A’m back in mine n the Friday Feelin is reachin new peaks – it hud been fuckin simmerin away aw day, stable fuel without fire, but noo it’s a volatile compound waitin fur wan wee source ae ignition. Ma fuse is lit n it’s sparkin away, headin towards the charge. A’m pacin ma room, a blur ae ma orange Trainspotting poster, Union flag n Tupac Shakur. A’m smokin fags listenin tae Broonie’s CD fae earlier, but the trance tunes ir pickin up, gittin faster n only addin tae ma higher state ae consciousness. A cannae eat n A cannae sleep cos the Friday Feelin is a powerful drug in itself. A feel oot ma nut, chargin on nicotine, adrenaline n anger. It’s only a matter ae time before A fuckin blow. There’s a bottle ae wine sittin starin at me. Its yellow label n green body callin oot fur me tae neck it n huv a wee fuckin tan. Git it doon yi, son. Even Tupac is talkin tae me, fuckin noddin n tellin me tae dae it. On ya go, Azzy boi! Keep it OG, playa! Makaveli the Don. THUG LIFE! A go fur it, crack its gold crown n gee it a wee screw aff. Drink, long n deep, a good fuckin healthy neck oot it n feel that instant warm rush ae alcohol n caffeine. Tonic is the fuel. The tunes ir fuckin blarin n the Azzy boy is on-it. Fuck yi, Friday Feelin, yir no gonnae know wit’s fuckin hit yi, cos the fuckin Azzy boy is gonnae show them aw, fuckin big or small, who’s still dain a bit. A light a Mayfair n take a deep draw. Cannae whack it.

A’m halfway through ma wine when the door gits rattled. A only just hear it over the tunes. It creaks open n A kin make oot footsteps on the stairs. A’m no grabbin no fuckin bats cos the Azzy boy is mad-wae-it n ready fur anyhin. A bounce aff the bed n go tae open the door. A’ve got the fuckin buzz noo n the Friday Feelin is coursin through ma veins, almost unnecessary cos the damage is done. There’s nae calmin doon, nae veerin aff-track once yi started oan it. A’m oot on the landin waitin fur whoever is comin up the stairs.

It’s Stacey, n she’s git a look on, wan like yir fuckin maw in a bad mood wae yi.

‘Hiya,’ wae nae feelin.

‘Wit’s the matter wae yi? It’s Friday bells!’

‘You’re drunk, wee man.’

‘Phhhft, the Azzy boay’s no drunk, fuck sake.’

‘Aye yi are. Fuckin stinkin of Buckfast as well.’

‘A’ve no even been swallyin, ya dafty!’

‘What’s happened tae you? You’re like a different guy fae the one who came up. Back sittin in trackies n a Rangers tap, drinkin wine n steamin early evening. Charming, Azzy. Fucking charming, son. What a hit wae a decent lassie you’ll be.’

‘There’s nae decent lassies aboot here anyway, don’t worry.’