That is the only sensible philosophy ae on-it.

Yi thought yi wur missin oot without it, but yi wurnae cos the Friday Feelin, that eld demon, is a clever one. A realised the truth a few year back, when A moved away n wisnae really drinkin n wis drug free. It wis an agony no tae go on-it tae begin wae, a sacrilege tae suhin sacred n a wasted weekend cos yi didnae spend it oot yir barnet. That lasted aboot a year, feelin like a traitor n a borin bastard. That fury n loneliness ae being the only wan left sittin in alone, when aw yir troops n even yir burd wis away oot – but you wur the only wan stayin the path. Through that deep solitude, yi discover it’s a sacred path cos it’s the road tae redemption n release fae aw this fuckin shite. That wis when A realised it hud fuckin lied tae me aw along.

Ever after, when A went on-it A wis subconsciously seekin that first night oot wae the troops drinkin nearly ten years ago, the first pill yi took n the first joint yi smoked, before the dreamstate broke. The feelin ae chasin the burds when yi wur young wae reasonable ambitions n runnin aboot wae the troops in our YT brotherhood. Those first feelings ir the very essence ae the Friday Feelin n our entire lifestyle, but suhin hud gone sour along the way. It wis a long, lucid dream turned nightmare, constantly pullin yi back fae those first euphoric sensations. Promisin yi those feelings again, but only takin yi further fae yirsel, further fae home n further doon the rabbit-hole intae addiction, decay n nothingness.

The big party is the night. Wan last attempt tae resuscitate the dyin summer wae a few bottles ae wine. There’s a strange air aboot this wan n everycunt’s invited, regardless ae aw the shite that hus happened recently. Danny wis always pally wae Kenzie, much more than me. A always preferred Tam but they two hud been thick as thieves at wan point. Even Kenzie’s wee terriers Gunny n that ir invited. A cannae forgive Kenzie fur his wee hand, however insignificant, in Stevie Broon gittin done, but it’s up tae Broonie tae make his mind up aboot wit he deserves. Any acts ae vengeance wouldnae make any difference, apart fae maybe givin him a moment ae brief, meaningless n violent pleasure. A suppose if he kin forgive, then A kin at least forget. Maybe it’s right tae bury the hatchet n end the summer wae redemption.

Ma door gits rattled n A hear footsteps on the stairs, ma hand drifts doon tae the bat before Broonie bounces intae ma bedroom. ‘Hi, son!’ he says n launches his bulky frame doon on ma eld, worn armchair. The thing creaks under his weight ae muscle mass. He lights a fag, then looks fur an ashtray. ‘Fuck, this thing hus seen better days, mate,’ he says, rockin back n forward.