“Why do you hate me so much Bob?”

 “I hate the fact that you command attention simply by being yourself.”

 “What?”

 “When I released my first album, I was on TV, radio, front covers of magazines, but whenever we went anywhere together, it was you, an unemployed wastrel that everyone knew. Even the street cleaners when we were making our way home at seven in the morning knew you by name…I’m still amazed at how you used to stay out all night on orange juice! But back to the point, you even managed to befriend me, an absolute loner.”

 “You’re talking rubbish. You enjoyed plenty of attention during The Squeaky Kirk’s heyday.”

 “That was only among the sycophants in the art world. Outside of that, in normal pubs or everyday situations, no-one even recognised me — not until I got with Ingrid anyway. But they were queuing to speak with you, while I just hung about in the background like a spare prick. They obviously didn’t want you for your money…you weren’t fashionable or good looking or talented in any way. I mean, I’m sorry, but your paintings were at best mediocre. No, they just loved you for being Danny White, straight as a dye and true to your cause. You can’t manufacture that sort of popularity. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

 “And you resented me for that…simply because I got along with people?”

 “Yes. Despite being brought up to believe I was special, I’d been crippled by social inadequacy my whole life. I was full of ambitions but incapable of going among people to realize them. You, on the other hand, wanted nothing from anyone, yet could get along with everyone. That always seemed unjust to me. In the end, being in your company became insufferable. You seemed to be flaunting your popularity in my face, reminding me that, without you having introduced me to your friends, I’d have been nothing.”

 “So, because of some imagined slight, you stole my girlfriend?”

 “Yes. But there was more to it than that.”

 “Well? How did this poor, socially awkward outsider manage to seduce a girl like Ingrid then?”

 “It was when your mother fell ill and you’d stopped hanging around on the scene. I’d carried on visiting the usual haunts, though why, I don’t know. I was having a miserable time, standing in the corner of bars on my own, waiting for people to lavish attention on me simply because I sang in a band. But it never came. Of course, I knew most of the people in these places through you, but didn’t have the charisma to engage any of them in conversation beyond the basic pleasantries. Anyway, the night after BBC Scotland screened a documentary about the Squeaky Kirk, Ingrid wandered in alone. She was living with you at the time and reckoned she’d just stormed out half-way through an argument. I found this difficult to believe, though, because she’d really dolled herself up. I bought her a drink and she started moaning out about how terrible things had become since your mother’s stroke. Sticking by your side, she’d felt as if under house arrest…said she hadn’t been out anywhere in months — not easy for a beautiful, nineteen-year-old girl. She claimed that you were venting all your stress through her…flying into rages if she dared to contradict your political point of view, usually during conversations around the TV at news time. Of course, you’d expect a mate to make excuses for you and emphasise your good points, but I didn’t. Selfish to the last, I used the opportunity to spew out all my own misgivings about you, confirming Ingrid’s doubts in the process. I was enjoying the slag-fest so much, I invited her back to mine at closing time, to do some more. From the gasps of approval on seeing my apartment, I knew straight away that good living was her Achilles heel. From there on, bagging her was a breeze. To be honest, beautiful though she was, I had no sexual inclination towards Ingrid and spiting you wasn’t actually my primary objective. All I really wanted her for was reflected glory. Simply by being in her company that evening I’d attracted more attention than I’d ever done with the band - from both sexes.”

 “She’s a head turner alright.”

 “After a glass of champagne and a couple of lines of coke, she started whining that she needed a break from you…that she was cracking up being cooped up in that apartment all the time. She said she needed a couple of weeks in the sun and began crying. I remember thinking that I should wrap my arms around her, but I just couldn’t pluck up the courage. In the end she slept in one of the spare rooms and, when she woke, there were two air tickets to Italy on the pillow by her head. She flew into a virtual panic and couldn’t get out of the apartment fast enough, thanking me for the offer, but saying she had to get back to you. That evening, I was lying in bed thinking what a fool I’d been, when someone started banging at the front door. Convinced you’d come to beat my brains out I asked who was there before opening it. I couldn’t believe it when I heard Ingrid’s voice. When I opened the door, she was on the landing with two suitcases, one at either side of her on the floor. Apparently, you’d had another one of your teatime rants during the news, which had inevitably degenerated into a vicious, personal attack on her.”

 “Oh, it wasn’t that bad! In fact, she started it. She said that unemployed people shouldn’t get dole money and that soup kitchens should provide their food. I remember her shrieking: ‘They’d soon get up off their lazy butts then!’ As if she didn’t know that would get me going.”

 “Whatever the case, she used it to legitimise leaving you and, the following day we flew off to Italy. I remember looking at Glasgow from the plane. Knowing that you were down there, falling apart, while I was up in the sky with the love of your life…it felt great.”

 “You’re a sad man Bob.”

 “Keeping Ingrid entertained in Italy required just two things: designer clothes shops and a credit card. I myself was beginning to tire of her company. It was really hard work, pretending to be interested in all her self-obsessed babble. But the reflected glory of her beauty — even in Milan — was addictive. Passing catwalk models would flash glances at me. They’d stare right into my eyes, searching for whatever it was that made me so valuable to such a good-looking woman. After a fortnight of this my self-esteem was soaring, so much that I felt attractive to women for the first time. But Ingrid and the catwalk models of Milan didn’t do it for me. It was the hookers of Naples that got my blood boiling…preferably the bigger ones. They went out of their way to make me feel good. With them, I got to do the talking, instead of having to listen to all that hard done to, feminine bullshit. We stayed in Italy for another fortnight and were both sublimely happy. During the day Ingrid got to wander round clothes shops with me feigning interest at her every word, then, in the early hours, when she was fast asleep, I stalked the red-light areas, indulging myself stupid. By the time we got back to Glasgow I’d been transformed. On leaving, I’d been a lonely virgin. Now, I had a paragon of beauty on my arm and a catalogue of up to twenty sexual liaisons under my belt. I was oozing confidence and growing stronger every day, while you faded into oblivion. That said, the Italian trip had left me up to my eyes in debt, having spent nearly ten grand on my credit cards.”

 “What are you on about, debt? Ten grand to you is like a hundred quid to most people!”

“Oh Danny Boy, you’re so naïve…that’s why everyone likes you I suppose. Still, they had me fooled as well. I was the last to know what was going on.”

 “You’ve lost me Bob.”

 “It’s all a sham Danny. The Squeaky Kirk — it’s a fraud. Back when we started out, Billy’s old man ran up a big gambling debt. Rex McLeod’s boys were sent to retrieve or bereave, but when the Big Man found out that his son had a band he offered him an escape route. He was willing to wave the full ten grand, pay for Squeaky Kirk recording sessions and even create a record label for us. The only condition, that he could launder his ill-gotten gains through spurious sales of records and merchandise. After our first album I was wandering around Glasgow like I owned the place, oblivious that we’d only shifted two hundred units of the sixty thousand sales going through the books. We were playing in front of twenty people some nights on the continent, yet still managing to shift two thousand CDs, T-shirts and programmes. The irony is that after my arrest we actually started selling albums for real, though only about five thousand nationwide.”