For condemning us in-doors where we’ve no choice but to run an eye along those racks of tracks that should be lying dormant till Jean Byrne gives us the nod.
Using the wind as a tuning fork, and the rain for percussion, the next two minutes and 33 seconds are brought to you by a man made by angels. Punk angels with a caffeine habit and a fondness for getting their gossamer wings out at the break of dusk. Scottish punk angels who occasionally drop him up a cuppa as he sits hunched over the bureau in his study, high up in his city loft. Glaswegian angels well fit for his scribbling down of inner thoughts at all hours of night. Picking up the tea-stained hardback he frequently knocks over and delicately returning it the sideboard; Yeats facedown, stains included in the price he paid in the second hand book-shop he likes to drape himself around on Thursdays. Hardy no-nonsense-pal angels who lift the needle from the vinyl crackling past last track on the turn-table that rotates to the rhythm of his breathing as he finally nods off. I’d imagine.