I’ve grown up in a deep and mucky bucket.
A new town serving as a symbol for all that was wrong with Attlee’s glorified welfare splurge.
A dirty purge (just like the rest) on pastures that once spread green in summer and beautiful browns and golds come autumn. None now, just waste and material glut.
In filthy concrete parks grubby neon bulbs spread failing but ample light on sterile young bucks and hinds, who queue for a perilous fix of joy.
The tyranny of age leaves a frightful glaze over their eyes, ‘we’re growing up -fast - but what do we do?’ We find bliss, that’s what.
A sea of pale legs, blessed with the horrors of broken veins and multitudes of cellulite, drowns defiled paving slabs. Fat hangs, unfurls and escapes from whatever cracks possible.
Upon the smell of cud and oestrogen, barking perverts harangue the seashore. Shirts unbuttoned, collars at full-mast.
The fake-tanned are safe, huddled with their black boyfriends at the back of the line.
They meander like a dumb snake, all limber and vacuous. Doors open. Night begins.
Clowder of girls take the first booth, it’s a tight squeeze but that’s how they like it. No school or work ‘til Monday. Two days of insipid banalities: fruitless sex, alcoholic folly and barren brains.
It’s an open dance floor; so they encourage everyone to muck in. Flesh collides under smoke from dirty machines, cocks get hard and girls’ blood runs warmer than usual. Typical teens.
She passed her driving-test last week. Pa bought her a new car
So when the night is old, after searching for some belonging, 17-year-old girl gets fucked in the backseats.
Come morning, cum wiped from the headrest before Daddy sees.
Over the road, in an older part of town: scenesters, yuppies and fakes sink pints and smoke cigarettes outside chain pubs. No chance of a free house.
Some blaze marijuana; others dote on meth and coke to turn the sombre into mercurial.
The very same buncombes that talk Camus, Burroughs and Miller (half-heartedly from what they read on Wiki) before sinking back to crass day-jobs, vital cogs in a wheel of muck that turns relentlessly; spewing out embezzled children and a life-long sentence of placidity.
Down to the pool-halls, where the half-ways hang.
He used to be a Bricky but then his wife found this glorious four-bed in Spain. Now has his own Empire on the Costa, spits cliché arsehole from his tongue like every other cunt.
Sinks the black with rare abandon, followed by half a pint of beer; yaps to his mate with comical ego.
Across the bridge to the filter of our town: the station that ferries suits and squares to and from the Big Smoke
Suits who punch endless dollar through privatised train barriers five-days-a-week
Squares who sit on piss-rotten trains, ‘Hey boss, what does my £20 get me?’
‘A place to stand for forty minutes, you got your railcard?’
On the weekend they invade the snotty coffee shops: over-priced beans and fakes who think they’re all petty bourgeois, sipping skinny lattes and troughing down cinnamon swirls. Puke.
Scan our more prized heritage, the church in all its glory; arresting stonework bastardised by newly built houses one hundred metres away.
Handsome greys and wise-old browns clouded by the fabric of commercial interest, professional families stepping onto that ladder. New house springs up; old church falls down.
Before the weekend is up, take a trip further south.
See the dregs, all washed out. The old guard sneer and snarl in bus shelters. ‘£1.60? You fackin’ kidding me?’
Political alignments swing from right to left, left to right; ruffle the skinheads down in Bedwell. Bald punks that castigate Coons, Chinks, Pakis and Poles through broken teeth and sore heads.
Fiends howl in the most precarious of families, baby brothers and sisters lost in the tussle of getting high. Sullen faces and empty eyes run deep thru both sun and moon.
A ripe diction of new-age Britain, all in my hometown.
Christopher Dodd
Scotland is a mixed bag. The country is home to a lot of awesome things. Orange Juice, incessant hatred of the English, Sir Alex Ferguson and Kenny Dalglish. However, the country is also home to a lot of NOT awesome things. Heroin, violence, sectarianism and fucking shit weather. Luckily, Close Lobsters are one of the good things about Scotland. Well done, Scotland (a bit).
Signing to Rough Trade in 1980, Blue Orchids proved that it really was okay to give Mark E. Smith the shove and that The Fall weren’t the only piss-riled post-punk outfit to fashion a revolving line-up housing more members than the Chinese military.
While 1966 saw the jingoistic notions of England lifting the World Cup at Wembley being sentimentally attached to Britain’s national consciousness, across the pond The Doors recorded this woozy version of Indian Summer. Four million times better than the account that appears on Morrison Hotel. Pure ratings, fam.
(Source: rikly)
Big Kitt.
King B.
