Note: This version was recorded at the Beaird Music studio in Nashville in September 2022.

The romantic travails of our lead guitarist, Dee Sharpe, have been well documented elsewhere, particularly in the smash hit “I Never Took Your Number Off My Phone,” and I wish that I were able to inform you that this noble and sensitive heart, so recently and cruelly broken by Moira, barmaid at the Ship Inn and Belle of Broughty Ferry, was on the mend. Alas, no.

These days, Dee spends most of his time in bed, showing no interest in anything much. He can hardly go round to the Ship Inn to drown his sorrows, and frankly, between you and me and in strictest confidence, it’s just as well he doesn’t because, if he did, he would be witness to the unsavoury spectacle of his bandmate and all-round scumbag, Gene Poole-Skimmings pitching woo to his erstwhile sweetheart. Not that Moira is having any of it, mind you – Gene Poole-Skimmings is, by near-unanimous acclamation the most loathsome creature ever to importune a barmaid who is trying to work, but the sight of him leering at her over the bar and ordering top shelf whiskies he can’t afford just to try to peep up her skirt when she reaches for them would be more than a sensitive soul could bear.

Of course, we all feel sorry for Dee, but some of the band are beginning to lose patience. We can’t play without him, and work on our upcoming album has ground to a halt. I caught bassist Juan Tusrivor checking Kayak for flights home to Peru and our alto sax player, Aldo Sachs, has taken to busking in areas of Dundee that are unsafe for saxophonists who are under four feet tall, frequently returning with a black eye dispensed by burlier buskers accusing him of trying to muscle in on their territory. Clearly something had to be done, and I called a meeting of the band, minus Dee and Gene, who was in the Ship Inn, as usual. After a few moments of discussion, we came up with a plan.

Phase one of the plan has gone smoothly. Some slick detective work on my part determined that Moira has a boyfriend called Dave who is a foot taller than Gene with muscles developed to terrifying proportions by years of strenuous work on the oil rigs of the North Sea, from which he recently returned. A quick word in his ear with a request to spare Gene’s fingers (he may be a cad, but he’s the only keyboard player we can persuade to play in the band) took care of that part of the problem. Phase two consisted of playing this song to Dee to shake him out of his depression. It seems to have worked, because he roused himself, took his first shower in two weeks and joined us for the recording. I’d like to think it was the song that did it, but I’m pretty sure it was the sight of Gene’s haphazardly rearranged facial features that put the old magic back in his fingers. I wouldn’t say that he has fully recovered, but he is doing better than Gene.