Ah start to panic a little bit. What’s got me is that with the strawberries being consumed I’ve lost my means of space-and-time travel. The strawberries were my space craft/time machine; no that’s too simple, too crass, delete that line of thought and start again: the strawberries were my means of transportation from this dimension or state into another. Without strawberries I’m condemned to live in their fucking world which is no good at all because without hallucinations of a visual and auditory nature, acid is pretty crap; ah mean you might as well just be pished out of your face beery and bleary, giving profits to the brewers and the Tory Party which you do everytime you raise a glass of that shite to your lips but without the hallucinations the only advantage you had with the old acceeeed was the Flight Lieutenants which is still better than bevvy because you just looked a moosey-faced cunt sitting drinking the depressant called alcohol so fuck that that was it for me it was STRAWBERRIES …

– Ah’m away doon tae the deli fir mair ay they strawberries, eh, ah announced. Something in Claire’s face made me laugh. Ah took a chronic attack of the Flight Lieutenants.

– You mind yirsel, trippin like that, Claire said.

– Aye, watch, Amanda nodded.

– Mad gaun oot like that, Stevo turned his attention from the golfer’s blue arse.

– Naw man, it’s sound, ah said. – Ah feel great.

Ah do. It’s barry tae ken that people actually care about me. Not enough tae stop me fae gaun oot or to say ‘I’ll chum ye’ but that just could be paranoia. Ah said ah wanted to be alone did I say

Ah wanted tae be

Ah do a pish before ah go. Ah hate pishing on acid because you never feel like you’re finished and the distortion of time makes you think you’ve been pishing longer than you have and it gets boring and the next thing ah know is that I’m fed up with this pish and I’m putting my cock away before it’s actually finished, well, it’s finished but I’ve not really shaken it out but fuck me I’m no wearing jeans I’m wearing flannels it would not be so fuckin bad with denims but with flannels I’ll have a map of South America or Africa on my groin unless ah take some positive fuckin action which ah do stuffing bog paper down my keks. My keks. Stuffing. Accusations fly. J’accuse. Fuck off. It’s Lloyd Buist.

Lloyd Buist is my name, no Lloyd Beattie. B.U.I.S.T. Another bad attack of the Flight Lieutenants. Breathe easy …