I've played Blanket On The Ground.
There. I said it. I've finally admitted it.
Do I feel unburdened by this confession? Strangely, no - the recollection just takes me back to that dark, shameful night, and somehow revives and revitalises the humiliation, the stigma, and makes it all real again.
No matter that it took place many years ago, in a frankly terrifying pub in the east end of Glasgow, and that it was a necessary act of self-debasement if we were to leave with teeth and gear intact, limbs unbroken and bodies unstabbed.
Should I have been the stronger man, and taken the kicking, the glassing? I just don't know - some scars heal, others, it seems, do not.