Concrete and Clay

I like Gap jeans. I fucking like Starbucks. I like a blueberry muffin and an iced fucking latte in the morning. I love, I love, I love, there is nothing I love more than my fucking trainers. Walking through the city in my trainers. You walk down the river with the sky like that and the sunshine and yer trainers and yer blueberry muffin and you feel like you could conquer the world. So don’t fucking come here. With your piss arsed fucking fear about war for oil. I’d like to see you ride yer fucking bike without it. I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck. I don’t give a jap’s-eye. I don’t give a fucking wank. I like Nescafe Gold Blend. And a Kit Kat.

You’re bleeding.

Because at least I could be bothered to get up for fucking work. And at least my fucking  ancestors could. And at least we don’t fucking shoot each other. And there is no fucking genocide in Hackney. Not like there is out there. And our leaders don’t spend my country’s money on fucking gold plated Rolls Royce’s and prostitutes and veuve cliquot and cocaine.

You’re eye.

At least there’s that. Look out there! Breathe it in! Fucking breathe it in! Gulp it! Look at that! Seven hundred fucking years of not fucking lying on our arse and begging for a fucking favour. Seven hundred years of fucking pushing forward. I’ll give you one word. One fucking word. Brunel. Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The Clifton Suspension Bridge. The Manchester Liverpool Railway. I’ll give you another one. Big Mac. I like Big Macs. You know why?

In the corner, it’s all -

Cause they taste good. For lunch.

It’ll get everywhere.