Ideal for Any Funeral as an Antidote to the Bogus Angst of the Big Chill

 

Several years back, I bumped into a roadie in a bar in Glasgow. He was taking a break from rigging a tent for T in the Park. I despise T in the Park. The only thing remotely appealing about this event is that it's sponsored by Tennents, a Glaswegian brewery. I told the roadie this and he concurred good-naturedly. He was a decent bloke. I asked him who was headlining in this tent and he grimaced and looked away. Travis, he replied. Bad luck, I said. We both laughed and ordered another drink. A pint of lager for him; a Jack Daniels for me. He took out some rolling tobacco and I offered him a cigarette. On his left arm he wore a tattoo of his young daughter. We swapped stories regarding tattoo parlours and the perils therein. Above the newly inscribed tattoo I could make out something much older, indelibly reposing in the folds of his shirt. I squinted and gasped. "The Ruts D.C." was the partially obscured legend, an open invitation to a brotherhood of tainted blood and a sibling regret.

Ib Sibling