Picture the scene. It's a dreich day in Paisley and all sensible hobgoblins wae part time joabs polishing polis truncheons are aw cosy at home under blankets drinking 3000 calorie hot chocolates. The one hobgoblin to rule them all is pounding recognisable stretches of Renfrewshire pavement in his quest for some etc dosh for January, when he happens upon unpaid extras a Mum and her son.
Melvin's consumed with aw the feels after interacting with Claire and young Adam. Choking doon the lump in his throat, tears blinding him to the point he can't see his ain lane anymore never mind get into it, and as he shuffles away with a heart swelling with pride at the thought of being anyones inspiration, he turns for one last farewell look at this lovely mother and son. In a rush of emotion, he blurts out
Is it awrite if a pit this oan ma stories luvs?
GET! TAE! FUCK!