I Lost My Faith Completely When He Farted On My Balls

She just loves that fancy music. Endless Boogie played at 2.30 PM on the coldest Sunday of the year. They were viewed purely by people wearing odd shoes. I was elsewhere. The Sunday Session. The Steve Agnew Band. In Fife Sunday afternoon is pub rock time. 'A few jars' of endless despair please...that's the work of a 12 year old. Ignatieff is brought down. Please let it be me. I wish I had a full back tattoo of some Danzig pish. I wish I could move my dancing feet. Where am I? I wish I was in a land where I could be a hero like Robert De Niro. I bet that's also the place where I would find the crease in the shirt that this world wears. I could rhyme 'period' with 'dreary id' there too. That's a place of great reward that is. I'm going to follow Catfish Keith on tour- authentic, 'real', raw, approved by Steve Davis. The Power futtered lasses in Leslie. I believed that Tony Hart came from Kinghorn. John Thomas Wilson's son was a petty thief lout. He left the dream home with Malvinas. He pinched 'skullsplitters' from the bins. He hung out wi' guys wi' crippling skin conditions. He knew a few 'country boys' too. Arriving triumphant on a tractor frae Newbigging. We've made it. We've arrived. This is the land of David Sands. I once saw a sign that said 'Eck Is A Police Informer'. Was he? I've just heard someone rhyme 'a man called Sylvester' with 'he had to wear a bullet proof vest-a'. He's hotly topped. Listening to him means you're a fun person. You've never heard of phone sex or kanga pants, of Blythswood Square or Punternet. I've never 'been' even with all 'the things that I've seen'. This line makes me ill. I'm unsatisfied. Oh how I wish I was skittish.