Paul McCann as we know him today was born as a shower of crackling electro-babies when his mum and dad were struck by lightning while using a fairground love-tester and winking saucily. With hundreds of his little selves seeding and taking root in his immediate environment, he has developed a peculiar swathe of distinct retro-futurist personalities grown in and around the influence of candyfloss machines, discarded and oversalted chip-pokes, surprise dog-turds, engine-oil, an old free-play Bubble Bobble machine and the limitless and delicious potentialities of the forgotten macroscopic post-apocalyptic wasteland of detritus to be found underneath the bleachers. At war with himself for hours, he was finally unified and covertly educated in the arts and humanities by a guerilla Sylvester McCoy who was separated from his Tardis and on the run from the Televisual Authorities, keeping the flame burning in the Age Without Reason when there was no Doctor.

On the 3rd of May 2001, Paul entered a catatonic state for three years and twenty-seven days during which the only sign of life was a low-resonance hum from his lower Tan-t'ien. This was a period of Scotland's history characterised by devastating earthquakes and flesh-rending rains.

Thankfully it was only a phase and he emerged from it as a shiny friend of the pigeons.

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