"Hey! Butcher Boy!" shouts Stevie.

"What do YOU want?" Butcher Boy replies.

"Don't you know that it's nearly autumn?"

Butcher Boy smiles. This is progress. Butcher Boy initiates a poignant, reverential silence.

Five seconds on, Stevie burps and gets up to go. But before she leaves, she clarifies things.

"What I mean is, it's nearly autumn. So hadn't you better get off your arse and DO something?"

Butcher Boy checks the clock, clears the throat, and makes the call.

*

Butcher Boy once had a moment of clarity. He realised that, when writing songs, he could use whatever words he wanted. He realised there was nothing to stop him singing about eyelashes like spiders, or Spanish oranges, or Calor Gas heaters. Butcher Boy knew there were many better singers and writers than him, but a lot of those people wasted what they had. Butcher Boy was content to know that every word he sings is based on a truth.

A while ago Butcher Boy thought to himself about the times he'd been in the back of a taxi at night, smiling, a little bit drunk, and he'd leaned back and watched the streetlights zip over him through the back windshield. Quiet. Orange, black, orange, black. His pulse hammered in his neck, and his body shook with the car. And Butcher Boy wondered why no-one had ever told him about things like that. Because it is the perfect situation.

These are the songs Butcher Boy tries to write. Thank you for coming to see us play them.

*