“I’m tired, man. I’ve been working all day. I just want to go to my bed, put some songs on, and then just sleep.”
“Ah ok, well, fair enough, but what did you do last night?”
“Couch. TV.”
“And the night before?”
“Couch. TV.”
He took a drag on his cigarette.
“You know that will kill you, aye?”
“Nae one thinks you look good with that smoke, by the way. They just think you look like an arse.”
He laughed so hard he nearly coughed up a lung.
“See what I mean?”
“Well, sitting about on your arse isn’t going to do you much good either. That’s what all they companies say now, get up and move around every hour on the hour. Office blocks across the land, everybody off for a walk. Hell of a queue for a coffee or at the toilets, but there you go, eh?”
“Haud up, what are you actually talking about here?”
“I’m talking about playing a couple of songs. With the band. Music. You remember. Not sitting on your arse getting fatter.”
“Well, I happen to fucking love 20-year-old American sitcoms. Always have done.”
“Listen, get your guitar and just come down the way with me, alright? I’ve got Chubs playing bass and that lassie that used to play with Charlie in Sideline Surfers on drums. Me on guitar, and you on guitar and vocals.”
“Fuck’s sake, is this a fait accompli or something?”
“Nah, it’s already decided,” he laughed.
“Alright, smartarse. But listen, Davey… it’s different now. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t even smoke weed these days.”
“Christ, you are more straight-edge than peak Henry fucking Rollins.”
“Ah, he wasnae straight edge.”
“Alright Professor Kerrang. How does Henry become Hank anyway? I’ve never met a Scottish Hank. Or a Scottish Henry, for that matter.”
“Do you no’ remember wee Henners from the football? Five foot two, played in goals. Looked like a car between two skyscrapers, still couldn’t score past him.”
“Fuck, man, aye, he was good, eh?”
“Right, fuck it, let’s go.”
© Paul Andrew Sneddon 2026
Paul Andrew Sneddon 