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But it’s tricky, precious, so tricky! Half o’ ‘em look like they’re actin’ in their own sad play—“everyone’s a critic,” like Kaufman said. I’m thinkin’, shit, am I the audience or the bloody fool here? Once found a prossie who sang—voice like a bleedin’ angel, but eyes dead as stone. Broke me heart, that. Exaggeratin’? Maybe, but I’d claw the moon down fer her, I would! Still, most times it’s just hagglin’—ten quid, twenty, whatever scraps I got. “The play’s the thing,” I hiss, cos it’s all a game, innit?

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After that disaster, I needed a break. So, I head to the local café on Castle Street. You know, the one with the best coffee in Forfar? I order a latte and a slice of their famous Forfar bridie. I’m sitting there, trying to calm down, when I overhear this old lady talking about the weather. She’s going on and on about how it’s gonna rain. I’m like, “Lady, it’s sunny right now!” But she’s convinced it’s the end of the world.

Marley joins Forfar on loan