It's the end of the world as we know. Glasgow lies in chaos. It's a smoking ruin.
Where it used to stand is now a charred burnt out black hole where rats pick over what looks like the epicentre of the crash site of a meteor sized glitter ball.
This is what happens when too much rock and roll is concentrated on the one area.
That's right. Assume the position. Tuck your head between your knees and kiss your ass goodbye because it's going to get messy.
On the sixth of December Steve Conte - he of The Michael Monroe band and ex New York Doll - is coming to town to lay the groundwork for a week that will leave all fans of rock and roll gasping for a second breath.
By the time the eighth comes you better have found that second wind as Ginger Wildheart is planning to bring some friends and blow the roof off the Garage.
If there are any survivors after that then the rallying point will be at the Urban Voodoo Machines gig on the tenth.
Three outstanding shows in five days.
I'm going to have to get into training for this.
I reckon that stories will be told about people drowning under the onslaught of a tsunami sized wave of alcohol, and individuals from as far away as Edinburgh will swear that they heard livers popping.
Years ago we were bestowed with the title of rock and roll capital of the world. Bollocks. Indie loving students milling about looking at their shoes is the polar opposite of what rock and roll debauchery is.
This is the real deal.
I predict that there will be a week of St Vitus dancing fuelled by jagerbombs until we start dropping like heroin chic models on an anorexic trip.
Whose up for it?