This isn’t ‘bad man’, or nor is it sad, man. It’s just a slap of my daily deadpan. Go forth and tell it on the mountain, spoutin’ my inner-sinner, verbal offender. 10 years for slander, out on remand, it’s the North-East gale with the black country trail. It’s mish mashed bric-a-brac, knockin’ back with booze hounds, sounds as it would sound, and resonates the hometowns. Home counties might just get it, or over the heads with it, back up on the shelf with it, just hope you don’t regret it. Parables for the dossers and dirty weekend doctors. Festival medicine, the good lord often says of him, “the beat’s bang on son. Yeah, now drop the next one…”