The sound of snores between bird tweets. The Sloth sleeps, for now... A typical tenement block, The hallway smelling of pish and bleach as it usually does. But within one flat is a world of vine and leaf The Sloth of the Metropolis in his own mini-Amazon Lies languid on a branch Reggae on his rather elaborate hi-fi system As he drifts in and out of sleep But it’s time for him to wake up… “Wake up at midday and get on my clothes Read my to-do list and do none of those Switch on the lap top and watch a few shows See how the world in a cup of tea grows” “Hanging around in the middle of town Out on a limb with my head hanging down So soporific, can’t seem to come round Rattling Ritalin king with no crown” “And oh, I know I’m lazy now But I’ll change somehow” Sloth of the Metropolis, Sweaty self-lobotomist Bong smoke down oesophagus Motiveless and motionless He’s gotta wake up now… Sloth of the Metropolis he hears a ringing at his doorbell now Oh what a sound He tried to ignore Somehow that ringing just rang out some more Right to his core Pulled himself off his branch Turned down the stereo, walked down the hall To answer the call Oh SOTM He turns the handle now, oh what has he found? “Well It’s your mate Owen And I’ve been owing you a visit for a while now Get ready cuz we’re going We’re going out into Glasgow town I know you’re a sloth but you’ve got to get off Of you’re branch and come on outside You may be slow but you know you can catch up Come on and give it a try”

The tastes of wine and good times lit up the Sloth’s fuzzy wee mind, leading him through streets with wide-eye wonder. He and Owen laughed and capered, ran, danced and elbowed, swaggered and gibbered. But then, when the sheen of novelty dulled, something clicked and the Sloth sobered. He saw a load of have-nots not having all over the shop, all over the shop-floors, and the shop windows washed white and empty. Grey grizzled faces shrivelled, polyester cups for spare coppers, scrapped cars and tag marks tarring forbidden sidestreets, and everywhere the sound of bright sparking genius squandered, fading and fizzling. Why? Why the long faces and short change? To the Sloth, it all seemed strange. Seven billion people and there’s no one to blame Some say there’s seventy million getting all of the gain Well that may be true, but can you explain How a spot of happy camping will blow them away? How will it blow them away? Modern Aristotle on the minimum wage Einstein mind on gyro day The next Van Gogh on a work scheme forced To clean up the shit from the toilet floors But shrinking prophits are a thing of the past And Jobbie's cult is growing fast They're waiting in a queue for a shade of grey And a permanent holiday There's a shark in the suit of a man from the west Sipping his tea the way that he knows best The water is infested wherever he's invested The rest is filled with his victims digested Lucy, watch out for Mr Diamond Sharks don't Barc, dead dogs Lay silent At the rates he's going he's going to turn violent Lift up the rigging and we're on our way Seven billion people and there’s no one to blame? It seems there’s one or two who won’t play fair at the game I’m not sure what, but I’m left in no doubt That we need some new ideas to figure it out We’ve got to figure it out

Poverty, sickness, old age. Wrongess and rightness? The Sloth didn’t like this. “How do you put up with this business? How do you make sense of it?” He asked Owen. “Everyone has their own way, their own spin,” Owen replied, for once without his happy-go-lucky grin. “As for the second question, some come up with ideas half or more fully baked than others. On the path to en-knowingwhatthehellisgoingon-enment, there are tons of traps and potholes. Watch out for cut corners and shady shysters, mental blockages and lazy spillages, arrogance and contented ignorance. We may never get it right, but the alternative—a life left unexamined—is pretty shite.” I’m a this/that, you’re a this/that/the other ‘un He’s a which/what and she’s nothing but another ‘un We are these though they are those, though then again Maybe they’re these and those are just them again?

After trying division, minute definition, he tries the Big Lie of the opposite vision. Tounge-eyed tele-evangelist with his pulse on the apocalypse The smell of hell and tangerines and odd socks lost preposterous With mayan miscalculations on the eve of things profound If I had a pound for everyone I’d have a lot of pounds So tell me why Tell me why Is that a fact? Or is it just a big lie? Is jesus just Prometheus, was Apollo just a joke? Is 999 a sex line designed to make you want to boke? Is the Sasquatch watching over us from rocky mountain high? Was rosebud and the third man sending red weed from the sky? If you give me all your money then I’ll tell you a secret Only gold or maybe silver will allow me to speak it A one time special offer for a mystical banquet That will tear away the twisted metaphysical blanket From your eyes, oh from your eyes You’ll see the world without disguise I don’t know and you don’t know And we don’t know one bit But Ockham had a razor AND IT’LL CUT YOU UP TO SHIT Simplify You’ve got to simplify A few less words coming out of your mouth Come on & just give it a try The new world will be ordered by a lucky chosen few Who spread their dread diseases giving Tweety-pie the flu And shedding off her human skin, our scaly reptile queen The irony it seems to me the truth is more obscene

The ‘Tarasque de Noves’ is a Celtic sculpture, roughly 2000 years old. It’s a weird scaly dragon-lion-dog type thing, chewing on a human arm and resting its front paws on a pair of severed heads. Historians think it might represent a god worshipped as part of a cult of war or death by the local tribe, the Cavares. Pretty horrific—why would anyone worship something like that? Cavares translates as ‘heroes’ or ‘champions’. Some heroes, like The Sloth, can’t wait to set off on their adventure. Others need to be led, pushed on into the belly of the beast, to face that thing that has to be faced sooner or later. We’re about to meet one of these reluctant heroes. And the Tarasque is an expert in offering the much needed nudge… TARASQUE ‘I was going to stay in And watch a bit of Corry Invited to the boozer I said “no I’m sorry, I’m busy” And my boy’s got football In the morning I’m driving him So I can’t still be snoring And the wife says I’m on my final warning He says “no you’re not You’re coming with me” So I go to the pub And one pint turns to three It’s time that I was home But he turns and he says “JUST ONE MORE JUST ONE MORE JUST ONE MORE!”’ He’s a man without conviction, Decision or intention Going with the flow Without a single new invention But underneath the surface there’s potential for progression He won’t hear the summons so we’re gonna need a little aggression Slipping out his shadow There’s a wheeling dealing creature A scaly tarasque Playing Mr. Motivator Creating situations Where sooner or later This case of bad faith Will have to turn himself Into a free agent Handy man-made manticore Placate him with another war And wear him Right down to the bone Declare him A thing that you own This scaly tortoise-shelled Tarasque Harassed a basking shark unmasked As someone You’d rather avoid The remnant Of something destroyed So out the trench you’re swiftly sent Unarmed and without nourishment You close your eyes you hit n hope With flailing fist you go for broke… DECISIONS He Who Cannot Be Arsed sits in silence, his mate waiting for an answer. Inside, he twists and divides. He doesn’t want to disappoint, and after all, it’s only a pint. The glass that is his mind seems filled to the brim with the poisons of guilt and indecision. It turns on him, looming large and threatening. Now in comes the Tarasque, “right, are you going to stand up to this obnoxious arse?” he says, pointing to the monstrous glass. The Man steps up, he knows it’s right. The bell strikes, and the Tarasque shouts “FIIIIIIIIGHT!!!” FIGHT SCENE It’s a six-shooting renegade hard man A barrel, a lion, a desert, a storm It’s dynamite rolled up in thunder With flesh eating lazers for arms And you’re just a twitch and a flea bite A speck on the rug and a drop from a pore With miniature fists just like protons Facing grievous bodily harm Try put it back in perspective No clash of the titans or underdog yarn It’s really just you and a pint glass So let’s have a wee bit of calm Get in the ring, get your gloves on Approach your opponent with caution and care Feel the right moment caress you Then strike him from foot up to hair ATTACK ATTACK FIGHT BACK FIGHT BACK Well the man who was jeered He was jeered no more He roundhoused his weakness Which fell to the floor The sloth and the speed freak That battled within Were rolled in a ball And then thrown in the bin Everything was spacious Graceful and clear Lacking attacks of panic and fear He picked up his coat Said goodbye to his friends And this is the point where his Story now ends.

The Sloth of the Metropolis left his lair and went wandering the streets of Glasgow. He’s drank plenty wine, but still feels thirsty. Maybe this newsagents can help him out? He goes in for a can of juice. Looking down the aisles, all he sees is stacks and stacks of pornography. “What’s this all about? I thought the sign outside said this was a newsagents?” he asks the shopkeeper, pointing out the utter absence of newspapers, never mind a can of something sweet. The newsagent gives a sly smile, glad to have a captive audience. “You really want to know? Well, let me tell ya…” For every single thing That you can think of There's a person Getting sexual arousal There are thousands upon thousands Of paraphilias, fetishes I believe there is More than you can mention It's insane, more than you can name Some of them are simple Like age, face, race, waist Tits, lips, other bits, Then it gets serious Donkey dicks, asphyxiation Nappies, feces, amputation Forniphilia; turning someone into furniture Klismaphilia; when you're really into enemas Plushophilia; taking teddy to bed Necrophilia; when you're better off dead I just try to supply to the customer What he's lusting for, wanting more, Need another score More than just a business, An important public service You all deserve this so i have to serve this. I am a humble newsagent with a real clear mission in mind Whatever turns you on, on my shelves I hope you will find I am a humble newsagent with a real clear mission in mind Covered up in plastic coloured silver, your phantasy is somewhere inside Is somewhere inside…"

“Some people just love what they do I guess,” the Sloth thinks, “or are just better at justifying themselves than all the rest.” He goes to the ATM to withdraw some cash, but the balance reads zero. Out of luck Sloth, Looks like you’ll have to find yourself a job. “It’ll wait til the morning” says Owen, his friend. He lends Sloth a fiver and leads him to the party they plan to attend. The host, Jamie, knows as much as most the struggle of finding a suitable yet useful profession. He gives the Sloth his tragic confession… Jamie was 20, a student at uni Studying history of art Quite undecided but still he derided What his subject had to impart Most of his friends they were young & bohemian Post-modern, Ray Bans and synths His band they played hardcore but it made his throat sore And loud noises caused him to wince One night at a party he went on the bevy And as he was drinking then he started thinking He said… “I wanna make something with these hands Be a welder, be a real man I wanna have money and a mortgage too Because doing what I do is useless, it’s true.” Jamie was 20, a welder soon to be Apprenticeship well under way Exited to feel like his manhood was real And that soon he’d be getting some pay He went to the firm but he started to squirm When he heard what the foreman would say every day I’m an artist working in metallurgy I’m really in to Wassily Kandinsky Now you’re gonna make masterpieces too Because doing what we do is useful, it’s true.”

“But you don’t need to repeat the same mistakes as me. I know someone who works at the Kelvingrove. The taxidermy sloth there is looking pretty flea bitten, so they’re after a replacement. If you can sit still & play dead, like sloths do best, I’m sure they’d give you the job.” The Sloth is now solvent, surrounded by friends, wishing this perfect night might never end. He’s climbed Maslow’s ladder a couple of rungs, so now the real work of his life has begun… When the days are long but the hours short When the work is done and the lesson taught There’s a mad mandala in a third eye There’s an inner light from an outer sky I always wanna be a Buddha in the summer But when the sun goes away It seems this feeling will not stay When the leaves all fall and the days are short Winter brings its own rewards Pagan rites, distorted mics Firework and flame on November nights Solstice back at the highland home Electric wizard on a Dark throne Hibernation for a dozen weeks Hibernation while the summer sleeps But when the sun comes back around It seems this feeling has been re-found…