"Raoul Moat is a Legend"
Greetings, carbon-based life forms. That Facebook is a rum old business, what? All manner of half-wits poking you, telling the world what they had for their tea and joining groups where they can convene with like-minded empty vessels and pour out their ill-informed opinions into the ether.
The most noticeable recent manifestation of this has been the infamous "Raoul Moat is a Legend and that" page, where tards and retards came together to debate the whys and wherefores of the demise of the Rothbury Rambo in an air of cool-headed, rational reflection.
Of course, the page has disappeared now, The Powers That Be pressuring the intelligent, articulate founder into closing it down. And yet, the group's core message was correct. There is a legend. Here at last, we unveil The Legend of Raoul Moat.
"In the year of our Lord, 1973, by the banks of the Tyne river, to Mr and Mrs Moat there was born a bouncing, ginger-headed baby boy, who they named Raoul. Over the years the young Raoul grew to be a fine, strong man.
He subjected his body to great privations and undertook a punishing course of disciplined self-improvement, utilising a great many instruments of resistance as well as free weights. Also, he would inject his self with shitloads of steroids.
Eventually he had built a fearsome body that inspired fear in the hearts of men and lust in the gashes of orange-skinned ladies throughout the Tyne Side area. It was time to take his rightful place as The Gate Keeper, the Man of the Door. Raoul was guardian at the portal to the finest nightclubs in Newcastle. Wherever young folk wishing to cause "bother" would appear, whenever miscreants intending to dance to pop music while wearing training shoes should turn up, any time purveyors of narcotics supplied by a trade rival attempt to gain entry, Raoul would prevail.
They'd be slung out on their hint-ends and pummelled on the cobbles by the superlative custodian. His was a simple motto; "If you want to fuck on, you can fuck off".
Away from his noble labours, Moaty would attend to his many female concubines. Mighty were his appetites and many were his conquests, and so it came to pass that Raoul sired many offspring by a great number of boilers.
Ultimately though, he met The One. His Eve, his Salome, his soul mate. When he met Samantha, it was time for Raoul to put aside all other women and dedicate himself to the love of his life. Happily, Samantha returned his love, a child was born, and, for a time, Life was Good.
Into this promised land came bad men. The Coppas saw all that Raoul had worked for and achieved, and great was their envy. The Coppas vowed to persecute Raoul with all their might, to destroy his family, his livelihood, his sanity. To this end, they would continually arrest him when complaints were made that he had chinned some young 'un, had battered some lass or, fatefully, that he had Brayed a Bairn.
Found guilty in the white man's court, Raoul was sentenced to imprisonment. Worse still, Samantha left him, claiming, unreasonably, that she was now afraid of a steroid abusing, child-hitting jailbird.
Oh, disloyal woman. Truly you are the heir to Eden's serpent, yeah?
At last, Moaty was to be freed from his captivity. On the eve of his release, the faithless Samantha informed him that she was laying down with a member of the constabulary. His beloved, his one and only, was betraying him with one of his merciless tormentors.
The whoo-ah was shagging a Coppa! Probably sucking him off as well.
Great was the wrath of Raoul. Upon his release he obtained some shooters from his trusted aides. He confronted his enemies like any true avenging angel, by hiding outside the house for an hour or so, then bursting in and shooting their defenceless bodies. Samantha was left wounded, but the Coppa was slain. Although he wasn't dressed like a Coppa, more like Ralph Macchio in the 1984 feature film "The Karate Kid".
Stopping briefly to compose a forty-page letter full of self-pitying justifications and unhinged bluster, Raoul hit the road and made good his escape.
His thirst for vengeance still unquenched, Raoul sought out a more worthy adversary to test his battle skills. So he pulled up his car alongside a stationary police car and shot the unsuspecting, unarmed Coppa in the face.
Truly, Moaty was a mighty warrior.
Having stopped to gather supplies, Raoul headed to his childhood happy place, the scenic Northumberland village of Roathebury. With his knowledge of the terrain, his arsenal of powerful weaponry, and the smokies and battered sausages he had liberated from a Seaton Delaval chip shop, he was dug in for a long campaign.
For four days and four nights, the massed hordes of the Coppas could not track down Raoul. They found his car, but still they could not find him. They found his tent, but still he could not be located. They found one of his mobile phones, but still Moaty evaded their pursuit.
Finally, on Friday, the day of atonement arrived. Raoul made his presence known and took on the combined forces of Coppas, Bizzies and Filth. He calmly faced them down, aiming his weapon at himself and asking only for some water. At his encampment by the river, Raoul held his foes at bay.
From his Newcastle homeland, an emissary arrived with aid. His old friend from his time in the Bigg Market, Lord Gazza of Dunston brought him provisions and equipment. Had Gazza managed to get through with his bread, fowl and ale, Raoul may have gained the strength to go on. Had he clad himself in the proferred big jacket and gone for a bit fishing with Gazza, maybe he would have gained the peace of mind to surrender himself to his fate.
Alas, no. The Coppas intercepted Gazza and would not let him through, claiming that he was "aal pissed up, and that".
On a rain-soaked riverbank in the middle of the night, with his final hope gone, and his persecutors approaching ever closer trying to tazer his arse, Raoul acted for the last time and blew his brains out.
The People's child-hitting, domestic violence murderer of Hearts was dead.
And yet, his legacy lives on. Wherever an inadequate sociopath is engaging in 'roid-assisted bodybuilding, any time a mildly intoxicated young feller is being set about by bullet-headed thugs in bomber jackets outside a club, whenever a slack-jawed shaven ape is braying the shite out of his lass, wherever absolute fuckwits congregate on the internet to spew their ignorant, bile-filled opinions, then the legend of Raoul Moat lives on forever.
Here endeth the Legend of Raoul Moat."