As demonstrated by the above post, any message by Sludge at or after 9pm can safely be ignored because it's a certainty he's off his tits by the time darkness falls.

It's anyone guess what he's on this evening... butane gas or Colombian marching powder up his hooter, or he may have wolfed down a mushroom omelette crammed with psychedelic ones he collects at woodland dogging locations between rogering sessions. Even an extra teaspoonful of Ovaltine can send him over the edge.

By midnight he'll be hanging out of a window singing a selection of ditties from the Anfield Kop's songbook, often while waving a Ken Dodd tickling stick at bemused neighbours.