Revenge is a dish best served old, and in this case, that vengeful dish would be a plate of expired Bourbons.

I have been fortunate to have aged spectacularly well, without the need for youth fountain juice or massaging Oil of Olay (TM) into my skin ports. Belly fat is an issue after nearly four decades of shortbread-abuse, but otherwise, to gaze at Bri Jnr. from the shoulder blades up is to feast your eyes on a biological wonder of Mother Nature.

The subject matter of this Nashville-AC/DC number was not quite so fortunate, as I discovered whilst 'browsing' Instagram... wrinkles, grey hairs, cellulite scarred my until-this-moment impeccable vision, as the snaps proudly proclaimed 'hastag no filter'. 'Thank god I didn't make you my wife', I thought as I clipped my toenails non-committedly.

The fireworks, fireworks were kindly provided by a suspicious-looking non-binary chap(ette) who ran a market stall adjacent to mine prior to the November 2020 lockdown. My guitar solo should forever be know as a 'tie your mother hoedown'.

He doesn't 'arf carry on. Not really giving an insight to the song, but more about how he grooms himself. Oh well.

This really is Bri's little number. I didn't want to get too involved, but I am terribly proud of my contribution - keeping 'weathered-face' Bri on the task in hand. He's too busy trying to make it the best it can be, and you know what, this sone was originally so much better. But I had to say 'Bri, this song doesn't have to be that good. Keep something back for a rainy day, because you'll need it. Look at Kelly Jones.'