I have no desire to blame the Coalition for the world’s ills, but right now I’m sitting in what was once a thriving bar (my favourite) in a thriving town (my home), staring into a vacuum of thin air.
Only a year ago, this place would have been packed, a crucible for a cocktail of adventure and sweat as some Kings of Leon lookalike band played Nirvana covers in Queen regalia ripped from a useless waxworks museum.
When the night club closed last year, it sucked the life out of the place, and though Friday and Saturday nights still boast the odd gang of lads out on the pull, the Thursday night pre-weekend throb of joy has withered to a cornified crisp.
I may have to pretend to give birth to an alien life form, just to break the mood of abject desolation.
Either that or I’ll operate the barmaid’s petrified corpse like a puppet and pop in a Specials CD...