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Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough. Our van is a gigantic steel bag with gold-on-black Louis Vuitton print and we are the greasy contents of our rumbling, mobile torment. The motorway is, like, the biggest ever man! A sort of really, really big man with a big man face and hands and the sort of gigantic, really big man arms that only a really big man would have! He has a firm grip of our van and is shaking it around so hard and so violently that Paul's Ipod earphones will just not stay in. Everyone catches a horrible little earful of 'Janet Jackson through a shoebox' as and when an earpiece swings by their head or in their face. At one point, I am face up against the window staring deep into the crying eye of, like, the biggest ever man, ever! A hundred bullion years of heartbreak swirl and flow deep down within it's murky depths. I can almost see his soul. But it's too late for him, I catch my reflection in a teardrop and am dismayed to find myself looking more and more like a stupid head, bearded sad git and trumpet guffer with each and every passing day. Still, Francis Bacon has developed a tour cream which has, for now, controlled this awful head and inner mind rash. If only I had something for the... for the... nevermind. Look, Calum is playing air drums. No, wait, he's just having another fit. Call an ambulance! AT ONCE!