DONALD TUSK hardly has to stretch his imagination, does he? “I’ve been wondering,” he unconvincingly mugged musing, “what that special place in hell looks like, for those who promoted Brexit without even a sketch of a plan of how to carry it out safely.”

Come for a visit on March 29 and we’ll show you exactly what that hell looks like. Oh, but you’re unlikely to have the desire or the ability to get over the border then, so let’s say we’ll set up an Instagram account to share pictures of the chaos and you can watch from safety behind a PC in Brussels.

It took six days to bring a burning Rome under control. We’re not working to any obvious time frame so there will certainly be plenty of content on social channels to keep abreast of, a multi-platform documentary of our own particular hell.

I wonder if the special place in hell for Boris Johnson and Nigel Farage is adjacent to that occupied by former American Secretary of State Madeleine Albright’s women who don’t help other women.

Imagine the scene: Boris and Nigel are forced to keep calm and carry on eating and regurgitating and eating out-of-date tinned beef while Spitfires fly patriotically but menacingly low above their heads. Just across a river of molten swill, backstabbing besoms are forced to give free and frustratingly gendered support to women they despise. Think relentlessly manicuring Katie Hopkins’s foot callouses, and an eternity spent scrubbing Margaret Thatcher’s smalls.

I did like the Democratic Unionist Party’s Sammy Wilson with a vivid take on Mr Tusk as a “devilish, trident wielding, Euro maniac.” But presumably Mr Tusk doesn’t see himself as the horned figure in this analogy. He is the benevolent caretaker lounging at the gates of unified monetary system heaven with a straight banana and a low-powered vacuum cleaner.

But “special place in hell” has become the insult de rigueur with infinite special sections in our imaginary hell. How many deserving candidates have we got?

Fopp on Byres Road, in Glasgow’s West End, has closed as part of restructuring plans from new Canadian owner Sunrise Records. Downsizing is designed to save HMV and the Fopp chain from administration and, oh how this pokey wee music hole is being romanticised by people who have as like not visited it in years. I am one such guilty party.

I used to spend half my student years in and out of Fopp. My entire non-university decreed reading came from there. I couldn’t get to my local library during opening hours and I couldn’t afford what was for sale in more salubrious bookstores. So, my reading choice was whatever was cheap in Fopp Byres Road.

And now there’s a padlock on the front door and I, like so many others, am saddened by that. For the sake of the store and staff; for the sake of yet another chunk of personal history gone and went. You can age yourself by the number of retail outlets you can pass and say, ‘I remember when that was such-and-such.’

But if you don’t use it, you lose it. Big beast Amazon has ensured that switching to online would be too competitive. Independent hipster record stores have stolen the niche of where everybody knows your name and your vinyl tastes. What’s left for Fopp?

In a second blow to Glasgow’s music scene, there’s talk of demolishing the ABC venue, which was torn through by fire in June last year. Nothing is confirmed, but people are appalled at the potential loss of a backdrop to first kisses, blootered dancing under the giant disco ball and the scene of so many glorious gigs.

The ABC’s heritage extends back to 1875 when it was a circus. It has been a cinema, an ice rink and a diorama. It is C-listed. One suggestion is that the building, like so many others, is demolished but the front be kept.

There’s some kind of metaphor there for modern life – knock out anything meaningful but retain the facade.

There is a special place in hell for people who romanticise doomed facilities they ceased to use. Just along the torrid river will be people forced to borrow, listen to and return 1980s electro trance. Nothing else, for eternity.

Downstream, anyone who says Giffnock is in Glasgow will be spending an unquiet eternal rest litter picking in a blistering East End tenement backcourt. Self-declared socialists who bought their property with inherited wealth will be without shelter, forced to sit on cracking lava while Das Kapital emits from grotesque mewling mouths.

Keyboard warriors who moan about the state of the world but failing to get out and do anything to prevent the mess they see - the worst types of all - will take a turn in each of the special places, a horrifying loop.

But these are only my personal peeves.

One thing is for certain: everyone’s hell is unequivocally other people. Guess I’ll see you down there.