-You, my friend. Are a horse’s arse.
-Aha! But you see, you! You are nothing but a swindler’s kitchen!
-And what’s that supposed to mean exactly?
-Mean’s you’re fuckin’ stupid, ye horse’s arse.

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-All you’ve got in this life. Are your auntie’s fuckin’ knickers. Ye goose. Ye’ve not even a snatter up your nose. Ye wee fried spud. Ye saucepan lid.

-Well ye see you. You’re like a wee bitta grease  hangin’ off the edge of that saucepan. Like a tiny wee thing clingin’, tryin’ just to cling in and have the craic, but ye don’t even belong. Cause the only place ye do belong, is in a bin. The greasebin for wee greaseballs like you.

-Is that right? Well let me tell ye this. I’ve had nightmares that haven’t come close to this, eh? See sittin’ in a room with you, is the stuff of nightmares. Try that on for size.

-Is that what way your wee psychic state is? Like all confused and troubled acause of somebody who’s imperfections cause ye to cringe inside and hurt? Have ye a wee bit of projection goin’ on there, mate? Eh? Haha. Losin’ it, so ye are.

-Look I’ll be completely honest with you here. I am more than a little attracted to you, and yes, this does trouble me. My head’s fuckin’ wrecked, to be honest like, but am not gonna fuckin’ show it.

-That’s good, wee love. A blow you a wee kiss look, wooooo. Love ye, wee love. Byyyyye.

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Thank fuck that’s over with. Let’s get down to writing some serious shite. Like the time I blew up a balloon with me own farts. Or fell out of a big tree and failed to hit any branches on the way down. Trees are like banks in a way, aren’t they? They both have branches. Hahahahaha. There’s better ones than that… What about the time ye uh, fuck. I don’t know. Hang on.

Aye. The game. Have ye all played the game? What’s your favourite level? Yeah, mine too. Would ye say the game is a drug? Or like a drug? Hmmn, maybe, I dunno, could be persuaded like. Thing I hate about the game is ye don’t always win. And, like, how much work ye have to put in just to get to the bonus rounds. Sometimes I get confused and try and sell a shed fulla coal to some bai for a rune broadsword, like up the street on a Saturday. Funny oul game. There’s all different versions too, the fame game, the shame game, blame game, that’s popular. I like that RPG craic, everybody workin’ as a team. Means if some man’s givin’ me hassle in an area I don’t like, I call in ma big mate who’ll sort him out, or at least advise me to steer clear of the fucker. So is Elon Musk the last boss or what? Look forward to facing Donald Trump. And then when ye’ve done all the rounds, you get called on to This is Your Life, and get to run the whole thing back. Feels a bit fake all that tv stuff, but I suppose that’s part of the game too, sometimes.