You’re going about your day, minding your own business, when the universe decides to slap you. Not metaphorically — a full, open-handed wallop that leaves you blinking at reality, wondering who changed the script. I was upstairs in Costa, the one tucked inside NEXT at Braehead, perched above the menswear section with a lukewarm latte and the illusion of peace. Then I saw him — mid-twenties, navy coat, scanning the shirts with nervous hands. When the light caught the small metal object in his pocket, my chest tightened. A ring. A pin. A curved lever. The exact top of a hand grenade. Within minutes, a whisper became a rumour, the rumour became a story, and the story became a full-blown emergency rolling through the mall like a gospel nobody meant to preach. And somehow, God help me, I was the one who started it.

Long before addiction and long after recovery, Madness have been a constant thread—joy, mischief, and a reminder of the life I nearly lost. As the Hydro gig approaches, I reflect on why this band’s genius runs far deeper than their nutty image suggests.

It’s how ah think

Rich children’s laughter still echoing down through the centuries. A shaft of sunlight through the trees catches my eye, glinting off the feeding trough that ensured the livestock never went without food.

“It’s time!” declared the sign on the door outside the room. It wasn’t a large room. Around 5m by 5m (that’s 15’ x 15’ in old money), with grey walls and that one door in the centre of the rear wall. Sitting about a metre away from one of those walls, at right angles to… Read more: It’s Time

“A tense excitement built amongst them all as they looked at the opening to the old building. Cameras already taking notes, video already recording and mics in action hoping to pick up some conversation.”

“Go to Braehead, get a coconut latte in  the Next Costa and wait.”  

“The mat was just hanging around, as you do when you have beaten a champion.”