“Better make it £600, mate”, Ricky instructs the young teller behind the counter at the Royal Bank of Scotland.

It's payday and Ricky can't wait to spend his earnings. Coloursfest, Glasgow's annual hard dance festival, is on the horizon, and thanks to an unusually hot summer, tickets are selling fast.

The rest of the lads already have theirs – Chewy, Big Del, Steggy Boy, even the Pollok lads. Early bird, half price. Ricky's paying full price though because last month his car broke down and fixing it took precedent. He can't afford being in overdraft. Again.

In truth, Ricky and the lads were too old for getting fucked up at a dance party.1 Some of them had their own children now. But it was tradition, one night only to relive their glory days. Speaking of which, Ricky had enough cash on hand for a new set of sneaks and that Armani T-shirt he had had his eye on to compliment the Ralph Lauren shorts that were too big for his brother. Ricky wasn't just going to Braehead Arena, he’d be the best dressed there.

Ricky counts his cash again to make sure he hasn't been cheated. He never trusted bank tellers, or anyone really, and this kid looks barely old enough to count. Satisfied everything is kosher, Ricky walks out onto Renfrew High Street, 600 quid weighing heavily on his mind and in his pocket. It's a sunny Friday afternoon and the town is heaving. Ricky takes the back streets to avoid the crowds and cuts on to Houston, admiring the iconic red sandstone tenement block.

He calls his best friend Chewy on his mobile. Chewy answers immediately. He always does, it's like his phone is glued to his hand.

“All right, bud. Happenin’, mate?” Ricky asks.

“Fuck all, ya dick,” Chewy replies.

They insult each other for a minute. Glasgow lads do that.

“I’ll just get you down in Braehead, mate. Outside Primark at the main doors round the back.” “Sound.” Chewy hangs up.