I used to rib Pete about his macrobiotic and astrological musings. After the operation to reduce his brain tumour, he sent me a selfie of the stitches in the operation scar on his baldy heid. It looked like someone had been scribbling on him with a biro, and I asked if the surgeon had penned a warning to future heid doctors, “Careful. You’ll not believe the shyte I found in there”. I’ll tell the backstory of the auntie-beefing, which involves fitba, a drummer and a distillery, some other time.

PWLP picked me up to go to Pete’s funeral at 10am. A taxi dropped me off here at 0230 next morning, after a funeral of legend.