But wouldn't it be great if number one this Christmas wasn't some smug teenager but an old ex-heroin addict searching for a comeback at any price? All those young popsters come Christmas day, they'll be stretched out naked with a cute bird balancing on their balls and I'll be stuck in some dingy flat with me manager, Joe, ugliest man in the world, fucking miserable because
our fucking gamble didn't pay off. So if you believe in Father Christmas, children, like your Uncle Billy does, buy my festering turd of a record.