Remember those lads who used to somehow make it back to the session after a rake of pints, stinkin of salt & vinegar, falling around the kitchen then falling asleep upside down between the wall and a closet in a backroom somewhere as Breeder’s The Chain was tearing the wallpaper off downstairs. You’d see them then swanning into the kitchen at 9am with the car keys in their hand, all fresh, calling everyone degenerates, then fucking off to “go for a spin” up the mountains to get some fresh air. Cunts.
