The Cutter has gained exclusive access inside Nigel Pearson’s persecution complex, a sprawling, previously-unseen compound that is situated at a top secret location somewhere in the East Midlands.
For years now people have been speculating about the very existence of the complex with some suggesting that the man with the hair of an eleven year old bully might just be prone to getting miffed on occasion and nothing more.
Today however we can provide photographic evidence that not only proves conclusively the reality of the base of hate but also exposes the true extent of the Leicester gaffer’s unhinged psychosis.
After initially drawing a blank from Google Earth our pair of intrepid reporters received an anonymous tip-off of a haphazardly constructed door made of corrugated iron and covered by ivy located close to Pearson’s abode. Barely a foot tall the tunnel that the entrance led to required a great deal of flexibility to navigate but once inside our guys discovered an arsenal of weaponry ready to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting British public at any moment along with a crudely assembled home-made gym in one of the back rooms of the sparse, warren-like building. It is believed that Pearson pumps iron here manically late into each evening whilst listening to spoken-word biographies of General Patten and crying at the unfairness of it all. A bit like the next door neighbour in American Beauty.
Through the maze of dimly-lit tunnels keeping your balance is precarious as the ill-matching carpet samples underfoot are scattered with literally thousands of loose marbles. Exposed wirings hang down from the ceiling, occasionally sparking into electrical life. In one small alcove we discovered a drink’s globe with the word ‘enemy’ scrawled violently with felt-tip across the whole northern hemisphere. Inside the globe were cheap energy drinks and a large phial of dark red liquid we assumed to be blood. In the far end of the complex we unearthed an old-fashioned typewriter surrounded by reams of paper. On each sheet was the line ‘Fuck off and die’ typed over and over. The dusty desk on which the typewriter sat appeared to contain several bite marks.
We have passed our findings on to the appropriate authorities though it is feared that the Banter Strangler’s level of paranoid delusion is only escalating. Perhaps our most terrifying finding was a list of names a thousand long all scrawled in crayon on that horrible transparent toilet paper usually found in motorway services. Alongside each name – that ranged from heads of state to fictional characters such as Captain Ross Poldark – were two judgements: Very, very silly or absolutely stupid.
Our reporters were so disturbed by the whole experience they have now taken holiday leave for six months.