Biffo, with a half readable sign behind him that reads “We’re about inspira..” (inspiration? Should that not read irony, or iron necks or insanity?), speaks in half sentences that add up to no sense at all. (note reporter “you’re talking in riddles”)  It’s like a horse race with no fences, no giddy up, no ending, just rolling bland plains and dreary eyes watching in disbelief as the turf keeps on coming.

“My reason, for my position.” (How can he be so singular?! He’s speaking on behalf of a whole nation! Not the distribution of fizzy pop around the kitchen table…)