I’VE been watching a lot of old episodes of MTV’s ‘Cribs’ on YouTube.

Famous people allowing a camera crew into their house and showing them about, showing off how big it is and all their stuff and fancy motors and all that.

‘This is where the magic happens,’ says some actor I’ve never seen before who seems to live in a palace in Beverly Hills.

He shows me his immaculate bedroom, 10ft wide bed, massive en suite bathroom and balcony. Everything is perfect, not a single thing is out of place.

The entire house is shiny and white and chrome. Like what I imagine living inside an iPhone would be like.

He swaggers about the place showing off all the wee trinkets he’s collected ‘on his travels’ with a big manic grin on his face. It’s total nonsense. A big charade. No one actually lives like this.

I’ve been imagining what it’d be like if I somehow ended up on this show in my current house.

‘Moan in,’ I’d say to the confused crew as the dug goes ballistic, barking at a volume so loud it hurts their ears. The sound of his barking doesn’t affect me anymore, it’s just like background noise. I’m a broken man.

‘This is ma living room.’

I usher them in and sit down on the couch. ‘That’s a red wine stain oan the carpet there.’ The camera zooms in on it while optimistic techno music plays.

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‘And that’s the fag burn I’m currently quite stressed aboot cause I won’t be able to hide it fae the landlord.’ The camera circles round it the way they’d show off a rapper’s gold Lamborghini.

The dug keeps barking.

‘That’s the pair of socks the dug stole aff me this morning,’ I laugh directly down the camera lens, but my expression is pained.

‘And this,’ I say pointing at my litter strewn desk, ‘is where I work… I haven’t left the hoose in days.’ The camera pans slowly along the desk through empty Space Raiders packets, mountains of crumpled paper and other assorted detritus.

My laptop screen shows a blank document. ‘Wit am a like,’ I say.

‘Through here is the kitchen,’ the camera follows me down the hall.

The producer pulls me aside and says at this point they normally get the occupant to show off what’s inside their fridge and asks if I want to give it a wee tidy up before they film this next bit.

‘That’s awrite,’ I reply, ‘there’s hee haw in it anyway.’ The camera shows a fridge containing a single can of juice. It then cuts to a fully stocked cupboard containing a myriad of dog treats.

‘Aw here, I’ll show yous my favourite drawer.’ I open what I affectionately call my “Treasure Drawer”.

It’s full of miscellaneous cables, unopened letters, coins from countries I’ve never visited and have no recollection as to how I’ve come to have them in my possession, batteries and a wee figurine of ex-Celtic striker Pierre Van Hoijdonk.

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I notice the crew are all shivering from the cold. I am hardened from tenement living, the cold cannot penetrate my body anymore.

‘Here’s the bedroom.’

I open the door and the camera swoops in, they’re used to lavish, palatial sleeping quarters but they’ll find nothing of the sort here. The bed is unmade.

I jump on it the way I’ve seen the excitable young stars they normally feature do, only a lot more gangly and awkward.

An empty box of Micro Chips falls off the bed and onto the floor.

The dug keeps barking.

‘That’s the dug’s bed,’ I say. His bed is pristine and untouched. ‘He doesn’t use it. He’s actually never slept.’ The camera then focuses in on the dark circles around my eyes. ‘It’s a good laugh.’

‘Eh, right, suppose I better show yous my motor then. Follow me.’

They follow me out the front door, down the stair, out the close, along the street, across a road, getting further and further away from the flat. ‘The parking in Dennistoun really isn’t as bad as folk say, to be honest.’ We’re now over a mile from my home. We keep walking.

Eventually we get to a wee red motor sitting itself. I get in the driver’s seat. ‘You can’t hear the dug barking from here,’ I say, closing my eyes and drifting off. The producer bangs a fist against the window, waking me up.

‘Aw, sorry. Eh, right, so the engine in this bad boy is wan litre.’ I try to turn on the ignition to let them hear the raw fury of my car but it splutters and doesn’t start.

The petrol light is flashing like a strobelight.

‘So, MTV, thanks for coming to my crib I hope you’ve enjoyed it.’

The producer and camera crew all stand in silence, they look shellshocked at the horrors they’ve been exposed to. They’re not used to this.

The main camera guy very quietly deletes the footage he’s shot today. No one needs to see this.

The dug barks in the distance.