It wasn't unusual for me to stay up to three nights a week with Cunton. Lonely and undeniably insane, his pathetic life consisted of unnatural sex and finding gooey samples for his demented collection. He would habitually sabotage the water pipes supplying public lavatories, and then wedge plastic cups in the actual toilets to catch whatever goodies plopped down. Such enterprising ingenuity couldn't be replicated in shops or drinking establishments, and so his method of extraction was instead the usage of elaborately detailed disguises. A cynical council inspector, a stuttering toxicologist, a waste management regulator in the throes of a tumultuous divorce, a jovial janitor, jauntily whistling Broadway show tunes; all were brilliantly employed in his quest for bodily emissions. Firmly knocking on a cubicle door and officiously demanding the person within vacate the premises, his Stanislavskian spiel usually cited a fictitious problem with the 'darned temperamental' plumbing. The startled occupant, with no time to wipe or flush, would emerge red faced and hurriedly exit - leaving Cunton with his putridly precious prize. If deception failed he had no moral qualms about utilising trip wires, poison darts, flamethrowers, and outright thuggery; though it must be stated his theatrical expertise usually rendered such methods unnecessary.