Harry, you bastard, you've gone too far. Unpaid loans and IOUs scribbled on beermats in rowdy quayside dives - I can take all that. Even the friends you swore at, my girlfriend you stole and dumped in Paris, the shirts you borrowed and lost in sundry flats and parties; the beer you took from my fridge; the appointments never kept; the upchucks in my bathroom, kitchen, garden; the blood on my jeans from the fights you started - all that is so many empties in the bin and all forgiven though not forgotten. But my car and credit cards - that's too much, Harry, I'll have your blood in a bucket.