The stony lanes of Knockbracken. The desolate highways of Montreux. The castaway memories of a lifetime. The crunch. The coarsened heels of a mother-woman. It’s a ditch-dive dirt-scrumpled ankle post. A morose wedging of all things pish. A grippled splish upon a pond of poo. An awful blank stare across the windshield of the ages.

Fuckin’ knockin’ the shite outta some boy. A blunt object across the back of the head. In jest like, in jest. Ingesting gestation festering filibusterer bam boom. Ba doo dop. Wangin’ it out for cash. Splashin’ out on shinguards, that’ll never see the light of day. Necessitating felicity most fine, fiver a bine, for the good stuff yus yus.

Cashbricken staffshorts even-keeled go for broke. Last night’s worry was a close one, and so the fear subsides. Climb back inside, it’s safe, ye waif. Angelic now come the hearings of a bright tone. A little shining one now made known. He’ll have to suffer, that boy. Yus yus, suffer up and down the country till you grow a beggar’s wig.

Ever be up and down the town wandering and when ye stap. Benchpost wasps all over ye till a drooling man leans near. Near-distinguishable are the slabberings spewed forth. You reply in kind and so he smiles and all is well, in the town of towntown. Then ye wander on a bit further and subtle sights ye see and smile yerself a little. Tis nice alright. Then ye wade on home with your wellyboots forgotten but the bounce is pronounced and so you avert the STARE of every passing motorist. Only a couple of weeks now. Best keep the head down. G’night.

-So ye understand like? It’s her da in heaven that’s keepin’ ye in the relationship?
-What do ye mean like?
-Well, see everythime your attention wanes, it would be him that provokes the wee move on her part, ye know a smile or, let’s say, a certain radiance that particular day that makes ye think twice.
-Aye, you’re right there ye know. I think you’re right.

Aye so now that we’re back slabberin’, I guess it’s only right to introduce the fellas. The leds. We’ve got Harry, Paeter, and John. John’s a big fat fucker with six different beards. Paeter’s a quiet chap, talks in a whisper, and Harry, well, the less said about Harry the better. Anyway, the whole three of them’s a packa cunts, but that’s alright, they’re good genuine boys, not atall ashamed or backward about their cuntiness, and not the one a them afraid to stand up and shout ill-informed nonsense at the innocent bystanders that gather to stand and to gander at the three of them doin’ their thing…

Anyway the-day they were wafflin’, awful shite they talked and slobbered, slabbered, slaverin’ over tight young things that they shouldn’t strictly have been looking at, unscrupulous fuckers that they were. Not a one a them was married or tied to be wed or even being seen by a member of the opposite sex. There were many reasons for this being the case, the main one being that they were each, the three of them, admitted rapists. As you can imagine this would cause most any woman to stand as far aback as possible from the little street corner that our humble trio presided over, but in actual fact it was all one big lie. You see, none of these boys had ever raped a soul in their lives, it’s was only that they were possessed of a simple plain-speaking honesty that caused them to remark, upon spying an amply bosomed passer-by, ‘Jaysus, I’d rape the legs a thon.’ So you see, it was rather that they garnered the reputation of being rapists by means of displaying spoken intent alone. So aye, there wasn’t much harm in them to be truthful, they were just a bit mixed up.

And this is only three fellas we’re talkin about here, can ye imagine who else might be out there, carousin’ the streets all dirty and confused? Yes, there’s some dorty bastes about, and many of them ye wouldn’t even hear the worst of their talk until ye let them into your living room. ‘Gwan now Margaret and get yer breasts out, the tea’s wet an all.’ Confused individuals. Or are they? Maybe these mollycoddled dirt codgers know fine rightly what they’re all about. And the dorty line spills out as they salivate and eye up yer missus. Ye know it’s hard to know.

No breedin. No schoolin! Nae fuckin’ manners!

Good God Jesus. Let’s just make this a journal entry, eh? Losin’ the run. Lost the run gone completely off spoutin’ shite in the night and won’t be forgotten, forgiven. Cause it’s all there now in black and white shite fuck what to do but diiiiiieeeee. A slight, drawn out, minor death that is. Just die inside a while until you feel fit again to show your face in public. Aw Jesus the things ye do

I’d like to break out of all gizzards galoomph monstruit yeargh goneballs dabba

Nyes here we go now altogether thump!

So yes, you’ve got to watch whilst imbibing and take care not to overshare or pour dour drainage ditches full of filth. Rather I thought the idea was to cleanse, one way or the other somebody was caught out scrubbing their soul. In the pale moonlight. So yargh there was a boy up thar in them mountains he was a scrubbing and a wrangling. Lassooin all them horsies in out from under. Mad kant. God knows the purpose of such an operation, the whole thing was rigged in any case.

Underage scrumblage, in the parlance of our times good God gone under. God has gone under for a bit and we’ve to live on our wits. The sun has dimmed, the moon gone white, we talk less shite, at least the quality of shite has diminished somewhat. Hafta wait come harvest time, out in the night and reap. Very little to say anyway, tippy tap tap tip. Shite all for the sayin. Craic minus.

I will say this however: There was a young person, of sex indeterminate, who was a little messed up. Lotta things happened this poor young person. All sorts of incisions, indecisions and injustices wreaked in, on, round about and down upon their poor little head. What way’d they turn out? Well, they didn’t. This particular poor young person decided not to turn out, or up, one day. Not much to say, nobody really knows the reason why. Kinda sad though.

So yeah, when that kind of thing happens, it’s sort of hard to put yourself in the headspace they were in. Unless you yourself have been there, or somewhere near it. And so you’ve got to think, is there some way a person of experience can be fit to tell when one such poor young person is approaching the perilous precipice, and what could this wise one possibly do to intervene? It’s a problem alright, one that’s not likely to go away anytime too soon.

Maybe there’s psychic leanings a happening that manage the thing as it should be, ensuring the protection of a particular few, or maybe that’s all shite. It’s fuckin sad man. The whole fuckin rig’s sad to the core, and to me, the saddest part of all is the unknown suffering this poor young person endures. It’ll never be known. And of course come family, friends and some yell selfish but fuck, can you imagine the kind of pain that person must have been in, how hopeless life must have seemed to them for that to be the only available exit. Sad wee soldiers, hammerin’ on like fuck. Do they ever get their due? Tell them while they’re alive, man, tell them while they’re alive.

How ye feelin, not that good? Aye, know to look at ye. Here knock this back and chill the bit out there one fuckin minute. Parades are on. Aye, the parades. Some craic, wha? Aye, out marchin like fuck, burnin oul crates an pallets, fuckin up the queen and all that. Yeh. Tell ye wha, you and me go down the parades. Mon we’ll go uppa parades. Locka wee tunes an all have a wee smoke fuckin say nahin wha? I’ve a locka tins here mon da fuck.

Yeh so here we goes down uppa parades fuckin wearin no flegs or nahin, and all the boys is givin us the big thumbs up and we’re just smiling back pure lovin it. Women all over the place an them rote, tryin ta fleg doon double-decker buses an all. Mad cunts. Few a them not too bad too, lehal. Anyway look the craic was deadly, some a the songs are a bit hardcore for my likin cause they batter the fuck outta them drums like the mad cunts think they’re off to war or somethin, an them only dressed up in wee pretend army suits no guns nor fuck all, but they take it proper serious like, that’s their heritage man say what ye want.

-Wait wait wait a second mate. Where are you even from?
-The country! But a live in the city. Ye know what a mean, mate?

Bai. That’s what they’re into like, what are ye gonna do. Ye may say, well fuck there’s no need for all that craic it’s shite like fuck the whole lot of them, but approaching the problem from a purely practical perspective, how exactly do you propose to go about disassembling 400 odd years of ballacksin about? Ye want to take the sting out of it like, well aye fair enough, but ye may get on to your good friend the eugenicist Bill Gates, and I don’t mean any harm when I say that, cause there’s ones better bred than me, and sometimes out of the dirt comes wee pearls, fuckin George Best and thon snooker player whats his name. Aye Higgins. So aye, all a these cunts like, there’s too much about it, it’s an insurmountable task in my estimation, and am only talkin here like.

So it’s a festival isn’t it, they’re out enjoying the festivities. It just so happens that this particular festival is a wee bit vicious, worse some places than others am sure. What the fuck are they even celebratin anyway? And all this military shite, no call for it like, but that’s what they’re into, let them get on with it. Maybe the sands of time will decoarsin the whole affair, or maybe bury the whole fuckin lotta them. Maybe some shiny new bai will come arriving and politic the whole thing to high heaven, some mad new-age prophet, born of fenian mother and Big Prod Da. Suppose we’ll hafta see. But aye, I’ve been to better festivals like, Reading and Leeds, nahin like bein in two places at once, fuckin Glasgowbury. Yeh, them’s the only two. Aye, and the Twelfth. Good show. Doesn’t get many tourists like, has to be said, they could probably be doin with a bitta help that side of things. But aye, let them get on with it, some fuckin craic.

So yeah it’s all about your keys. Ye wanna be danglin’ a good oul setta keys, bai. Yuh, am tellin’ ye, nahin’ a woman likes better to see than a man come walkin’ in the room with a big pile a keys hangin’ off his belt. And nothin’ better to inspire awe, and respect, in your fellow man either. But it can all be taken as a bitta fun too.

-Fuck, bai, some setta keys on ye!
-At’s right, aye, I’d say ye’ve been round a few corners alright.
-Aw now, these here’s only for messin’ about, ye wanna see the ones I have at home!

So yip you’ve got your keys there and you’ve a good startin’ point for conversation and that.

-Aye that’s right. I’m a safe-cracker. Eh? Crackin’ safes in ma spare time? Ye know what am sayin’?

Or anything like that. It’s the sort of thing ye can take anywhere with a bit of imagination. Tell ye one thing more a woman likes better in a man than a big setta keys: a fuckin’ moustache. That’s right, ye boy ye, the ‘tache has well and truly returned! and some of us are askin’, ‘Did it ever really go away?’ Nahin’ like a big oul soup strainer to get the girls gigglin’. They love it.

And ye know some men ask me, ‘Deirdre, is it really necessary for you to be carrying all them keys? Seeing that ye don’t even work a proper job or anything? Or for ye to wear a boilersuit? Is all that really necessary?’ And I say ‘Sure wha? Don’t I be workin’ fuckin’ jobs up an’ down the length a this country that you wouldn’t even know about? And you not even wearin’ a proper moustache or nahin, and now you’re trying to butter me with the same breadstick as what you were, for your sins?’ And they’ve nothin’ to say back to that so I just moesy on an ye can be sure that there’s many a woman countin’ down the minutes till she hears my keys come a-jinglin’. Me in the big black boots an’ all. Proper article.

But anyhow, I got a letter from the parish priest, expressing concern over some of my recent behaviour about the village. Poor man seems to think there’s somethin’ wrong wi’ me, and him stuck up in that parochial house wi’ no women an’ no dancin’ nor nahin’. I say he’d give his right hand to be in my shoes for one night only, and I’ll tell ye what, I’ve a right mind to go on up there and tell him exactly what I think, and to maybe give thon maid of his, Dolores, a good seein’ to, while am at it. But me ma in heaven, God rest her, wouldn’t have it, so I’ll say a quick decade of the rosary, and pray for the poor man’s soul instead.

But before I do I’ll say this: For every door that’s locked in life there is a key to it that fits. So should ye ever be in diffs, feelin’ a bit closed in like, just you reach down for the appropriate key, though it may take ye a while sometimes to find what you’re lookin’ for; and here: if the key don’t fit… then hoof ‘er down to fuck!

You’d be hard pushed to come up with a better title. Yep, that is quality title-age. Pure shite. Hi. Aye. Ano. Wise. Up? Sucka!

You’ve come this far so it’s best now to hold on. Hold the fuck on cause there’s nowt else for it. Just have the pure laugh. Drink wee smoothies an all brighten your skin up wonderous. Wunderbar breakneck speed gone wah? Talk all funny an do wee dances. Acquire the taste for outdated rarities and wince. Crumple up paper with the back end of your toes, it’s awful satisfactory so tisss.

Yep and be sure always to advise those nearest and dearest on the dangers of delinquents, do. Write back to all whom enquire upon your wellbeing and whereabouts, reassuring each that a ‘spot on the pew’ awaits. Anyhow, regardless of any humdrummery where without goest the ganch, reach on and reach until the master will teach and you’ll fetch him a peach being pet now it’s sit and submerge. Divulge, don’t diverge, explurge most explicitly, lick stamps go quick, to the office see Pat, spill milk on his cat, wipe shite on the mat and make sure your amends, this means no pretence. At least, no more than is absolutely necessary.

Yas, you see you see sometimes, and sometimes you don’t, and most difficult it is to sit still while your will is so weak. What’s the peak time of operation for this particular callback service anyway? But question you may, the waters they rise, you stifle their cries, the five children inside of you, you weep, confessions you keep, the clock ticks a little…

It’s an awful grey heaviness the likes of which you’ve never before felt. And so the question comes again, will it rain? Will you pop the brolly just in time, or soak to your skin and choke on brine? It’s nearly time.

So just about the moment when it’s killing you to lift the pen but you can’t move you’ve been caged in, they say it’s you, but you know it’s them, now what? Got to speak, man. Got to spill them guts. You’re trembling. That’s how you know it’s the good stuff. Let’s inspect this thing, why don’t we? Make a little inquisition. Be brave.

Anyway, you can’t be the only one. Tomorrow there shines surely a brighter sun. Just speak your truth, it’s killing you, I know. Just let it go, man. Take it all apart, analyse it, if you feel it helps you. Then smile. Next thing you know you’ll be helping somebody who needs it a whole lot more than you do, and you mightn’t even know it. But if you do cop on, it’s a real nice feeling, you know it. Keep ‘er lit.

Some people are so guarded. I asked a friend the other day what kind of juice he likes best and he told me to go fuck myself. I didn’t take it too much to heart. Another guy I stopped on the street to ask the time – he punched me right in the face. A little harsh perhaps, but again, I shook it off. Women I have more success with, and children, really I have a great rapport with children. In general, I mean. Problem is you can’t readily approach a child for friendship in these times, so yeah, I mostly keep to myself, these days.

-Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself?
-I don’t have a low opinion of myself, I’m king of the fuckin’ world, baby!

The other thing is that backwards banana scrambling that some are so fond of. You know with gooby eyes when fools go wandering, and they have their little trip, and it all seems so safe and secure yet wonderous, and by the end of it all they’re salivating like tired out children? Yeah, I’ve heard that the effect of such an exercise, what it can do to the brain, is pretty much near disastrous, and that it’s the sort of thing that can’t be undone all too easily. Gotta be careful, is all I’m saying, got to be care full.

Here. When I speak to a doctor I like to give him the assurance that I am a man of learn-ed leanings, whose shrewdery knows no bounds. It usually takes the good man about five minutes to assert his intellectual dominance however, and I am forced to yield to his benign superiority, and to yield also to the suggestion that perhaps those cloudy notions of my own self-image that I held to so dearly were erroneous, if not, absurd.

So yeah, fraternizing with doctors, you’re always gonna have trouble there. Other question is, is he shitin’ himself the other end of it? Tryin’ to come across like a good ole boy and one of the lads, or perhaps a muso if not a brickie might’ve been concert pianist fuck me he coulda been anything. But he chose the law. The medical law that is, feelin up old ladies whose only complaint of a headache was rewarded with… and tellin wee boys that they’re stupid for the rest of their lives. Then they go home to their cold wives for cold cuts and cold cans of banana cream dreamin of the banana boat holiday you never had the tanned girl gone missing you’ll never get another go because the practice needs you and where does all the money go the standard of living but oh so empty why the fuck.

But here the craic must be good, the oul doctors in the hospital playin pranks an all, letting on some boys been diagnosed wi cancer. Bit far maybe, but probably get some laugh after it, mad cunts. Runnin about playin mad with the machinery and chattin up the nurses smuggling in steaks singin wee songs havin the pure craic patch adams the craic’d be good like. End of the day it’s just a bunch a lads, few women knockin about too, the whole thing havin the craic. Patients them near dyin but sure ye’d keep them goin an all, you pure busted workin a 48 hour shift. Aye, availability of the best drugs goin, only the purest of good morphine, intravenous, sure them boys wouldn’t get addicted or nahin. Too sensible a boy a doctor than to get stuck on it and then maybe even like a wee sneaky beer in behind the curtain. Draw thon curtain there and  we’ll all get a wee sip. Get them tunes kickin. Aye I say they’d have a good oul laugh.

So yep gettin’ back to that gooby eyed thing. It’s a weird one like, gettin’ all gooby. I kinda like it. But here, like the whole package, everything that comes along with it…I mean, is that all normal craic? Hard to say… Not much for it but to keep ‘er pinned. ‘Troubled times will come, Troubled times will go.’ Yeap, try hard to stay alive. And keep the faith, hafta keep the faith. Haha.

“Clickbait Victims, in their infancy, are very much disposed to a pre-forgetting of all that they encounter. They scour the web in search of their next hit like rabid victims of heroin dependency, bandaged round the ankles, pulling themselves closer to that poison plum with only the draggage of their chins for grip. Recent reports show that as many as 70% of British children are currently enchained, with a further 30% showing signs of pisstoffery.”

-Turn that shite off!
-Aye turn that shite off.
-Yep off ta fuck.
-Yese wan a game a cards?
-Yep
-Yep
-Yep
-Right who’s go first
-Do mine, do mine, do mine
-Kay lad. Ye sure ye want to know?
-Yep. Am ready. Yep.
-Kay. Here we go, iiiiiiiit’s Tarot Time!

-Okay. Your first wife is gonna sue for ten million
-Wa?
-Aye. Then, she’s gonna ride all yer mates
-Fuck off!
-Yep. Then. She’s gonna ride yer brother.
-Fuck aaaaaffffff!
-Yep. Then.
-Wa?
-She’s gonna die.
-Fuck.
-Wa?
-Serves her right.
-Okay. Do ye want me to go on?
-Ahhh, fuck… Lemme hink… …Yep.
-Right. You’re gonna become a millionaire.
-Right.
-Then. You’re gonna lose it all to yer wife.
-Aha.
-Then. You’re gonna make it all back again playin poker, like Dan Bilzarian.
-Holy fuck.
-Yep. Loadsa women. Happy enough?
-Aye.
-Good stuff, stick that back on there.

“I gave all me fuckin money to the orphans!”
“That’s very admirable, son. Good for you.”
“They’re runnin’ around in my good guddies!”
“Well, a well-shod orphan is surely a sight for sore eyes in these blighted times.”
“Have you any orphans?”
“No, sir, the only children I have are belonging to me and are fully accounted for in keeping with government regulations.”
“Aye, you’re sorted. Do ye want any orphans?”
“No. No I don’t. This is Fourstall McJohnstonstuff, reporting for NewsFirstNews.”

So yip, that there was just something that happened, or mighta happened. What really happened though was, I was thinkin what a shite day it was. A real stinkin grey Northern Irish day. Then I thought, wouldn’t it be deadly if we lived in Compton? Like switched places with all the Gs in Compton? Then insteada doin’ buckets we’d be smoking blunts, and drinkin forties insteada buckfast. An all the brothers would be over here probably glad to get a break and enjoying the exotic craic over here, like to them. So aye we’d be in Compton, good tunes and that, good weather. All us boys strapped te fuck in case the cops come, not givin a fuck about the 5-0 cause we’d be strapped to fuck, like yer man outta Fallin Down with the rocket launcher. Anyway, it’d be nice for a wee break and just to see what their craic was like an all. Fresh reputation, new girls, sun fuckin blastin. Us all doin hiphop flat out, the brothers back home doin trad an shit. Be good like. Ye wanna be careful tho too, them boys over in Compton don’t mess about. Fuckin Crips an Bloods, no messin like. Shoot ye just for lookin the wrong way at them. So aye it wouldn’t be all that different except it’d be sunny. Nice wee break like.

-What’s yer job, mate?
-Uh, I sing.
-Ye sing? What like wee songs an all?
-Um, yip.
-What do ye do, Johnny Cash, fuckin Elvis?
-Naw I write me own.
-Write me own. Fuckin ballacks. Nobody wants to hear that shite, get the fuckin tunes on lad, raaaaa.
-Right. Do you sing?
-Do a fuck. Couldn’t sing ma way out of a paper bag. But here, dancin? Best around.
-Well here do ye wanna join my band? We need a dancer…
-Fuckin what. What ye payin me?
-The pay’s shite, but ye’ll get more possy than Steven Nolan.
-Fuckin sign me up, leeeeeddddddd.

Got a fuckin’ job. Got a fuckin’ job. Now all the other job boys wanna hang out and talk to me and stuff. Bein’ a man like. Talkin’ like a man. Using well-honed mental tactics to keep each other at bay. I wear a shirt and tie. He wears a boiler suit. I would say he’s less than but he makes more than me as he’s a he he. What’s a he he? A he he is somebody who has taken it upon themselves to dedicate their entire existence to the devotion of manhood. His name’s Dickie. Nobody fucks with Dickie. I spat in my bosses coffee just the other morning then smiled right back in his face. I don’t even hate him that much I was just refining my skills. Sometimes when a man goes to say something I will interrupt him, especially if my wife is close. Other times I will stand tall and erect, giving full range to my carriage and plumage. I long to talk politics with the guy from cubicle five, but the guy from cubicle five has nicer shoes than me, and I know fuck all about politics. He uses words I don’t understand and barely even looks my way. There are moments throughout the working day when I will feel an unbearable upsurge of emotion, this I suppress in order to keep testosterone flowing freely. I study the anatomy of unavailable women. I read books on subjects I should know nothing about so that I can vent in a manner that befits modern living. I am a master of technology, nothing escapes my keen eye. I am also dying, of a disease so rare that one Chinese doctor turned in his resignation, seriously ill himself that he could not categorise nor label it. My time is coming. My time to go now. So long.

-I’ll fuckin’ enlist you!
-You’ll not fuckin’ enlist me, I’m nobody’s monkey
-Fuck yourself, mate. Consider yourself enlisted.
-Take my name off that list, or I’ll kick you in the privates
-So you’d be a fan of corporal punishment?
-I’d be a fan of kickin’ yer bollocks in
-Right, c’mon, we’re in the navy now, let’s sail on ta fuck!

Aw Jaysus here now we go again and aw fuck if its not john junty hisself and only his awful uncle fuck the whole team are all out lehal. Now here we go look I’ll give ye one after the other under wan two a three four five, always gulderin nonstop ye mad hallion. So it’s all about how ye kebab ur kebabs like. Weiners non protruding only backlashing for neitherwill yer da. Kop his clonks and wang out the weatherbeaten forgetting only your Fran’s a dirty bastard. Ur good mate ur fuckin grand ur some writer so ye are fuck me ive never seen the likes of it good jesus yes. Up nai to yer gfs where therel be rotten dinners an fuck all else shite movies films and rubbin sex fuck yes baby bumping kick clean fuck.

-Mate, could ye do us a gramma clean?
-Fuck sake mate you on it again tonight?
-Lad do us one gram just, the woman’s away.
-Right, fuck. Clean, are ye sure?
-Man, it’s the only stuff does anything for me.
-Right dead on I’ll be round shortly.

Aye so back on it te fuck, a gramma clean, fuck all in it like and there’s no comedown but I swear to fuck, wangs the head clean aff ye. I be it takin sometimes an all an I don’t even know am on it, firin out the clean, lads firin the lines into them all invisible an all goin clean mad their ma’s wonderin like fuck. Me dancing pure class and doin all impressions an all. Rupert deNiro and Paul Pacino, fuckin Bruce Williams and Liam Neeson easy as fuck like cause he’s from here. I do all mad dances ye wouldn’t’ even see on tv or nahin. Like one legged joobjoobs, and the sparklin wurliitz. Fuckin mad eejit, but the women love me, just as friends like but ye see them lookin in the shapps an all asda, me fuckin dancing away them just pure lovin it like class, husbands don’t even be jealous or nahin.

But then sometimes like, the laughter has to stop. Ye just know when it’s time. Sit down to fuck an be quiet cause ur not even bein funny anymore. Ur dances are all shite an you don’t even know the right names of the films cause ur bein called out so it’s better just to sit. Cause it’ll all come around again when it’s time but for now it’s sit. Probably there’s other boys out there dancing an doin shite impressions an havin the pure craic, maybe at a wedding havin drinks an all wearin suits te fuck. Some boys just look good in a suit, ye have to hand it to them like, they’ve got that look about them. All professional, probably know the right names an all, do all proper dances like the salsa and other dances that people like that do. I don’t mind, I don’t mind. Put me in a suit an a wouldn’t look right, hafta take it off an go home.

But aye here before this shit wears off I’ll tell ye about the time this one thing happened. Ye see there was these three boys I knew, and they were all in a pop group. Played an all round the pubs and stuff like had a right wee following. But it took them a while to catch on to the fact that most pop groups have four members and so they asked me to join. Well I toul them I had to think about it, for about a second haaaaaaaahahaha then jumped the fuck in the outfit and got started for the first night’s training. Doin pure boxin an all, vocal warmups and like pullin nice faces and that for the girls. Well anyway, night of our first gig we goes up to the pub and starts playin, I was bustin out the moves, as ye do, and come halftime, one a them professional lookin boys came up to me and says son can I have a word with you? I says aye surely and so he took me into the corner an started givin me the whole showbiz spiel, tole me I was the best dancer of the lot, by far, and would I be interested in goin out on my own. Well look, long story short, I told the fine gentleman, in no uncertain terms, using a move patented by the good citizens of glesga, to get ta fuck! Spent the night in the cells, bad craic. But here, still buzzin!