersey stained with the sauce from a thousand different takeaways, and a jacket so small that the arms stopped at his elbows.
"But I've got me Wellington boots on, though", Godfrey proudly pipe up upon seeing me appraise him with distaste.
"Yes, Godfrey. You do indeed have you boots on".
Upon arriving in Snowdonia later that day and locating the village in which we would base ourselves for the hike, Godfrey made a beeline for the pub, the only one in a 10 mile radius. The man was clearly very fucking thirsty indeed.
I arrived a few minutes later to find Godfrey in full verse, chatting away to a rather alarmed barman...
Godfrey's dinner that night consisted of one solitary packet of pork scratchings, and some 15 pints of weak ale. This did not bode well. We literally had a mountain to climb in the morning.
I feasted on possibly the most unsocial plate of fare on the planet...
The following morning, when Godfrey had finished being sick in the fucking bathroom sink, we made for the mountain. I set a keen pace. This irritated Godfrey immensely. But he had already been advised of the rules - don't come crying to me if your head feels like it's been shat in by a pig.
The scenery continued to grow evermore spectacular. This was surely hiking at its very best...
Approaching the peak, Godfrey was seriously beginning to flag and a seething aggression had set in. He actually made to charge me, but the 40 per cent gradients hindered his run up and he simply spat on the floor and pronounced me "an utter fucking kunt". Charming, Godfrey. Simply charming.
We summited. It was cold, freezing actually. But the view had been worth the toil and discomfort... looking out to Anglesey.
However, the weather turned increasingly inclement, and soon visibility had been reduced to mere metres... and Godfrey, Godfrey was, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.
I walked back down the mountain, sans Godfrey, somewhat concerned for his wellbeing. But then I heard it, a scream of delight emerging from the mist. And lo and behold, out of the cloud cover, Godfrey... on a fucking paraglider...
I didn't wait for the landing. But I suspect it took place somewhere over the Atlantic.