Every Saturday morning when Des Lynam’s moustache was doing it’s final stretches during the weather just before Grandstand we found ourselves…
In sniffing distance of the Kings Head
Blunt’s shoes? you’d never wear them unless you smoked, were barely out of the cot or closing in on retirement.
Where cash machines are places of worship and the church on the corner is a convenience store outliving us all.
As chips a shade of oompah loompah that fish pouting glamour pusses would bathe in are trophy dinners.
If traversing that red and grey bricked hill to purchase 105 of the 5-a-day was deemed a winner.
I’d grow up fruitless, a damned sinner
See once raiding freezer heaven was finished….we’d head there……
To the land of the A-Team branded Cornflakes, peaches and rice.
Where stealth entry to this economically viable leviathan was vital.
Where purchases were disguised in Safeway’s and Tesco bags to avoid being seen as cheap.
There’s nothing special about this rabidly chavvy anti Monaco
16 years tasting traffic jams instead of tavern pies, doing bicep curls with bags of cabbages.
Drowning in trolley fountains and blue rinse eruptions at the temple of torrential tedium
This wretched hamlet conspired to feed me the beauty of Anneka Rice.
She was round the corner but hey, for every pleasure, there is a sacrifice.