Fionacat

It was 2120 in Tesco and Dr Mondo suggested more drugs and beer, always a good start to things but at this late hour where could we go?

A trip to Newcastle was in order but around Edingburgh the horrible wretching sensation that there was no way you can jimmy a IV drip for White Russians with an empty bottle of Irn Bru, a handy carbineer clip and some shoe laces.

Dejected, out of beer and back in Aberdeen, could there be a worse combination?

At least no Buffalo roam around here...

You can tell it's been a good night when you wake up somewhere and for a precious few seconds don't realise where you are, until rational kicks in and you really don't have a clue even what country you are in.

Turning to the sleazy dime a dozen hooker doesn't help, maybe she's spanish, maybe she's french and just maybe, maybe she's from equitorial gunienea.

It doesn't matter, all you know in those few seconds is you are in trouble of the worst kind.

Dr Mondo hasn't appeared yet, presumably he's with some other hooker, making sweaters like he used to in the days of yore and to all the Dr Mondo's of the world out there, crocheting away like an army of tick ants, good luck.

It had been raining for days before anyone had realised it was still raining.

God's tears falling from the sky to Earth, are they sorrow, joy or something much weirder?

Dr Mondo will have drowned by now, or choked to death on his own bile, only the autopsy could say.

Or maybe, just maybe he'll be sailing a boat into town tonight to start this party with a bang.

Preferably three Emos and a goth up against the wall, but that would just be a bonus.