Scotland gets its brains from the herring, said Grandpa, and we all nodded our heads with complete incomprehension.

Sometimes, for a treat, we got playing with their heads,

glutinous bony affairs without room for brains,

and a look of lust on their narrow soprano jaws.

The time I lifted the lid of the midden on a winter night,

and there, a cool blue gleam, herring heads.

Other heads do not gleam in the dark, so perhaps Grandpah was right.

To make sure we ate the most intelligent herring, he fished the estuary,

planted a notice, littered it herring this way fished the estuary, planted a notice, literate herring this way,

below the water line, at the corner where it met the sea. The paint for the notice was made

of crushed heads. Red-eyed herring, soared from reading, would round the corner, read

the notice and sense the estuary water bland and high easing

a few feet brought them within the confining friendly

hello and welcome to the 90 Minutes in a podcast I'm your host Chris Galler and I'm joined by

team handsome is what I'm going to say. I've got to the right

hand side, the right hand side

of the father, which

call me daddy, Dermott.

No. Adrenal not.

Nah, yeah, that's off to a fucking Nuffix start. That's not

off to have that. That's almost

10 to 3 start. No, Dermakoyle, two weeks in a row

...