It's Sunday. Fucking Sun-Day. End of the week, rest day; even the Almighty sat on Her fucking divine arse all day. Sunday! Sunday morning even. I can tell, cause I am still in bed. It's a thing I cherish about Sunday mornings. The fact I sleep until I feel the need to roll over, stumble out of bed, use the loo and get myself a cup of tea with a wee drop of whisky.
   I don't need the loo yet and don't feel like a cup of tea either. The other half of the bed is empty so I won't need to worry about entertaining someone there, and kick off is not till three. In other words: it's as fucking Sunday morning as it will ever get.
   So what the sodding fucking hell is that cunt doing out there with a circular fucking saw?! Shouldn't he be in church? Or in bed, like normal human beings. No, this particular tit likes to redecorate his house. And when he is finished he starts all over again. Preferably on Sunday morning, when the whole neighbourhood is enjoying their collective hang-over.
   And rather than taking the circular saw inside the house, for some reason he feels he should share the joys of being clinically overactive with the whole street and does it out in front of the house. We have considered mobbing him wearing balaclavas and beating the shit out of him but then it is Sunday morning and I'd be hard pressed to put my underwear on the right way round, let alone putting on an Irish accent and battering someone.
   This specimen of defective genes unfortunately is also known as 'the cunt upstairs'. Over the last few weeks he has tried to poison us in our Sunday morning sleep by sending lethal gas through the vent system, drilled a hole through his floor and spilt water onto our electrical light bulb directly underneath and banging on the floor in the hope our ceiling would collapse. Why he imported mustard gas from Iraq, poured water through his floor and what possible use hammering on the concrete can be is as of yet a complete mystery to us. Then again psychopaths usually have motives only comprehensible to themselves.
   We'll stick to it that he's an arse with a toolkit. I would have preferred if he had a toolkit stuck up his arse, but then God loves fools and angels. Which counts this entire house out and Norman fairly and squarely in.
   So, as I am choking on the pillow I have smothered my head with I wonder what the best course of action would be in this state of emergency. The police are directing tourists to the castle, half of the armed forces are playing fireman and the other half are preparing to invade Iran on intelligence from the US while the rugby team is still recovering from losing to Cardiff.
   In other words, we are fucked. Severely. Really, the only thing I can think of is get out of bed, which I do reluctantly, open the curtains and realise that not only am I completely bare-arsed but also that two lovely students are looking right into my room, inspecting and quite possibly evaluating my own private toolkit with intense scrutiny and curiosity.
   So, I put on some boxer shorts for the lovely ladies, who walk on either because I did so or, quite more likely, because they weren't impressed in the first place. I then open up my window, stick the speakers on the ledge, facing out, program the mp3 player to start off with 'lazy Sunday afternoon' (the Toy Dolls version), then play 'hammer smashed face' by Cannibal Corpse, followed by GWAR's 'Billy bad-ass' and the home-grown Edinburgh crew The Exploited's 'let's start a war'. To finish off I add the whole of Slayer's 'Hell awaits', ram the volume up to max and pull my 2,5 watt computer speakers over for good measure.
   Then I chuck a towel over my shoulder, hit play and retire to have a long, hot and satisfying shower. Good morning.