phone the help desk. snowstorms slow our progress. pants to the public houses smell like rubbish. ride round on the underground. does nothing but compound our problems. in these places, finding traces of the spaces we once loved. six nations can’t distract me from govan station or your hackneyed attempts to win new supporters are lacking. we’ll be heading home, cap in hand. stoned in the valley sure beats egged in the alley. former glories overshadow promotional stories. hey mate, don’t you rate my pal? we only meant to take the piss. our good intentions never mentioned the conventions we hold dear. jags making progress. getting shit on the train from the toothless sound of rails. politically infested trails. I never thought it’d turn out this way.