So I tried to write you a love song, but it sounded like vomit, so I quickly and dully put any prospect of even private self-expression into the dustbin with all my other shite ideas, those piles and piles of scrunched up balls of paper building up into mountains, soon to unleash avalanches, one in every room of my flat, like Jim Carrey in The Mask the morning after he robs the bank, the detective knocking on the door as...

Spitting Scotch into the Clyde I am what ma da would call “bollock freezing”. Ma gonads haven't even dropped yet, so they must be like plain wee peanuts right now in this cold and dark. I'm also drunk – what else could this feeling be? I'm also really sad. I can't believe wee Barry's gone and left us. He was ma best friend in the world and now he's gone and left us. I take another swig of ma da's brutal-tasting fire-water...