Dear Mr Postman

I don’t know if it’s the cow piss infecting the water supply as it streams through the heather back home in the Highlands, the close proximity to a giant nuclear reactor or that even the morning porridge gets a wee whisky marinade, but it’s safe to say that The Destroyer’s extended family up there are all a wee bit ‘mental’.

And I mean that in the most loving way possible, considering that my own level of humour was learned at the knees of people whose main entertainment was to gather together in each others homes, have a few drams and then spend the whole night horribly (and hysterically) insulting each other until the milkman arrived first thing with some more ‘single malt’ milk for the breakfast coffee.

That’s why when birthday cards like this arrive for The Destroyer through the letterbox, (this time fromTrish Mackay¬†and the rest of the Mackay clan) I’m not in the least bit shocked

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