Being a teenager is the worst thirty years of your life. Peer pressure, acne, final exams, seven little tiny hairs on your upper lip. Luckily, the girls never noticed your infantile moustache, 'cos they were hyptonised by the fire engine sized zit on your forehead.

At the millennium we partied like it was 1999. And then we had a 10 year bathtub tequila hangover, man. Just hugging the metaphorical toilet on a daily basis.

My father was on the Alcoholics Anonymous wishlist. My mother was on... parole. And lithium.

My parents' divorce settlement involved a bar tab.

If you ask my dad for help... he'll help. Like a vulture helps an over-run armadillo on a Texas highway. One peck at the time.

Here's the thing: If you're so far left you actually believe that somebody owes you a job, citizenship and a heart transplant, you're mentally ill. If you're so far right that you actually believe that somebody who doesn't have a job and is not a citizen deserves to have their heart cut out and sold on eBay, and you get to keep 80 percent of the profit - you're mentally ill.

Dad thinks vengeance is the coolest thing about the Lord. That, and turning water into alcohol.