A fat, middle-aged, chain smoker struggling to get up from his armchair: gasping for breath, wheezing like an old airbag. Balding, unshaven, he glances at his reflection in the mirror, sees his bloated face, his National Health glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose, purple from the many years of sustained alcohol abuse. He moves closer to the mirror, seemingly unaware that he has become a Rab C. Nesbitt lookalike, and he scrutinises his appearance for perhaps half a minute. Apparently satisfied with the over-fed, heavily perspiring, circular-shaped face staring blankly back at him, he mutters to himself: "Yep. You've still got it, you good looking hunk, you. Brad Pitt eat your heart out."
Then he lowers his distorted frame back into the armchair, where he continues gorging on his double helping of burger and chips.
Boys and girls, I give you 'The Rags.'