The Mooc has the breath of an angel and can move sideways quicker than you. He is at once talkative and shy, with a razor wit and bayonet smile. Men are known to contemplate gayness upon catching  his scent – a sort of wasabi infused honey. His skin glows like a commercial. Neither tall nor short (4 foot 23 on the old scale) he’s both chiseled and supple in equal measures. As an interesting side note, Scott Baio once commented on his feet.

A youthful Mooc battled Bill Cosby – though Bill was young and impressive then – and would have had him too if the law of the day had allowed his tactic.

At a not-so-recent ceremony he employed a tuxedo so powerful and ingratiating that he received an on-the-spot lifetime achievement award. All this at the age of 26 and with little or no achievement to speak of. That was, that is, the Mooc. Enigmatic, sure, phlegmatic, yeah why not, passionate, without doubt, egotistic, fuck off!

The tux aside, clothes and the Mooc have enjoyed an on again, off again relationship. He wears them with aplomb when he does and swings majestically when he does not.

Pleasantries are not required in his presence. He’ll force you down if you persist and drag you if he feels the need. Once at a rally for those in need he gave a speech so inspiring, 17 died and 12 were injured. On another occasion he argued that colour didn’t exist. He won that! He wins most.