Looking down on Leven, Methil, Mossmorran, Dalgety Bay and Rosyth from what might be described as a reasonable height. Seeing into homes, pubs and allotments in Valleyfield, Crossford, Crossgates and Kelty. Peering through shutters and walking across the bare boards of homes in Crombie, Glenrothes and Aberdour. Creating potholes and puddles all across the county, hanging dogshit in black bags on bushes, allowing the bins at the recycling centre to overflow, finding your tyres and lacerating them with the correct amount of broken glass. Nicking your washing, your bank card and breaking into your garages. Whispering in your neighbour's ear that you're up to no good and that your missus is a bit of a .... and your weans are running wild.
These are the everyday tasks and actions of the Gods that look after this resolute, confused and tarnished little kingdom of Fifeshire. They breathe out and vegetables grow, they breathe in and your fag goes out, they cough and you drop your half bottle of Buckfast onto a slab, they sneeze and your cocaine is scattered across your mate's copy of the Daily Record, they think and you think that you don't (but none of it is true). Being a proper God is no joke, ask any of us, we'll tell you the truth (up to a point).
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