“I will do to this country what you’ve done to me.”
The lyric doesn’t ask for sympathy. It’s more of a spit-back, a bitter echo from someone who’s done waiting for change and has started mirroring the mess instead.
By the time it hits, Vincent has already cursed out the nation, slurred his way through nihilism, and set the stage for a kind of performance that doesn’t aim to resolve anything.
He’s not asking to be heard so much as daring the world to keep watching.
For anyone unfamiliar, Vincent’s Tale is an unfolding character saga by Welsh artist Ren (Ren Gill), known for fusing spoken word, punk, folk, and visual storytelling.
After rising to prominence with Hi Ren in 2022, a viral track praised for its raw depiction of mental health and identity.
Ren has since crafted a loosely connected narrative world. Vincent’s Tale centres around an emotionally volatile everyman figure navigating social decay, addiction, class tension, and existential breakdown.
Each instalment is theatrical, self-referential, and confrontational in its own right, but Self Portrait might be the most chaotic so far.
The latest chapter in Vincent’s Tale, released on 31 July 2025, picks up immediately after Sunflowers.
We return to the same dim bar, the same gut-full of liquor, and the same crooked frame that tracks Vincent stumbling out the door.
But instead of grounding the character, Self Portrait shoves him even further off-balance.
This isn’t a descent with structure or resolution. It’s erratic and loud and often hard to follow, which is exactly what makes it believable.
What makes Self Portrait hit differently is that it’s not a protest song in the usual sense – it’s more like someone ripping up the rulebook mid-rant, mid-breakdown.
Vincent isn’t just angry at his job or his town. He’s angry at the entire structure that kept him quiet until now.
“I have slaved all my life in the dull 9 to 5 / I just rinse and repeat while I’m barely alive,” he spits, and it lands like someone realising the numbness was never accidental. It was engineered.
He turns that numbness into chaos. “I want to tear apart these buildings from the cinder blocks they stand,” he rages, framing destruction not as villainy, but as the only available outlet for years of silence.
Getting drunk, throwing punches, burning bridges, these aren’t plot points. They’re self-expression. “Getting wasted is my truth,” he admits, and it doesn’t sound glamorous. It sounds exhausted.
Musically, Ren leans into that chaos. The track opens with nylon-string guitar, deceptively calm, then tears into explosive tempo shifts that blend punk, spoken word, and even fragments of what sounds like street carnival music.
There’s beatboxing, there’s a full-throttle rap cadence, and then, just as suddenly, a return to stillness. The transitions aren’t polished. They’re sharp, even jarring.
But they work because they follow Vincent’s volatility. One listener described it as “Ren rapping, playing guitar, and getting into a fight all at once.” Which sounds like a joke, but also kind of checks out.
And then there’s the delivery. Ren performs Vincent with this strained theatricality that’s hard to pin down.
Somewhere between pub rant and poetic breakdown, his voice cracks, snarls, and slows into monologue.
At moments, it’s oddly Dickensian – there’s an element of Oliver Twist in the way he speaks, that half-mocking, half-pleading rhythm.
It’s not something I can fully explain, but it lingers, and it makes the character feel somehow both cartoonish and heartbreakingly real.
Throughout the song, Vincent swings between lashing out and shutting down.
He declares himself “the victim of the victimless” and “chaos in flesh,” a contradiction wrapped in bruises.
Some of his rage targets Britain itself, calling out class inequality and systemic neglect.
“Great Britain, I love you with murderous glee / I will do to this country what you’ve done to me.” It’s not a lyric designed to unite people. It’s meant to sting. Meant to stick.
But despite the anger, there’s a strange kind of honesty in how broken he sounds.
When Vincent snarls “shut your mouth, you banished angel,” or hallucinates his own downfall in the form of a street brawl, it becomes clear that what we’re watching isn’t rebellion; it’s a man losing track of which part of him is real.
That confusion is also reflected in the shifting voice. Some lines clearly belong to Vincent…raw, emotional, reactive.
Others seem detached, observational, almost clinical. This layering suggests that what we’re hearing isn’t just one voice, but an inner argument.
Ren positions himself as both the actor and the observer, which opens the possibility that the narrator is a separate consciousness; a stand-in for reason, or regret, or simply a person watching their own breakdown unfold without the power to stop it.
And that’s where the title Self Portrait reveals its weight. This isn’t a neat character study.
It’s a glimpse into a mind so overloaded it has to scream just to hear itself.
Whether Vincent is meant to represent Ren, or someone like him, or someone we’ve all ignored before they reached this point, the song doesn’t clarify. It doesn’t soothe. It just stares straight back.
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Ren – Vincent’s Tale – Self Portrait
[Intro – Waiting Down by the Mississippi Shore performed by Campbell and Burr plays in the background]
Lady love, the shades of night are falling (falling)
Down by the Mississippi shore
And for you my lonely heart is calling (calling)
Each Night I love you more and more
Day and night I seem to dream about you
I sing to you
I’ll cling to you
Bless your heart, I just can’t live without you
So come out and meet me, honey do!
Verse 1 – Vincent
Come on, let’s have it you miserable prick
I will do what I want, I will drink ’til I’m sick to my stomach
I’m sick of the same boring songs
I am sick of these pavements I find myself on
Great Britain, I hate you, I will say that with pride
It’s my right to be violent when you fed me lies
Verse 2 – Vincent
I’m a rotter, a menace when I want to be
And I’ve worked for that right because nothing comes free
I have slaved all my life in a dull 9-to-5
I just rinse-and-repeat while I’m barely alive
Great Britain, I loathe you with murderous glee
I will do to this country what you’ve done to me
Verse 3 – Vincent
Destroyyyyy
I want to tear apart these buildings from these cinderblocks they stand
Leave this town in dust and rubble, make some trouble with my hands
I won’t lie, I’m fucking wasted, but I wasted all my youth
And I stay so damn complacent getting wasted is my truth
So my style of self-expression is a fist into the gut
It’s throwing up upon these pavements
“Shut your fucking mouth, you slut”
Banished angel, I am Lucifer, my reign like Genghis Khan
Soon you will all know my name, I am the storm after the calm
I’m the victim of the victimless, the pill that makes you sick
I am chaos incarnate
“Let’s fucking have it then, you prick!!”
Verse 4 – Narrator
Now the rules of the street fight are simple
It’s pretty much anything goes
Keep in the street, pretty firm on your feet
It pays to be sweet on your toes
And fools they have fallen for clumsy mistakes
Late to react, cop the fist to the face
Now the rules at the street fight are simple
[Vincent]
Break that little prick’s nose
Verse 5 – Vincent
Throw a punch he swallow it, follow it
Grab the collar, quick hollow-tip like karate kick
Martial art master, spark a bitch
Park a fist on the landing strip
Carnage, it finds the cartilage
Karma served like a carbonated cola on a crucifix
Kill, Vincent wanna kill, who blood gets spilled
Move, double-tap, rude boy, kill or be killed
Do it for the fun, blud, do it for the thrill
Blue lights, boy run, blue lights, boy chill
Verse 6 – Narrator
So it goes in the absence of the light, the devils sow a seed in idle minds
Vincent was shaken, run from the law, hide from the bacon, crouch on the floor, the call to war made him hate the world
The world spits on him, rapes him, hits him, kicks him when he’s down and that shapes him
He hears the sound of a copper, hot up on his tail proper
Vincent off his rocker bothered by the lie that Britain sold him, what a shocker
Where greedy eat the poor, a holy war, the chosen prosper but some are never chosen they stay frozen in the locker
Destined to survive in 9-to-5 and watch the clock, but don’t think about reality my little happy shopper
A brand new show on Netflix to distract you from the horror
And swallow all your morals for a retweet or a follow
And shadow ban the problem, man a soul sold for a dollar
And keep the fight amongst yourself, don’t think about the squalor, the systems that impose it, or the rules that we all honour
And fuck it, Vincent cooked to boiling point, he’s cannon fodder
So what’s the use in running, he’s already in the locker
He’s careless with his actions now, a clumsy motherfucker
He turned to face his fate, ’cause fate’s a bitch and none will stop her
Verse 7 – Narrator
Richard was an officer who stood at 6 foot 3
Was his first day back at work after a time of absent leave
Working London on the night shift, what he didn’t think he’d see
Was a boy with a guitar, bruised and battered on his knees
But Richard lived in caution now, tormented by his past
Not so quick to find a trigger, not so fast
But Richard was a righteous man who lived inside the law
So he leapt upon poor Vincent and he cuffed him to the floor
