God's Holy Trousers are:
The Mokshaman brings beatific joy and happiness to all who witness his prodigious feats of levitation. Tired of immortality, he traded in everlasting life for the sole existing copy of the Finnish Three-Man Billiards rulebook, which he is painstakingly translating into Esperanto.
Born in the Bronx, to a Maori father and a half-Icelandic, half-Peruvian mother, the Mokshaman has travelled extensively, leaving a trail of lavender-scented but highly poisonous sawdust wherever he goes.
Small children weep whenever his name is mentioned. A Wednesday afternoon will find him inside a water-filled barrel at the end of his ten-thousand-metre-long garden contemplating the intricacies of multi-dimensional trigonometry.
Morrid the Horrid, being entirely parthenogenetic, is actually one of a thousand clones running wild across parts of the UK. It is an offence to shoot him in England, but not in Wales, where he is considered vermin.
Entirely self taught, Morrid is, as a result, woefully ill educated and spells his name in fifteen different ways, none using the letter M.
After three separate spells in the Girl Guides, Morrid now whiles away the hours in his open-topped balloon, where he makes useless but decorative fireguards from the pelts of duckbilled platypuses. Morrid is horrid but clinical, both in his insanity and his approach to needlepoint. He currently resides.
Maximilian Mountjoy was, like Furriskey, born a fully formed adult, although he has since removed all traces of amniotic fluid from his stout tweeds. Brought up by badgers, but educated by voles, he can talk fluently with the animals on all subjects, except bovine tuberculosis (a sore point with his adoptive family).
Mountjoy picked up his first guitar on a rubbish tip outside Kidderminster, but had to put it back down because of his congenital fear of poor lacquer work and the threat of tetanus.
After many years on the low seas (he has vertigo), Mountjoy has spent the last decade, and, in his own words, "it was costly". His hobbies include: eating 17th century maps, pro-celebrity drink driving
and underwater luthiery.
After failing to pay his rent Maternik was evicted from the third dimension and now lives only as a flat image. Being a man of incomparable fortitude however this made little impact on his happy-go-lucky outlook until a small child scrawled over him in purple crayon (not only is purple his least favourite colour but he has little time for wax). Never the less, his on-going legal action against the z axis does not seem to impair his cello-playing abilities however as string of milliners will readily attest.
Reckless to a t, he gels his hair with over-ripe Vacherin despite a violent lactose intolerance. He makes friends wherever he goes- mostly through the lost wax technique but occasionally by injection moulding. He has lost more enemies than he cares to remember but while looking for them behind the cushions of his sofa, he found every biro and cigarette lighter that has ever been lost. He currently funds a "tap-dance-your-way-out-of-depression" workshop with the proceeds from the sale of these invaluable items.