Stretch back for a minute!

So, the other day, I was watching a documentary about Gandalf contemporaries, Fleetwood Mac, when my dog walked in. A pretentious east village golden retriever with delusions of how important he was to the musical progression of the 1970s and 80s. A pathological bore with an intensity that means putting him in a room with Debbie Harry could cause a cataclysmic reaction and quite possible the formation of a black hole. The entire planet would be sucked in to this vortex and come out the other side, flayed, inside out and smeared with bright pink lipstick. Woof, I hear him say. Shut up, I say.

The weird thing is that my other dog had an incident of diarrhoea recently and while cleaning the clinkers off his ass, I stopped looked, looked away, looked again, said nah, looked back again, lit a cigarette, contemplated, scratched my…