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Patrick Lappin never wanted to be acclaimed as a great person, or a great writer, or even a nice man. He just wanted to be able to stay in bed each morning until the postman had been. But, as the song says, a man can take only so much of his own feckless indolence before his dignity revolts and says, ?No more!' Also, the Royal Mail started messing around with the delivery times (it's not a very well-known song). This is a prayer for its author's future. It's time to get up, grow up & get on. Unless, of course, there's one last excuse lurking in the background. Something big, something distressing and embarrassing and weird that he can point to and say, "See? It's not my fault, pity me! I'm medically a dickhead." Surely though, after a lifetime of flimsy excuses, there are none left?